Let the Wookiee win.

Asakaze Shand was a traitor to the Empire, supplying them with bodies for years before renouncing her alliance and allegiance to the emperor. Originally, she had done it for her people, convinced that they could weather through the onslaught since the Empire was at war with the Rebel Alliance. Her anticipation was slapped right off her face and her entire clan was massacred, her escape nothing short of a miracle and only due to her abilities with her Chi. Despite the loss, House Shand was well known across the galaxy for less savory reasons and she took full advantage of their notorious reputation.

Exhaustion was the best way to explain how Asa felt, a deep bone weary existence that was the same day in and day out. Find the quarry, bring them in, get paid in credits, fuel up the ship, begin the rounds once again. What else was she to do? Even if the Empire was officially defeated, Asakaze was disgraced, no one was waiting for the Shand Shogun to return after she'd led their clan to ruin.

I was a girl. Why did they expect me to know what to do? I was barely 20.

Rattling around her, the Ryu had seen better days and without constant maintenance, routine checkups, and a mechanic's knowledgeable hand Asa was on a countdown from when the starship would kick the bucket. Pinching between her brows she didn't bother stifling her sigh as she slapped the radio on the dash, beginning her Nevarro routine. To the Guild, Ronin was an enigma beside the Mandalorian. Honestly, she didn't know how the fuck she'd managed that. Beneath her mempo, Asa was the epitome was anxiety and awkwardness. What others perceived as calm, poised reservation was actually Asa not having any idea what to say, quietly simmering behind her mask as she wanted to do nothing more than shrink into nothingness.

Voices chanting began to filter through the radio, repeating the word simultaneously before a voice broke through with a wry wistfulness. Asa rose from her seat, robes fluttering around her as she darted to the side, throwing her arms out in a futile attempt to pump herself up.

"I can't stop this feeling

Deep inside of me-"

Dropping from the cockpit, down to the hull of the ship, Asa belted the song, all but screaming it as she grabbed her armor and began forcing it on. Her eyes leered at the cryo chamber during the guitar rift, pointing toward the ceiling as the horns blared between the lyrics, almost as if she were conducting it herself. Spinning around to a nonexistent audience, Asa cocked a smile and winked - at the wall, but in her head it was a fan. In her dreamscape, Asa had been a performer and singer - reality wasn't quite as fun. Asa dressed whilst the song continued, the final lines corresponding with the mempo being set in place, her own mellow voice replaced with the oni-setting on her modulator, intentionally deep and scathing.

Frowning when the song actually ended, Asa's shoulders sagged in her kimono, and she grumbled to herself, trotting to the controls beside the dock of her ship. Despite the attempt to put a little pep in her step, this hellish repetition was all that was keeping her clinging to sanity as she spun around on a carousel that never ended, constantly having her leer out at the same faces, despite the years that had passed. Asa didn't even know when she would be ready to finally step off the carousel, but supposed her Chi would eventually guide her in the right direction, just as her father had claimed. Thus far, her Chi had done nothing but fail her. This resulted in a deep-seated cynicism in the woman. For all her abilities, they hadn't once saved her.

Asa had the worst fucking luck.

Currently, her life was testament to that - a Shogun turned bounty hunter who had to hide her face despite the fall of the Empire. Any solace she had was on the Ryu in the brief lulls between planets.

Opening the port, hands cocked on her hips, Asa let out a long sigh which did not properly register through the modulator on her mask. Although it filtered the atmosphere, she could feel the heat radiating off her skin beneath the loose kimono sleeves, the sulfur was infectious like a plague. Her entire ship reeked of it, the rotten egg stench permeating from all her attire, even the hilt of her katana. Yet another of the listless charms of Nevarro. Sauntering her way to the cantina, humming the song to herself, she untucked her arm from her kimono sleeve and levied it on the inside of the fold as she lazily trotted back into town.

Eyes traced her crimson form, wary and skittish. The irony. Beneath the folds of fabric was a lean woman, but a woman nonetheless. Her sandals gave her another few inches, giving her the appearance of being close to 5'10", a seemingly average height. In tandem with her armor hidden beneath her robes, she appeared much broader than she actually was. Sure, Asa had muscle and was a honed mercenary, but she wasn't thick or imposing. The walk was a big part of it and Asa moved with a lazy nonchalance. By this point, most people strayed clear of her path. Even when she'd first come to Nevarro, anyone who glimpsed her mempo was eager to flee before her. Originally, she'd found this amusing, but now she was growing rather sick of it. After years of it, watching people scatter like leaves in the wind was harrowing and lonely.

The cantina was a dusty hovel, filled to the brim with untrustworthy scum that Asa had come to consider acquaintances. Despite the fact they'd trade her in for a good sum of credits, they all had stories which she collected and transcribed to kanji. Poetry could be found in even the worst settings and as a Jakonan, songs and lore had never fled her heart. Her fingers itched to play her flute for an audience, but she didn't trust anyone enough to remove her mempo. Given that it had been a decade, Asa had resigned herself to accepting her fate alone. In hyperspace, only the stars listened to the song of the shakuhachi.

Grimacing beneath her mask, she noticed that Karga was exceptionally thrilled that afternoon. Usually, the only thing that made him excited was money and prospects that earned him better commission. His dark eyes brightened at the sight of her - or Ronin. Given the number of years they'd known one another, she'd established a baseline for quarries she would and wouldn't take. Imperial remnants were a no-go as were bounties that he'd doled to the Mandalorian. Given that she still owed Mando a debt, she was not keen on digging the hole further. Additionally, Asa had declined many high paying bounties when her Chi screamed in opposition. Karga poked at her, stating that 'Mando will take them' as if there was a deeper rivalry between them when there wasn't. Asa respected the Mandalorian and wanted nothing to do with him. Honestly, Mandalorians were bad news and she regretted owing a debt, but that was the way of the Bushido.

"Ronin!" Karga greeted animatedly, slapping the table that he habited since their original meeting. Asa wished it was raining now, she loved the petrichor and humidity in comparison to the heat that leeched all moisture from her, despite the folds of her kimono making an attempt to covet it. "How was your hunt?"

He didn't actually care as long as it was successful. "Ready for offload," she retorted, glancing around the sparsely populated common house. Honestly, this was one of the few rare times she'd noticed that it was this empty.

"Are you staying around for some sabacc?" Karga chatted idly, thumbing the breast pocket on his robes, eliciting her attention. Eyes tracing, she noticed the outline of a rectangle, perhaps metal, but she couldn't say.

"Depends. What do you have available?"

Her heart was humming with a caustic rhythm, searing with each thrum as she stood, unable to hear the meaningless words the Guild Master was gracing her with. Instead, the hairs on her arms raised and she drew a shuddering breath, an invisible force laying against her shoulder blades and chest, stealing the air from her chest and threatening to strangle her. Something was coming. Given the disconcerting method in which her Chi screamed, she was not willing to stick around to see what it was.

Karga had pushed a few fobs in front of him, mentioning something about the Guild lolling into an even pace and the pucks would only pace decently rather than the typical rate. Given how uncomfortable Asa was with her Chi smothering her, she swiped them up without listening to where she might have to go. "Deliver my credits to my ship. I'll wait for the offload," she instructed sternly, interrupting yet another of the man's infamous tangents as he brimmed with excitement.

"Happy hunting, Ronin!"

Now that was strange. Pausing halfway through the cantina, Asa craned her neck to glance back at the humming man. Karga had his moods, but very rarely had he ever been so earnest in his wish for 'happy hunting'. He was practical, not fanciful. Today must have been a spectacular day for him to be wishing her a successful hunt. Such chimerical encouragement was never needed for someone like Asa. She turned in her fobs within the allotted time frame and had never required 'luck' in order to do this. Given how foul her luck was, Asa was glad she was capable of acquiring her quarries. Most weren't talented in fighting and her upbringing had been in both academia and warfare. Jakon prized itself on being a civilization prepared for any challenge, be that battle in scholarly, artistic, or war pursuits.

Rather than thank him, Asa ducked her head and ignored him. Not because she was partial to being rude, but between the disquiet of her Chi and the oddity of Karga trying to imbibe luck in her favor, Asa was frowning beneath her mempo.

Usually, she might wait until the cryo slabs were unloaded, but the trembling cacophony of Chi propelled her legs out. No way in the galaxy she was sticking around while her body screeched in dismay. Rather, she carved the familiar path across Nevarro City, the only settlement on this awful planet, and her cursed prison stuck in a distorted ground hog's day rendition of hell, constantly on repeat. A headache seared in the back of her head, which she couldn't abate by touching her brow with the mempo on. Growling, her strides lengthened and she made haste back toward the Ryu.

"Ronin!" A vaguely familiar modulated voice entreated her, a rich baritone tainted by the metallic ring of the mechanics in his helmet. She had only heard it a few rare times and never in length, as the pair barely had reason to exchange conversation. Truthfully, Asa was somewhat terrified of the Mandalorian. He was a mountain of steel, only a few inches taller than her when she was in full regal, but he wasn't playing at what she had for nigh on a decade. He was the ruthless bounty hunter who'd take any quarry in, whereas she had restrictions. He was an absolute murder machine. And he was standing just a few paces behind her.

Thanking the God-beasts for her mempo, she swallowed hard and craned her neck to glance back at him, skin paling. The glare of the sunlight caught on his new armor, entirely of beskar, imbibing the unpainted silver steel with a bright reflective glow. Had her mempo not been translating the light through a filter, she might have been momentarily dazzled by the man, who was now a stunning suit of Mandalorian pride.

"Your debt."

Asa's heart skipped a beat as she gazed out from beneath the rim of her rice-hat. Even if she was disgraced, she still upheld the values of a samurai, just as her father had raised her to do. A life without any guidance was not a life at all, but simply an existence as a ghost. Despite the lucrative business that Asa now found herself in, she'd always followed her tenets. Repaying debts was one of those, recalling the snarling visage of the Wampa as it threatened to bear down on her with massive, clawed paws - to rip her limb from limb, crack her bones to drink the marrow, and feed on her flesh. Asa was about to commit seppuku to escape the pain of that demise when the Mandalorian's pulse rifle boomed so loud that she thought the entire cavern was going to collapse.

Asa had been about to die, but the only tell from that day was the ragged scar down her right armor where the Wampa's claws had snatched at her.

"I require payment."

Of all the fucking times.

Her Chi had relaxed, the eye of the storm giving her a momentary reprieve from the mystery that had upset her originally. The war drumming of her heart quieted and she stared toward the abysmal T visor of her counterpart. Two years had passed since she offered the life debt and now he was coming to collect. There was no way that Asa could refuse, even if that meant going against what her Chi was urging. A debt was a debt and could be collected when and wherever. Asa could not set the terms.

"Very well," she finally offered, her voice quiet, her vocoder transitioning her own mellow voice and making it grit like sand beneath a boot. "What do you require of me?"

"Assistance," he retorted curtly, but betrayed nothing farther. "You are not fond of the Empire?"

Not fond? The Empire that had taken her father, her people, and subsequently ravaged her home? "That's a good way to phrase it," she snorted, modulator crackling at the edges of her wry laugh, the shrugging of her shoulders more indicative of the chuckle than the noise.

"There are remnants here. They have something I want."

An arched brow was poised at no one, as her mask didn't move with the expressions her own haggard face made. Rather, she let the laziness slip into her posture as she leaned back and tapped her thumb on the pommel of her sword, tinkling the charms. "A debt may be paid in any way you see fit," she started, eyes raking over the line of the man's shoulders trying to glean more intention. "However, this seems to fall short of a life for a life." Alternatively, she would still owe him if it were as simple as killing a few Imperials. Hell, she would have done that for free.

"The Guild might have a few words with us after."

Ah. Well, now that made more sense. This mission, even for any of the other hunters who greatly disliked the Empire, would not stake their livelihood on helping Mando. Especially since many of them loathed him. Asa still had enough wits to be afraid of him and what he was capable of, but exhaled deeply enough that he caught her sigh this time. "A debt must be paid," she relinquished, wondering if her life would always chance chapter by chapter, decade by decade. Somehow, as she just passed 30, she had a feeling her body was going to begin rejecting change. Maybe it was time to get out of the bounty hunting business.

He nodded, swiftly spinning on his heel to do an about face, leaving for Asa to follow. Daylight still shining down on the city, locals milled about and stayed clear of the leery pair. A throng of distance was set between them, an invisible buffer of at least six feet maintained more by Asa than Mando. Cutting a corner into a narrow, shadowed alleyway, she was forced to close some of the space, half wondering if Mando was going to just kill her here and dump his last bit of competition out of Nevarro into one of the neighboring waste bins.

He could have done that on Hoth and he didn't, Asa reminded herself, grip still tight on her katana as she followed me into the belly of Nevarro City. With the sun dipping on the horizon, the light couldn't claw its way in between the tightly packed walls and doors. A cloak of shadows played between the walls, dancing mutely on the back of the Mandalorian's grey bucket. His cloak obscured the rest of his shiny retinue, dashed by the pulse rifle that was most certainly taller than her.

The Mandalorian was not a huge man, not in height. Being just a few paces behind him, Asa spent more time observing him than she had cared in the past, worried that he would notice her staring despite the anonymity of her mempo. He was seemingly average, his boots and helmet adding an additional inch or two, shoulders broadened by his armor just as her own made her look impressive. This was no illusion, as hers was, for the Mandalorian's armor accentuated his vitals and protected them, the beskar layers thin in comparison to hers. Despite the added padding, the Mandalorian was broad, lean as a whip, and didn't require another head of height to strike fear into any who glanced over at the impassive, nebulous T visor.

Coming to the end of the alley, Mando paused and glance both ways like a child about to cross a busy street. Warily, he continued after taking a right. Asa had never bothered coming into the city, not this deep, and she expected if her mempo wasn't filtering the air she would be able to smell the metallic reek around her. From parts to trash, inner Nevarro City was a rotting cesspool and they didn't pass so much as a soul on their secretive mission - which aside from killing Imps and acquiring something, she had no idea what it entailed.

He bent over a dumpster of scrap and Asa dared to move within a pace of him, glancing down to where his visor was set. Within was an eggshaped container, the white paint chipped and flaked, lid open. If she had to guess, she'd say it was a repulsor lift of a sort, but it was tiny and akin to a bassinet. A soft song played from the dumpster, eliciting enough of her attention that she bent down past him to touch it. Gloved fingers met durasteel and the music hitched, a gentle clarinet weeping in her ears. Chi. She knew it, as anyone with Chi had a song of their own. Otherwise, the only time she heard Chi in the form of music was during great strife or occasion, like the day that the Empire had attacked her people, the maddening roar of their death march vibrating in her brain.

"Come," Mando ordered, snapping away from the discarded pram and for a fleeting moment, she thought she noticed his shoulders sag as he released a belly deep sigh.

They scaled a building in the dull sunset light, the blue sky being chased by cotton candy pink and coral orange, turning the puffs of cloud into candy. Despite all that Nevarro lacked, there were redeeming moments - probably because she couldn't smell the sulfur, but the sky had always been a fixation amidst the obsidian and ozone.

Mando had his rifle propped against his shoulder, laying prone as she daydreamed and got away with it since he couldn't see the misty expression on her face. A solemn tap to the side of his helmet and he was listening to a conversation she couldn't hear, glaring down the infrared scope as Asa wondered what the cottony candy clouds tasted like. It had been absolutely forever since she'd had sweets like back on Jakon. She missed the red bean paste fillings and the true taste of green matcha instead of the cheap imitations she usually got her hands on.

He drew the rifle back, his thumb having been subconsciously tracing circles against the barrel as he listened on. A strange quirk that Asa noted; an odd little bit of comfort the man tried to instill in himself as they worked on recon.

With their feet back on the ashen soil of the street, they approached a dark teal door which was streaked with lines of grimy rust. The roads were never truly quiet, the din of the busier sectors a dull hum like a hive of busy worker bees who just weren't occupying this sector of the combs.

"Wait here," he directed, gesturing to the alley flanking the door.

Asa leaned against the wall, hearing the sharp rap of his fist plunking against the door, before a click and whizzing was accented by the crunch and crackle of frayed mechanical equipment. Stomping back in her direction, Mando tossed the droid's retinue on the ground and grabbed his weapon, tilting his helmet in an unimpressed manner at her candor. With the gust of an invisible wind, her muscles let out a wistful bellow and she stood up straight, reaching down toward her obi as the premonition of battle whispered delicately in her ears.

"Check the perimeter," icy fingers raked down her back like the claws of the Wampa, the poorly modulated voices of stormtroopers causing a seething rage that laid dormant for so long to come bubbling to the surface, chasing away the unpleasant chill with searing wrath. Asa did not wait for Mando to make the first move, her body moving on its own accord as the curve of her blade left the ornate sheathe.

Mando was more interested in placing a detonator than dealing with the pair of stormtroopers that had come out to scout the source of the original noise. Her approach was covered by the boom of the bomb, the browned armor of the Imps akin to weathered parchment as they turned tail and sprinted back into the building.

She was the wind through the mountains and trees, flowing as gently as a brook but could possess the ferocity of a raging river, and she was swift like flame, crackling down to embers until she was stoked with fuel. Now, she had plenty of fuel, sliding up behind the troopers who were distracted by the flashing lights, electricity guttering to just the dull winking of the emergency lighting, as many synapses and circuits had been fried in the explosion. None noticed the flap of a crimson kimono, nor the nonexistent click of her sandals as Amagumo arched, the bolts of lightning rippling gold in the flashes of sputtering light.

Katanas were made for slashing, not puncturing. Wielding one correctly took years of practice, being keenly aware of the perfect manner to arch the curve of the steel in order to achieve maximum rending capacity. Asa had always been more inclined toward the blade versus her siblings. Haku had preferred blasters. Kit with a sniper rifle. The ancient blade of their people was a symbol and tradition and rarely utilized in battle except for those who were blessed with strong Chi, like the Jedi. Otherwise, the piece of metal was useless unless utilized in close quarters.

The first figure slumped, plastoid parting like butter beneath a heated blade. Unlike a lightsaber, Tamahagane did not cauterize, and blood spurted in a macabre fountain as the neck and head slowly slid off as the body finally crumpled to its knees. Rounding on her, the second trooper raised his rifle in defense, gasping as Amagumo savagely bit into his blaster and severed it in half. With a crescent flourish, the tip of the curved blade slipped up and drove into the gorget of the trooper, Amagumo drinking its fill as the Imperial soldier gurgled and choked on his own blood, crimson basking the blade in a hellish curtain as it slowly dripped down toward the hilt.

Mando was in the hole that he had blasted, watching her fight as she withdrew her sword and wiped the blood of her enemies off on the bottom of her robes. Wearing red meant that her foes could not see the blood, be that her own or that of her enemies. By this point, Asa was so accustomed to the gore laden displays and paintings she created that the garnet pools that she stepped through had little effect on her.

A flanking door opened and Mando's helmet whipped, an arm snapping out with such precision and swiftness that Asa barely had the time to blink before the room grew hot with the light of his blaster and the trooper flopped to the floor in a plastic heap. Of course, she had known that the Mandalorian was good, but aside from their encounter on Hoth she had never seen him in action. Just the speed such a broad man moved in set her teeth on end, wondering if she would have been able to dodge or parry the hipfire had he rounded on her. Kriff, just thinking about it made her skin pallid and a cold sweat break out on the back of her neck.

Listing through the dull grey, medicinal halls of the building, Mando took the lead, as she was here as support and had no true idea what the 'thing' he wanted was. A haunting song played in her ears, which she tried to swat away like annoying gnats, but the clarinet's vibrato grew louder, but not in a good way. Instead, the melody quavered as if the musician was taking constant, trembling breaths with the inability to fill their diaphragm properly. Cool dissonant melodies, minor thirds and tritones, there was no musicality - just noise. Something was very wrong with the person who the song belonged to.

Mando knelt just on the other side of a doorway, lifting his vambrace, and shooting his whipcord launcher. Jetting out like a javelin, the forked tongue on the end hooked into the edge of a trooper's rear chestplate, the Mandalorian utilizing the leverage of his kneeling position to jerk the soldier down, retracting the grappling hook as the trooper slid back, disoriented and right into the vibro-blade waiting in the Mandalorian's other hand.

Without even glancing in her direction, Mando dropped the body and continued prowling forward. Asa paused just to glance down, grimacing at the precision of the kill. Despite being freaked out by it, she found herself highly impressed with how streamline the man's kills were. He didn't dally or take solace in what he did, rather he just pummeled through with honed experience.

She was a few paces behind him when he shot open a door, fire returned and actually finding purchase as his shoulder jerked back after his pauldron caught the brunt of the attack. While the trooper had been reacting in self-defense and in light of a Mandalorian being inside his station of duty, she knew Mando was pissed. He shot the soldier square in the chest before glaring at the spectacled doctor who tittered nervously in the corner.

If seeing a Mandalorian breaking into his lab wasn't intimidating enough, the hellish lowlight glare on her own mask made him even fainter, gripping the side of the gurney he flanked as she stared. What was this? She raked her eyes over the uniform the doctor was wearing, clearly of an Imperial officer, his hand flying out as Mando turned the barrel of his handgun toward him.

Asa couldn't hear the conversation between them, her head slowly turning as the clarinet's pitiful solo warbled in her ears. Her legs carried her on their own accord, hat tilting downward as she gazed at the source of the song. Not an adult, but a tiny green child that was unconscious and strapped into a whizzing medical machine. "Ā ko-" oh, child - she whispered, reaching to smooth over the fronds of fuzzy white hair on top of a wrinkled brow. Despite the youth, she knew that this being was much older than appearances betrayed.

"Don't touch it," Mando snapped at her, forcing her hand back as he pried the machine off the baby.

"It's a baby," Asa retorted defensively, whipping her mask up toward him to challenge the Mandalorian for the first time. "You do not know what it is."

"And you have a better idea?" he growled, leveling his blaster toward her abdomen, daring her to do any more than what had been agreed upon.

"Hai, I do, Mandalorian," Asa hissed back, but there was no time for them to argue, her Chi kicked her heart rate, plunging what had been a steady pace to a shockingly dormant state. Pupils blowing beneath her mempo she cocked her head. "We don't have time for this. More are coming."

Mando grunted his agreement and turned his blaster away from her.

"Protect the ko, I will take the lead," Asa knew that the only place they'd be able to go next was the space-port where their paths would diverge and they'd leave Nevarro for good. Still, when she glanced at the little bundle of canvas, she knew deep in her heart that she could not leave the baby with the Mandalorian in good conscious. Her father had once told her that her Chi would guide her and now she stood beside a child with such strong abilities that she'd heard his song from across the city.

Thumb tracing the ribbons on Amagumo, her free hand brushed her obi where a few other weapons were stashed. A metallic cylinder was inconspicuously tucked beside her shoto, a weapon that she'd not touched since she had acquired the title of Shogun. This was not the weapon of a samurai, but as her Chi bellowed in her chest, she knew it might be time to wield it finally. Amagumo had served her well, but her time as a samurai was coming to an end.

Bound and gagged, you had to watch as the two generations of work was being obliterated at the hands of the Empire. Tears ran down your nose, not noise escaping you as you shook on the ground, heat curling off the back of your neck, sweltering and making you swoon. Sorrow, fear, misery, agony. Your greenhouse, the water vaporators -- so much wasted. What was the point? Why would they just burn it? Destroying evidence. Smoting your existence as if it'd never been there, as if you'd never made memories here and grown up in that house. You didn't have much, but all your holobooks, your stupid rock collection, and your clothes were in there. Most of the clothes were just coveralls, but they were still yours. 

It wasn't the material things you sobbed over. No, it was deeper than that. You'd done so many things here and it was all you'd ever known. Now it was ash in the wind, nothing going to remain other than the steel that wasn't burned out, standing as a gloomy sentinel to hint at the atrocity committed. And why? Because you had been kind to someone, healed them, taken care of them... and where was he? He'd said he would be right behind you and now you were beginning to doubt that. What if he'd seen the mess and decided that you weren't worth it? He was still hurt, so you didn't blame him for not wanting to fight five people at once.

Your heart ached, because you thought that... with all that you'd shared, the fact that he'd taken his helmet off... maybe it wasn't that special. Who cared about you? He knew that you were alone and you'd fixed his ship up for him. He was gonna leave and you'd fallen for all his sweet words. Mandalorians killed for a living, he wasn't going to care if you were just another amongst his tally. You had probably been the biggest sucker of them all. Healing him, feeding him, helping him to the fresher, giving him everything you had --- even your body, maybe even a little bit of your heart too. And for what? Fire and death?

"Ready to tell us where he is?" the death trooper bent down in front of you as you wept in the dirt. 

"Fuck you," you sniveled. Everything was gone. You gained nothing out of turning him in. 

"Maybe later," he stood back up and you shuddered at the thought. 

"Hey, looks like we've got movement up ahead."

You jerked your head up, neck aching and cheeks definitely bruised from where you'd been slapped. Narrowing your watering eyes through the smoke you thought you saw... a dewback? What the kriff. The creature rumbled, upset by the fire and smoke, threatening to charge. 

"What do we do?" the white stormtroopers were looking for direction.

"Well shoot it!" the black one exclaimed as if it were obvious.

You got to see the truly unimpressive shooting ability of stormtroopers in action. Dewbacks had thick skin, so all they were doing was agitating it. And then -- fire was returned. What!? How was a dewback shooting? How -- oh, it wasn't the dewback. Even through the haze, the opponent shot back with stellar precision, striking down the two troopers to the left before the dewback reared and charged. Trundling forward, the death trooper tried to square off with it before leaping out of the way. White hot flames ignited, followed by a hissing wine as the death trooper was flung several feet back. The dewback hadn't hit it, but someone else had. 

Flames beating high behind you, so searing that you thought you were being burned by the inferno, the dark blue armor appeared almost black in the manic illumination. The trooper was back on their feet, blaster in hand as they began pacing circles with the opposing Mandalorian. You were mildly delirious and uncertain if what you saw was actually happening pace for pace. 

This wasn’t a normal death trooper. Paz knew it as he matched the strides, ignoring the other two stormtroopers who were trying to deal with the rampaging dewback. He’d heard of this from his sister, that there were Mandalorians who had switched to the Empire’s side to be paid for their work, despite the fact that the Empire had gutted Mandalore and slaughtered many vod. Now, in the feral line of his opponent, he knew instantly that this masked fiend had once been a vod in the precise manner they moved. But he was in dark plastoid, not beskar’gam. And Paz still overstepped him by more than a head. 

The smoke continued to churn forward in a dark cloud and he was wasting time while you choked on the ground. He drove forward, the death trooper knocking aside the muzzle of the rifle before it could find him. The pistol flashed in the mad light of the fire, but Paz’s left hand snapped out gripping the arm of the trooper as he fired, the bolt pinging uselessly off his armor. Had he been a second later, it might’ve struck between the protection of his beskar. Before the trooper could disengage with a well planted kick, Paz twisted, the dominant hand of the Imp making a sickening crack. Dancing backward, the trooper grunted and gripped the broken wrist, blaster having fallen from his fingers in the scuffle.

Ripping a vibro-blade out, his bad wrist was pinned to his chest as he levied it. “Are you ready to go to Manda?” the trooper taunted. 

Even between the curling fronds of his fury, Paz managed to laugh spitefully. “At least I’ll be going there one day. You’ll never walk amongst those halls, dar’manda. Ib'tuur jatne tuur ash'ad kyr'amur.” Any Mandalorian who’d chosen the Empire over their own was weak. Paz thought the man in front of him was chuckle worthy as he leveled a blade, as if he’d have the skill to plant it before he was gunned down. He only knew one person who could pose such a threat to him and she loathed the Empire. 

The two clashed, your eyes widening as you couldn’t make out between the smoke and carnage. But as you blinked through the bleary wet tears, eyes burning. A blaster bolt went off and you shifted, waiting for the haze to clear just as the other two stormtroopers broke around the edge of the dewback that had started its descent back into the canyon. Stepping through the haze was the dark, non reflective glare of beskar. You were already crying, but the tears were now of unadulterated relief that Paz had won the fight and not the death trooper. With your mouth gagged, you couldn’t warn him about the stormtroopers that were now lining up, taking a knee to begin firing at him.

Only one blaster bolt hit him and it bounced right off of his armor. Turning around, he gave them an unimpressed tilt of his helmet before leveling his pistol. The troopers tried again, but were taken down in a laughable fashion, as if they were stationary targets. Once he gave the scene another hard survey, Paz hurried over to you. "We have to go, Tranyc. We have to go-" he cut the bindings on your wrist and pulled the gag down. You were covered in dirt and soot, tear lines running gashes through the darkness on your face. "Stars, what did they do to you?"

You started crying again as his glove met the side of your sore face. "I-I wouldn't t-tell them-" you sobbed hoarsely. "I-I-I'm scared."

"Shh," he scooped underneath your arms. "Hold on tight. Close your eyes if you need to, but you have to hold on." Pressing you to his chest, you wrapped your arms around his neck and clung as best you could, hooking legs to his hips despite the uncomfortable seat of his utility belt. His jetpack ignited again, the source of the white flames you'd seen through the smoke.  The ground was spiraling away, your eyes dropping and you felt... nothing. Just watching the farm become a quavering light in the night, like a single candle's flame across a remote landscape. 

He landed by the Kote, your limbs shaking from exhaustion and being utterly overwhelmed by the most action you'd ever seen in your decades. Wrapping both arms around you, he hurried into the ship, didn't deposit you, but took you up into the cockpit before starting the ship. Flipping switches, the engines starting, and continuing his ministrations as you pressed your face into the cowl of his cloak, trying to dab your tears that kept coming. He had come for you. All that doubt and he had come to save you. You didn't know if you should be happy or upset. He'd come too late to save your home, but he'd come. 

Paz guided the ship out of the canyons and upward, breaking atmo without an afterthought. His skin was hot, rolling with primal fury as you clung to him, crying softly into the fabric of his flight suit. You'd done nothing to deserve this. But he couldn't stop right now. Not until the two of you were in hyperspace. It had taken the Empire weeks to catch up with him, but they'd managed to do it. Fuel was low, he'd need to make a pitstop and Tatooine was grudgingly close. Maker dammit, that was the last place he wanted to go. He charted the navigation and punched the hyperdrive. Fuel was fuel. That's all he'd stop for.

"Tranyc?" he entreated gently, prying you off enough that he could get a look at your soot stained face. He tried to rub some off, which made you flinch. No, that wasn't soot -- deep purple bruises were on your cheeks from where you'd been struck repeatedly. Your eyes were wet and red, but you had a thousand yard stare, the shock of what had occurred glazing you over completely. "Darling, look at me."

You finally blinked, a few tear drops cascading as you glanced up toward his visor. The troopers had done this to you because of him. There was no other reason they would’ve bothered a farmer or beaten them. Not without orders to conduct interrogations. And you had defended him. People’s resolve crumbled for less, especially when their entire livelihood was on the line. Paz already hated the Empire for everything they’d taken, but the fire was rekindled anew. He was livid, looking down at your wet, bruised face, shame and guilt overwhelming him as he hadn’t gotten there soon enough to protect you. Just after promising you that you were safe with him, he’d let you walk into a den of wolves.

"I'm so sorry. I should have been there sooner-"

"Where were you? I-I thought you weren't coming," your voice broke and your lips trembled. "I thought you'd left."

Hearing those words broke his heart, but how could he blame you? Paz hadn't realized anything was wrong, never thought it until he'd spent the better part of his day picking up around the ship, taking a shower, and running a few checks on the engine before stepping outside and noticing a hellish glow emanating from the upper echelons of the canyon. Smoothing your curls, he shook his head. "I'm sorry. I thought I'd lost them, I never thought they'd find me out here, let alone go after you. I should have been there. I should have never left you." 

You nodded slowly and pressed your cheek against the beskar chestplate, the cold metal soothing to your ailing skin. What were you going to do now? Everything you'd owned was gone. "Why were they following you? You never gave me a straight answer, but I didn't think to go poking around..."

"The Imps attacked my covert after I helped one of my brothers escape with a baby that they wanted. Don't know much other than that, but I was one of few who escaped and they must think I know where said brother is," Paz explained. "Whatever they want with that child, it's part of something much bigger than I ever thought."

"One of those troopers... the black one... he said he was Mandalorian. But... he doesn't look like you," you pointed out. 

"He was dar'manda. Maybe he was Mandalorian, raised that way, but he forsook his people to become a death trooper. Many death troopers are dar'manda. Looking for the easiest path with the least resistance, betraying our ways to make credits and be on the right side of the law."

"It's not the right side anyone. The New Republic rules now."

"Where was the New Republic when the Imps attacked you?"

You didn't have an answer, instead you sighed and closed your eyes. "It's all gone," you warbled miserably. Even innocent Jumbles was gone. "W-where do I even begin? I don't know anything about the galaxy. Just home. How to farm and stuff-" Your chest felt as if you'd taken a full on sucker punch and you whimpered in discontent. 

"You can stay here. With me, Tranyc. As long as you need..." he drawled off. This wasn't how he'd wanted to convince you to come with him. He'd wanted it to be a choice, not because everything had been ripped out of your hands. "I won't leave you again. Not unless you ask me to. I promise.”

You had somewhere to stay and a person to take care of you. That felt like such a foreign concept. For so many years you'd taken care of yourself, carrying the burden of you solitude, and tending to your animals. The idea was queer, confusing, and in your mental state it made you scowl, mind filled with a thick fog that you couldn't see through. You had wanted to spend more time with him and part of you had also wanted to see other planets. Maybe one day you would have asked him to take you, once you had a better solution for the farm in the meantime, but it was gone. You were here now, leaving your dustball planet for the first time in your life and that petrified you. Because as much as you rolled with the punches in your day to day life, this amount of change was overwhelming.

Paz could tell you were on the brink of passing out from a combination of exhaustion and mental distress. Aside from going to your home planet when you were young, he doubted you'd been off of it since. 

"I-" you started up again, trying to formulate your thoughts, but the ideas were evading you, running too far ahead for you to catch up and speak. "-don't want to be a burden."

Burden? You were worried about being a burden? Paz's lips tightened underneath his helmet and he stifled a sigh, rubbing circles on your lower back with his palm as he sank into the seat. "What do you want, mesh'la?"

You didn't know right now. Your wounds were still too fresh and deep to make a decision like that. It was such a broad question and honestly, too much for you to handle in that moment. "C-can I help you?" He had just saved your life. In that second, you'd entirely forgotten that you had done the same for him and that technically, this should have made you even. But you were accustomed to working all your life and without that rock solid foundation of regiment you found yourself losing more grip on reality. You couldn't just pitter around the ship or you'd find ways of letting the churning maelstrom of your darkest thoughts beginning to smother you. "Can't fight, b-but maybe I can do things? B-be your mechanic or somethin'?"

Work. You were asking to be put to work. The first bit of direction. You craved it. Everything except for the Mandalorian had come crashing down spectacularly and you were trying to find the first piece to begin rebuilding your foundation on. Work was the most logical place to start. Because you had to work for a living, to survive, and it wouldn't be any different because you were on a ship now. You needed a job for your own sanity.

"I could use a mechanic," Paz revealed, which made you perk up hopefully. "You said the Kote still needs some work. I can make that your job."

Your head was bobbing enthusiastically, hyperfocusing on the distraction from the trauma you'd just endured. Rapidly, you began considering what you remember being on the ship and what you'd require to be capable enough to fix it. "I'd need supplies," you comment, chewing your lip and paling as you realized you needed more than just work equipment. You had lost everything. "A-and stuff."

"Mm," he hummed in agreement, continuing to pet your hair. The sensation was soothing and you melted back against the cool beskar as you rattled out a long exhale. "We'll take care of everything. Maybe not on Tatooine. We'll need to make another stop on a more suitable planet after we fuel up. Why don't you make a list before we arrive?"

A list. You could manage that, but not right now. You didn't want to move right now. Sitting on a man clad in full armor shouldn't have been comfortable, but it was. And you were absolutely drained, face aching, and lungs burning from the smoke inhalation. "Ok," you mumble, clinging onto your Mandalorian as he rubbed you. You were lulled to sleep by the rise and fall of his chest, swaying gently like the rocking of a boat on the ocean, reminded once again that you were safe. As long as he was around, you were safe.

---

He put you to sleep again and when you woke up, you were in one of his oversized shirts. Rubbing your eyes, you glanced around the chamber before getting up. It was cold. Why was it so cold? You grabbed the fluffiest blanket and drew it around your shoulders as you left the captain's quarters behind and stepped out into the hull. Mentally, you had it together a little bit better now, but with that came a soul crushing headache. You were thankful that the ship wasn't brightly lit, mostly just a few amber lights here and there that cast a dim ambiance across the shed. 

You wouldn't call it a kitchenette, because that's not what was beside the table. It was more like a flip down hotpad, a caf machine inlaid on the side, a nozzle for potable water, and a little disposal unit for any trash. From helping rearrange the ship, you knew that the nearest drawers contained rations. Which at best, were meh. They were relatively tasteless ways of gaining the nutrients you needed. Sure, they came in flavors but mostly that was savory or sweet. The differences between something like chocolate or peanut butter were almost negligible. 

You sat down, not really certain where you were going, but you plopped down on a pillow and just stared at the durasteel table. So... this was it now. You were the mechanic for a Mandalorian with nowhere else to go. You knew the other farmers around your home planet, but asking for boarding seemed like an incredibly ludicrous and cumbersome thing to do. You also didn't know if the Empire would attack your neighbors after what had happened on the farm if you tried to stay on planet. It was safer for everyone if you left. 

Funny, you had wanted to have more time with him and your kriffing wish came true. Now you wouldn't be lonely! Your stomach rebelled at your poor attempt to be wry. This was not Paz's fault. From the sound of it, he had been helping his brother escape the Empire and your father had told you before that the Empire never needed a good reason to do terrible things. You'd brushed it off, believing that your dad was just being overdramatic. No one could be that awful. Right? 

But they were and now you felt hopelessly adrift amongst an ocean of things you didn't know. You thought you knew how people reacted, but then again you'd only ever met nice people until the stormtroopers. You knew Tatooine was a skug hole. You knew that there was Hutt activity and slave trading there. See, you knew a great many things from reading and watching galactic news, but you'd never experienced any of it first hand. 

Paz will protect you.

The very thought made you inhale and exhale at a normal pace. You rubbed your face, cheeks still stinging from where the death trooper had slapped you around. Slapped. Not punched, not kicked. He'd slapped you around and you'd been bruised pretty badly. 

"Oh, you're awake," Paz stepped out of the cockpit with a datapad in his hands. "How are you feeling?"

"Tired still," you reveal wearily. "But it's more... mental."

He trotted over, sitting down beside you and pulling you into a warm embrace. Maker you had needed that, just the confirmation that you weren't alone through this. No words were needed. The display of comfort, his powerful arms carefully encircling you and hiding you from the galaxy... You sighed and pressed into him, uncertain why the small gesture was bringing you to tears. "Talk to me when you need to," he offered softly.

"I like this," you tell him, preferring the way he shielded you and the heat of his body chased away the cold. Oh, the cold. "Why is it freezing on this ship?"

"Hm?" he loosened his grip enough so that you could glance up at him. The two of you were close enough that you could kiss his helmet if you wanted to. "We're in hyperspace. Space itself is quite a bit colder than your home planet. Are you cold?"

You gave glance at your blanket, arching a brow at him to make a point. The silly twist of your lips made him laugh. "You're not cold?"

"No, but I'm used to this," Paz returned and you comprehended a little better. He was dressed from head to toe and had the additional layer of his beskar. 

"You are warm," you grumble, pressing your face into the fabric of his flight suit. He was big, warm, and totally cuddlable and honestly, you were kind of a greedy bitch for his cuddles. The first taste you'd gotten nearly a week ago had set you up for disaster. At least all the tears you had spilled hadn't been over him leaving and one good thing had come out of all of this. But... you were working for him now. What did that mean for the two of you? Well, you were nearly on his lap right now, so clearly there wasn't too much to worry about, but you wondered if there were any logistics you should worry about. "And quite a bit? It never gets this cold in the canyons. Maybe not as hot as Tatooine, but we still orbited around two suns."

How the heck could a planet be so warm, but the space from one to another was this cold? You weren't an expert on planet stuff, just like you weren't a medic. Seems you had a lot to learn. "Tatooine," he muttered, fingers tightening around you subconsciously at the thought. "We just need fuel and then I plan to leave that awful place."

"I know the Hutts used to be pretty active there before the war. What's so awful about it?" you inquire curiously. 

"You might not mind the climate, but it is very hot and dry there. And even with the fall of the Hutt syndicate, there's still remnant activity, slavers, and the overall atmosphere of the planet hasn't shifted much in light of the turn over to the New Republic. It's too far and not much worthwhile for them to chance coming out here just yet," Paz elaborated.

"Wow there's still slavers?" Again, another foreign concept to you. Of course you knew what slaves were, but you couldn't understand how people could do that. How they could treat someone as if they were dirt, less and baser than an animal.

"Not just on Tatooine. There are other places that still allow slavery. Technically, the New Republic has their own form of slavery for criminals. Most have to work in indentured servitude to pay off their crimes."

"But that's... different," paying off crimes and debts in exchange for hard labor seemed fair. Not being held against your will for being unlucky. "Are you wanted by the New Republic?"

"Don't think so," he shrugged. "I try to keep my bucket out of anything that has to deal with them. Fortunately for us, it's only the Empire."

"Yeah, fortunately," you drawl sarcastically, rolling your eyes, but his words make you smile. "So... what are we going to do once we fuel up?"

Paz had a good amount of time to consider this while you were resting. He had been contemplating his course of action and knew that returning to the covert might not be the best idea until the activity with the Empire had settled down. "I know a Guild Master on Dadrus," he began slowly. "The ship costs a decent amount to keep running. Until we're certain that the Empire isn't tailing us, we can't stay in one place for too long. My original plan was to return to my Tribe."

He had very briefly mentioned his people to you and part of you expected the secrecy surrounding them was for their own protection. But now... you felt as if you could ask. "What's it like... with you Tribe?"

"Comfortable. Home," he sighed wistfully.

Immediately your thoughts hitched and you stiffened. You'd not thought to ask it, but now you were really thinking about it. "Uhm... y-you don't have an-nyone-" Anyone that might be waiting for him like a partner or a wife. Would he have slept with you if that were the case? Honestly, you didn't know how Mandalorian culture worked and if that was allowed.

"Aside from the Foundlings that haunt my every step like an army of ghosts, no, mesh'la," he purred. "It's been a while for me too."

That was hard to believe given how dexterous and experienced he was in that field. But his words relaxed you, glad that you weren't homewrecking or expecting to stand toe to toe with another lover. You still didn't know what this was, but maybe it didn't need a tangible name or label. You were content in his arms right now. "So children like you?" You assumed that's what Foundlings were, sounded a lot like Younglings and your father used to refer to children -- of all races and species -- as Younglings.

Wasn't hard for you to imagine why children might like Paz. He was patient, a good teacher, and gentle when he needed to be. But he was also strong and... you thought back to how easy he'd made the fight between the five Imps look. The very death trooper that you'd been unable to writhe free from, he'd kicked to the ground using his jetpack as propulsion. Stormtroopers weren't known for the prowess in battle, but it had been more than you could handle. Easy enough for a Mandalorian. 

"Well..." he pittered off, as if bragging a little bit was not suited for him. "I teach the Foundlings, so they are keen on me."

"I can see that," you murmur against his shoulder. "You're a very good teacher."

"You're just saying that."

"No, you were very thorough."

"Helps that you're an attentive student," he rumbled, pressing his helmet into the side of your face, the same type of kiss that he'd done before. 

"You should teach me more... sometime," you suggest. "I'm a pretty poor shot and if I'm going to be running around with you, I should probably know how to shoot a blaster." 

"Yes," his voice was quiet, barely picked up by the vocoder, crackling with static. "You should know how to shoot."

"I bet I'll get the hang of it in no time with you as my teacher," you gave him a big smile, earnest and bright. While you said these words, you also highly doubted it. Given how well you'd reacted in the face of danger last time, you knew you were just as likely to shoot yourself with a blaster as it fumbled through your sweaty fingers than actually be able to point it at someone with the intention of killing. But you liked the way he taught and it would give you more reason to steal his time over something he was very knowledgeable in. And... your intentions weren't completely innocent. You knew that subject was a bit of a turn on for him. 

"Here," he cleared his throat, trying to blink away the haze of arousal that had blindsided him as your sweet smile. "Use this to draft up a list of what you need. After Tatooine I was thinking of bringing us to a supply stop before going to Dadrus."

"Where we going?" you inquired as you took the datapad. Maker, you were going to need everything. From toiletries, to clothes and underwear, shoes, proper attire that would keep you from freezing your tits off on this ship. Then there was also the question of how many tools you'd need. 

"Dadrus is on the other side of the Outer Rim from here. I was thinking Gala would make a good stop before we arrive on Dadrus," at your clueless look, he continued. "It's a wealthy planet and under the rule of the Republic. There should be plenty of supplies and we shouldn't run into any issues while there. The Empire wouldn't show face on Gala."

"Why wouldn't we just wait on a planet that is governed by the New Republic then?" You point out.

"I'll attract unnecessary attention."

You hadn't thought of that. Mandalorians were not a dime a dozen and on a safe planet, people might grow incredibly wary of his linger presence. The New Republic may even question his intentions. They were typically bounty hunters, so it didn't make much sense for one to stick around in one place for a long time. "So... what if we go between planets that are New Republic?"

"Because the ship costs credits to run," he reminded you gently.

Ah, right and these planets weren't just going to top off the ship with fuel and supplies. Frowning slightly, you chewed your lip and nodded. Damn, there really was no easy way to manage this. You suppressed a sigh, turning your attention back to the datapad as you began drafted up what you'd need. "We should get real food too," you said out loud, not realizing that you might be rude in saying that. "I-I can cook it."

"I do like your food," Paz contemplated before nodding. A warm cozy feeling settled into your stomach at the compliment. "We might be able to find some salvageable food on Tatooine. It's going to take the better part of a fortnight to reach Gala once we leave the sector."

"Wow? Really?" You had no concept of space travel.

"Gala is hundreds of thousands of light years away. Requires navigating through a few different hyperlanes to get there. Even Tatooine takes the better part of a day to get to from your planet."

"Then we must almost be there," you realized. 

"Few more hours," he confirmed. "Here, you should put a little more of this on. I applied it when you were sleeping for your cheeks-" he picked up a bottle on the table, which appeared to be a bacta lotion. You hadn't looked in a mirror since waking up... or since you'd taken a shower a couple days ago. But you didn't feel grimy, so you wondered if Paz had cleaned the soot and dirt off of you while you were a limp noodle. Accepting the bottle, you stood up, immediately feeling the cold of the ship press back around you as you headed over to the fresher to assess the damage.

Flicking the switch on, you had been correct in your assumptions. The ash was gone from your face and the blackened bruising had faded to a sickly yellow. Your cheeks were still raw, but the lotion had done a swift job of erasing the trauma. Still, your eyes were a bit puffy from all the crying you'd done, nose tinged red as if you had a cold. You felt like a kriffing mess, clutching that bottle and staring at yourself for a few long moments, finally blinking and shattering the spell that held you. Just put your foot forward as you'd done everyday on the farm. This was life now and you just had to accept the hand that fate had dealt you. Even if you were afraid, naive, and felt completely unprepared to start exploring the galaxy, you had Paz beside you and he knew what he was doing. He promised he'd never let anyone hurt you and you believed him. Not just because you were too kindhearted and gullible, but because he'd saved you and took care of you. 

Opening the bottle, you lathered your cheeks, the tingling sensation tracing electricity over the bruises and numbing them. You distracted yourself by putting a little too much on, creating big circles of white on your cheeks, making a few faces in the mirror, earning yourself a giggle at how stupid you looked. Shooting. Paz was going to take your dopey ass shooting. Taking your elastic band off your wrist, you put it on your index finger and thumb, cocking it like a gun. Maybe you wouldn't be half bad with a professional guiding you. You made a bam motion in the mirror and the scrunchie flew off, ricocheting off the mirror and slapping you in the forehead. It didn't hurt, but you stumbled a few paces back in surprise. Crap, if that was any indication on how shit of a shot you were, Paz was in for a long day at the range.

---

Tatooine was hot. Way hotter than home. Like ten times hotter than home. Holy shit, why did Paz think you'd like this place? You could feel the suns glaring down at you with the full intention of giving you a sunburn. You'd not gotten a sunburn in years. Usually only your face and arms were bared, so you definitely had one heck of a farmer's tan, but you were feeling it coming on now with each second you stood roasting like bantha meat on a spit. Your hair was probably the worst thing about all of this. You tried to find a way to finagle it, because it was getting sweaty and damp on the back of your neck, but you only had one scrunchie and that was not enough to tie all that fluff into a bun. 

So you suffered, flanking Paz as you started down the sand swept streets of Tatooine. People here dressed similarly to back home in robes in earthtones. There was a lot of haggling, bustling, and activity. What you picked up on immediately was the fact that people parted easily for you. Well, not for you, but for the Mandalorian. No one wanted to touch him as if they were afraid that he'd burn them if they so much as brushed by. He kept you close, hand hovering protectively by the small of your back, almost holding onto your belt. You weren't going to wander away, but you were very curious about everything around you with your eyes stretched wide.

You hadn't seen many other races aside from humans and Jawas, so getting to see Toydarians, Rodians, Dugs, and a motley of aliens was an absolute delight. Maybe Paz did need to hold onto you, because your legs had a mind of their own and you had never feared for walking somewhere unsafe before. 

"Nope, this way," Paz guided you from the direction you had started to list toward, which was a shop of junk, mostly salvaged droids and parts. Not any of the more reasonable places on the strip that had things you might actually need. 

"Where are we going? Is it inside? It's hot."

How was he not overheating in all that clothing? Did beskar have some secret high tech that allowed for him not to sweat his balls off? Hmm, you didn't think so, but also didn't know why he wasn't complaining. 

"We're going to the range. The stations are in the shade," he told you, which was somewhat of a relief. The range? Thinking back to your battle with the scrunchie you grimaced a little. Dear Maker, you prayed, please, please, please don't let you make a fool of yourself. "Fueling up takes a few hours and there will be a delivery of food too. So we have a little time to kill."

The range was outdoors made up of several lanes with targets. Controls were situated in each booth, allowing for the targets to be turned on to create popup simulations. There was a mild bit of activity on site, a few other shooters amongst the two dozen lanes. The worker for the range gave Paz a dubious look, which made you giggle. Almost as if to say 'Why in the Maker's name do you need to practice?' But you two were assigned the middle lane labeled 12. 

"Now, you know basic gun safety, right?" he set his blaster on the shelf in front of him, which met the top of his thighs and was tummy high for you. 

"Keep the weapon pointed away from anything you don't intend on shooting. Finger off the trigger until you're about to shoot," you recalled those very basic lessons from your father. "Weapon on safe until you intend to fire. Treat every blaster as if it's loaded."

"Good," he nodded, making you smile slightly. At least you weren't an absolute idiot. "We'll start with closer targets-" he pressed the range controls, turning up the popups at 25 meters. "I need to get a better idea of your form. So go ahead and take the pistol and fire."

Now you were smiling nervously, reaching over to where the pistol that you'd taken apart the other night was. It was heavy and too big for you. He had mentioned that it was custom built for him and he was more than double your size. Finding the most comfortable way to hold it, you held your arms out, fumbled the safety, and then scrunched up your face as you tried to aim. Pulling the trigger, the blaster shot made you jolt, elbows bucking and blaster smacking you right in the face.

Paz caught your arms before you could do anymore damage, setting the pistol back down on the counter. "Let me see-" he tilted your head up, pulling down the hands that had automatically went to where you'd yammed yourself. 

"Did I hit it?" you garbled, having not been looking. Oh stars, you'd closed your eyes when you shot at it, hadn't you?

Paz was quiet, confirming your suspicions. His thumb brushed the tiny bit of ripped skin where you'd taken the blaster, but you weren't bleeding. "You locked your arms out, which caused them to buck with the recoil. You're too tense. And... you should keep both eyes open."

You knew that, but your body had reacted on its own and you'd ended up getting hurt in the process. Huffing, you glared back out at the target that you'd whiffed. "What should I do differently?"

"Watch me first," he instructed, picking up the blaster and pressed the range controls to allow for the targets to move in their popup rotation. His arms were not locked out and his stance was wide, supportive, and straight aside from the tiniest lean forward. The first target popped up and his finger was on the trigger, squeezing and hitting square on center mass. The target fell down in defeat, his shoulders turning as one further out popped up. One by one, he took them down, your eyes tracing between him, his form, and then the successful quick shot that he rained down on them with expert precision. His breathing was controlled and he wasn't tense. He was acting as natural as if he were sitting up in the cockpit or relaxing. He was Mandalorian and weapons were his religion, so of course he'd not exert any effort in a skill that was as mundane as walking or breathing. 

He reached and swapped the cartridge out before resting the pistol on the counter. 

"Now tell me what you observed."

"You had a wider stance, relaxed, easy breathing... and you weren't afraid of it."

"You're afraid of the pistol?" 

"I mean it did come back at me like I insulted its mother, so yeah," you admit sheepishly.

"My breathing was controlled, but it may have looked natural to you," he began explaining breathing cycles and how it was important to shoot at either the top or bottom of your breath. Experts could without adhering to the guidelines, but beginners who weren't familiar with bolt pathing needed the extra stability with their sight pictures. Everything sounded so logical and simple, but putting that to practice wasn't as easy as wiring and programming. Usually those things couldn't kill you.

After running down bullet pathing, trajectory, and math - you liked the math aspect - Paz had the pistol back in your hand. It was a tool. It didn't have emotions, you did. But that didn't change the fact that it made you nervous. You tried applying what he told you, but your arms were shaking as you held the pistol out and you were still jumpy. You fired at the 25 meter target and hit the sandy burm beneath it. 

"That was better," he encouraged, but it didn't feel that way. "Here, I'm going to help adjust you-" he came up behind you, utility belt brushing up against your back as he clasped onto your wrists. "Relax, mesh'la. Relax," he eased, guiding your arms out from their rigid position. The back of his cuirass met you and for the briefest moment, you did relax completely. His soothing deep voice filled your ears, rumbling like the earth being shaken by thunder in the wet season. Then you remembered you were on the range and started to panic again. "Now both eyes open. Slow controlled breathing. Go for the bottom of your breath, when your shoulders are down rather than the top when you're naturally more tense."

Following the instructions, you narrowed your eyes at the target, promising to give it a piece of your mind as he helped steady you. You sort of imagined that the target had a clever quip about kissing it's ass or something stupid, but your finger brushed the trigger and you fired. For the first time since starting, you hit it. Not center mass, but enough to the side that it caused the target to fall down in mock defeat. 

"There you go! Good job!" 

You were beaming, absolutely splitting the biggest smile since leaving your home planet. You envisioned yourself as somewhat of a sharpshooter now, wondering how soon it'd be before you were the quickest draw on Tatooine. Ok, admittedly you were getting ahead of yourself with your dumb daydreams, but you were so ecstatic that you'd actually kriffing hit it. Leaning back, you craned your head up to look at him. "That was me? You weren't helping?"

"I wasn't helping you aim," Paz assured you. "Do you think you can try a little further? Without me holding your arms up?"

Try? Sure you could try. You swallowed the lump in your throat and nodded. "But can you... stay there?" It felt nice having him right behind you, making certain you didn't hit yourself in the face again. 

"I can stay," Paz agreed, which caused your shoulders to relax immediately as he lowered his own hands and moved them to your hips. Oh, stars you liked that so much better. A pod of butterflies erupted in your stomach as he pressed the next set of targets and you had to focus on them. But at this point you were just focusing on him and the nice cool press of the beskar against the inside of your back, chasing away the bitter hottest of Tatooine. You shifted your weight as you went to aim for the first and closest target, grinding into him more than intended. 

Paz kept a close eye on how you were lining up your shot, suppressing a huff as you leaned into him. You were inexperienced and green, but he'd taught Foundlings how to shoot for their first time too. But you weren't a Foundling or a child, and so when you pressed into him the codpiece pushing into his groin, he felt a rush of hot white desire as you fired again, missing the target, but undaunted. You tried again and grazed it before making the next attempt at a further target. The pistol was too big for you, he knew that, but he didn't have anything smaller. With the right amount of practice, he knew you could shape up. You weren't a natural and that was fine, he didn't want you to have to use these skills, they were just a safety measure. 

But there was a baser hunger in him that was stirred as you applied yourself, the huffing of air as you tried to blow a few stray, sweaty curls out of your face, the absolute focus you'd come under when you were really applying yourself. You'd looked much the same while working on the ship, but this time it was in his field of expertise. Shooting was just... shooting. He didn't derive any excitement from doing well, which he always did. Practice like this was more of a waste of ammo than beneficial at this point. However, when he watched you, there was a thrill in observing you get better, get more familiar with the weight of blaster, and your valiant attempts to not be daunted by the fact that you probably only hit the target once out of every four shots. 

And you were flush against him. Each tiny movement from your breathing to the way you shifted your arms, he could feel it. 

"I think," he started carefully as the trigger clicked, indicating that the cartridge was spent. "That it's time to go."

"Hm?" you glanced up, pinning him with those big eyes. 

"Time to go," Paz repeated again, voice hoarse and staticky as it came out of the vocoder. 

"Already?"

He smiled at your enthusiasm, wondering if you'd caught the husk in his tone or the breathy edge. You couldn't feel him, he had a codpiece on, but he wanted to leave -- now. "C'mon mesh'la, let's go-" he brushed some of the scattered curls out of your face tenderly, despite the beast threatening to overwhelm him in that moment. Maker, why were you so pretty? He was careful not to be pushy as you handed over the pistol and he reloaded it with a swift click, jerking it down into his holster. Placing a hand at the base of your elbow, he began whisking you away, his own open strides too large for you as you struggled to keep up. 

His eyes snapped upward, helmet tilting as he felt a growl rise in the back of his throat. He had intended on beelining for the ship, but he noticed something -- rather someone and had to readjust his pathing. Nearly picking you up, he dragged you over into an alley, causing you to yelp in surprise. "W-w-what's going on?"

"Old friends," he muttered, glancing back out toward the road before continuing further down the alley. 

"Friends? You don't sound very friendly," you observed as he held your hand, bringing you deeper into the labyrinths between the main street. 

"Ok, they're not friends," Paz admits, pausing around a corner and letting out a deep exhale. "They didn't see us." At least, he didn't think they had before he darted down the alley. He felt incredibly hot, not just because of the dual suns of Tatooine, but because of how dolefully you stood in front of him, looking for guidance, imploring him. "Mesh'la-" he groaned, crowding you against the wall. "I wanted to go back to the ship." Now he was just complaining. It wasn't your fault. 

"We'll get there eventually, won't we?" you point out brightly. 

"But that's not-" he pressed his helmet against the wall in aggravation. "Mesh'la?" He brought his fingers beneath your chin, tilting your head up to look at him. You were dewy, a little sweaty from the heat, but all smiles and sunshine. He dragged the pad of his gloved thumb over your lips, tracking the lower down. "Fuck."

Now you were beginning to comprehend why Paz had wanted to get back to the ship and your cheeks began to flush as if the sun really had burned you. You let out a soft breath, staring up into his visor as you were pressed against the wall of a building, boxed in by his impressive form. You knew that you got aroused from teaching you about weapons, but in your own little world, you'd not remembered until now and his insistence to get the heck out of the range. Now you were waiting for the coast to be clear in a dirty alleyway and your own legs were beginning to tremble as a surge of heat -- not from the climate -- rocked your knees. 

"P-Paz?" you're stammering, eyes half lidded as he traces his thumb down your chin and against your throat. You weren't really going to...? Not in an alley? Where could anyone see you? Your heart picked up a few beats, ears rushing with the sound of your pulse at the dizzying idea of him taking you in the alley where someone could walk in on the Mandalorian fucking you. Why was that exciting? Oh Maker, that should not have been half as exciting as it was. You should have felt dirty and ashamed by these thoughts as your hand planted against his cuirass, throat bobbing against his fingers as you wondered what was about to happen.

"Do you want it?" he muttered.

You were in your coveralls, not exactly the best article of clothing for a tryst in the alley. But you nodded, chewing on your lower lip. "I... always do."

"Mesh'la," he growled plaintively. "You can't say things like that to me."

"Why?"

"Because I won't be able to control myself."

"I know you'd never hurt me."

"Hey!" 

The voice caused the both of you to jolt, necks snapping in the direction of a gesticulating hand. "Fuck. Time to go," Paz grabbed you, hoisting you up like a child, your chest colliding with his pauldron. Air bursting from your lungs, he was running beneath you, blaster in his other hand, arm encircling you from under your ass as he made a mad dash through the alleys. You were wondering why he didn't just use his jetpack. If he did that, everyone would see the two of you. 

He was fast, charging through the side streets like the dewback on your home planet. The two of you were back at the hangar, the Kote's gangplank hissing downward before he burst into the cockpit. There wasn't a moment to spare, he was flipping switches, grabbing the controls with you still in his arms, and taking the ship the hell off of Tatooine before you'd even managed to fill your lungs up fully. When you finally lifted off the ground a loud laugh popped out of your throat, hair frazzled and snapping in all directions as you looked up at him. 

He was still tense, coiled and ready to strike, but at your giggling he eased, cocking his helmet to the side. "Friends?" You poked. 

"Mm, friends," he hummed, unable to keep himself from chuckling as you continued to snicker. 

"I'm going to go wash some of this sweat off while you set us back on course," you told him, bending forward to press a kiss to his steel cheek. The sensation of the metal on your mouth was refreshing. Climbing down you left him to that bit of work, checking on the few supply crates that had been loaded onto the ship with fresh food. You weren't really certain what some of it was before ducking into the fresher to wipe your neck and between your boobs with a damp rag. 

"Mesh'la?" 

You fumbled the rag. How the hell could he sneak up on you like that? Sure, you weren't hyper sensitive about your surroundings, but he was still quite large and you expected to hear his boots carving their path toward you as he crowded you in the fresher. "Hm?" He grabbed your waist, pushing into you, your hips hitting the edge of the sink. You floundered, gripping onto the edge of the metal as you gasped. His codpiece was gone and you could feel the rigid line of his hardness against your ass.

"You were going to let me take you in that alleyway, weren't you?" His helmet fell on top of the crown of your head, lolling slightly as he huffed through his vocoder. Maker, you'd done this to him? 

Face sizzling, you gave a small nod. "I..." You hadn't been thinking straight, perhaps the heat had gotten to you and you'd agreed to something so incredibly dirty when you usually wouldn't. His hand glided up to your chest, pushing the shirt up, revealing your perky breasts to the mirror where you could see your own face shifting and your lips parting as you let out a soft whine. The sink was cold against your tummy, but the rest of him was a hot blanket above you. "Yes."

"I would have," he was quiet, mumbling almost as he rolled his fingers over your nipple. "Out on the range you were such a good girl. Listened to everything I taught you. You'll get better. You were doing so well today-"

You moaned louder, leaning into his hand, crushing your stomach into the sink at his praise. Fuck, why did you like it so much when he told you how well you'd done? You knew you were shit at shooting, but the way he said it... he wasn't saying you were amazing, but he was still praising you somehow. 

"What if someone saw us?" you managed to squeak out.

"I would have shielded you. You're so small," he answered simply, reaching down to palm between your legs. "I wouldn't have let anyone see you. Do... you want me to show you how? How I would've done it?"

You knew you had to be soaked at this point, his fingers digging in against the material of your coveralls. Each sentence he uttered made your skin blister, heart steadily picking up in tempo, and threatening to give you a heart attack at this point as you were squished to the sink. The ache was awful, so needy and desperate that you could barely answer him. You manage to bob your head when words evade you. 

Drawing you off the sink, he pushed you up into the opposing wall, boxing you in just like he'd down in the alley. His helmet fell against your brow and you could hear his heavy pants coming through the modulator. He hooked a finger in your waistband, tugging both the coveralls and your underwear in one fell swoop. Skirts. You definitely needed skirts. The logistics of pants were too much of a hassle, they were --- you keened to his hand as he brushed your bundle of nerves and came down in between your folds.

"Mesh'la you're already soaked," he realized, watching as you pressed your head back against the wall and gnawed on your lips. "You really wanted it that badly in the alley?" He was taken aback by this as you continued to kick off your pants and boots. He'd have to buy you a dress or a skirt, pants wouldn't have worked in the alley. "I would have leaned against the wall and picked you up like this-" he ran down his thought process, steadying himself against the wall by bracing his right side, swinging his hand beneath the supple curve of your ass, before lifting you up, encircling your leg, bringing it to rest up on his hips where the edge of his belt was. Balancing you with the wall as a leverage point, he undid his belt and dug his cock out, which sprung readily, throbbing in anticipation. 

Your hands fell on his shoulders as he guided you down, slicking his length against you before holding you by your hips, lower back not touching the wall as he tested his entrance. You quivered, thighs clenching as he fought the resistance of your cunt and buried himself. Both of you gasped, but he moved first, beginning to fuck you against the wall. If he thought you could've been quiet at all when he did this, then he was sorely mistaken. Almost immediately you began to cry out, each fervent lock of his hips to yours stretching and hitting into your molten core. Maker, it felt so disastrously good, your fingers tightening around his shoulders as your heart fluttered anxiously, not wishing to fall. 

"And if you were being too loud-" he continued, pushing closer to you on the wall, nearly crushing you beneath his form so that he had more support, he covered your mouth, stifling the hitching whines and yelps. "Mesh'la," he growled in your ear, so gritty and animalistic that it set your teeth on end and stood up all the fine baby hairs on your body. 

Your eyes were watering, shadowed beneath him as he breathily pounded into you. Had you not been held in place by his hand your neck would be limp. He was in all beskar, his helmet against the side of your face, glancing down as he fucked you, beginning to mutter in Mando'a as you struggled to  keep your legs encircling his hips. He moved a little harder, your muffled gasps punctuated as you dug your nails into his shoulder viciously.

Paz barely felt it, the marks you were leaving through the layers of his flight suit and cowl. You were a shaking, whimpering mess against him, tears spilling from your eyes as your walls tightened. He knew it was coming, pounding harder as you whined and your lashes danced against your cheekbone. He moved his hand, let you scream his name finally, the vice grip of your cunt around him thrusting him over the edge as your orgasm assaulted him with a wave of pleasure. 

His hips stuttered and he caught his own moan in the back of his throat as he blissed out, forgetting completely that he was still inside of you, unable to hear you saying his name more insistence and not with the same slurred pleasure as usual.

"Paz!" you were panicked as he panted against you, in his own debauched daze. 

He rolled his head, visor looking at you, before he stiffened. "Fuck!"

"I-i-it's," you were stammering as he pulled out of you, setting you down on your feet. Your knees buckled and he caught you, but you were beginning to run down the last time you'd had your period. Theoretically, you should be due in a week. When was the most fertile time for a woman? Fuck you didn't know that, you'd never tried to get pregnant before.

"Tracyn, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to-" 

"Uhm," you were glancing down at yourself, wondering what might happen... You had liked the sensation of him finishing in you, the way he'd reacted, perhaps even better than when you'd given him a blowjob. But still... you weren't on any contraceptives. "I think... I think it'll be okay."

He crouched in front of you, capturing your face in his palms and framing you. "I wasn't paying attention. I should have been paying attention. If you become pregnant-"

"Then I do," you say dolefully, glaring down at the floor. "We should have a better idea in a week. That's when I'm due for that time of month."

Paz was quiet. So quiet that it frightened you. 

But his own mind was reeling. Had you just stated it would be fine if you got pregnant? No, you were trying to stop him from finishing inside you, so it wasn't that. "You wouldn't...?"

"No!" you grabbed your stomach reflexively, defensively. You were of the age where you wanted children, but you and Paz hadn't established any sort of idea for what the two of you were. "I-I mean, I don't think I'm ready, but that wouldn't be the child's fault for our own stupidity."

He wanted children, desperately, but that hadn't been his intention when he spent himself in you. That was something that needed to be discussed prior to a frightening situation like this. But your reaction warmed him. You would have his child if this accident resulted in an unplanned pregnancy. "You're so beautiful. Your ka'rta, your face, everything about you, Tracyn."

You were still holding your stomach, drawing a shaky breath as you tried to combat your anxiety. It was going to be at an all-time high until you had your period. What if it didn't come? Fuck. Then you were having Paz's child, you'd already said it. You were healthy and you knew you wanted kids, you just... wanted something more permanent and to not be on the run while it happened. "If I'm not, then I should really get an implant when we get to Gala. Even if... a short one."

Your suggestion made him smile. You weren't planning on leaving and you wanted to be with him, maybe even have his children one day if the two of you worked out in that way. Paz wanted it. He wanted everything to work out and keep you forever. But proclaiming such things now might frighten you when you were trying to cope with the fact that you might get pregnant. "We'll do that." While he wanted children, you being pregnant during this running from the Empire escapade was not a good idea. You were already a distraction enough and if you were pregnant... He shuddered at the idea, having to worry about protecting an unborn child and deal with whatever sickness that came with that. But he'd do it. Without a fucking doubt he'd do it. 

"Can I take a shower?" 

He nodded, standing up before planting a keldabe kiss upon your brow. You were doing better since losing your home, but he knew it might come up again later. He hoped the Kote could become your home. "Let me know if you need anything, cyar'ika. I'll be just outside."

--

He had noticed the Ronin a few times before this and partially because Karga seethed about them, comparing Mandalorian to Jakonan. Blood red robes accented by ash and gold, hidden beneath a mask frozen in a snarl. Naturally, as predators did, they steered clear of one another. There was no business to be had with the samurai and he wasn't the type to begin small talk over the fabled Tamahagane sword the Ronin wore, just as the figure respected his own inclinations and the beskar he donned. Still, he duly noted that the Ronin had the highest stakes in the bounty game when compared to him, the only other predator strong enough to take multiple pucks at once and turn them over in the curt deadlines that Karga insisted on dealing.

 Despite Din's lack of knowledge of the Ronin, he could respect the hunter's prowess and was gracious that they'd never needed to cross paths until this point.

 That was until Karga duped them both, dealing dual pucks for the same elusive bounty.

 Hoth was a wasteland decorated in a beautiful sheathe of pristine white, gilding the desert with a blanket of purity, constantly being turned over by the shrieking tundra winds. Wailing like a banshee, footprints quickly eroded on the snow dusted surface of thick ice, rarely having melted more than an inch or two within the last few centuries.  Despite the inhospitable hell that Hoth was, creatures still found a way to survive in the glimmering ice encrusted mountains and caverns.

 Half the battle of finding a bounty here was the environment, the plummeting temperatures, and fauna in desperate search of its next meal. The other half was following a cold trail before the screeching wind erased it. Tracking fobs only worked within a certain proximity of the bounty, so establishing an area to search within the white fingers tried to pry past his visor, choke underneath his flak suit, and strip at his offensive durasteel like a rabid lover.

 Finding the correct cave had been the least of his worries. Aside from the fading mint of large boots, a second set was more innocuously hidden, utilizing the original prints to mask their own. However, he was able to discern the soft bite of a toe, the second individual's foot considerably smaller than the bounty's. His quarry was already being hunted and that hastened his pace, unwilling to part with the high payment, nor the irritation of losing out to another hunter. He was the best at his trade and some upstart hunter wasn't going to circumvent him by being light on their toes and a few paces ahead of him.

 Crunching through the permafrost, each step grinding ice into snow, he ducked into the cavern, the wailing wind subsiding within the shelter of the stone walls. Despite the coverage, inside was just as frozen and frigid. Stalactites and stalagmites were encased in cloak of ice, chomping down to create the image of a throat of magnificent diamond teeth of a beast, illuminated only by a fallen torchlight.

 A guttural roar echoed deep within, rattling the icicles and setting his teeth on end as his blood began to pulse in his ears. Before him was a detailed story of what had happened, written in the language of footprints in the frost. One had entered, another had followed. Deeper, the story continued until a set, thrice the size of either original paces, joined the ballad. Droplets of crimson blossomed like poppies in the scant grey light of the cavern, brightened by his own light as he frowned deeply, grazing over gouged stone where claws had shorn rock. Another glance at the enormous paw prints reminded him that Hoth possessed rather terrible fauna and he had an idea of what the quarry and hunter before him had encountered.

 Drawing his pulse rifle, he glided forward, carefully rolling heel to toe to mask all the noise he made. Stealthily, stealing into the darkening depths of the unknown, he swapped the safety off and kept his finger ready by the trigger. Scarlet flowers of blood lined the path, tiny little buds winking freshly, indicating that they'd only bloomed recently. Movement made him jerk instinctively, leveling the rifle as an ashen cloak fluttered like a raven's wing and a silhouette danced away from a hulking, behemouth shag carpet of ivory. His visor caught the glint of the Tamahagane blade first, striking the light of his torch and throwing crackling stripes of pearl where the steel was lanced with lightning-like folds.

 The Ronin.

 Fleeing from the Wampa, the samurai treaded lightly, gliding elegantly as the robes beneath the fold of their cloak whipped. Din observed from his perch up toward the incline of the cavern, eyes raking over the yeti and then to the Jakonan. He doubted that such a hunter, rumored to be on equal grounds with himself, required assistance. Eyes narrowing, the Ronin swiped their sword down, air whistling where the blade passed and kept the Wampa at bay from tackling them. Then he saw it, the slick liquid trailing down from the hilt of the blade, over the guard, and dripping against the charcoal steel. Whatever trauma was there, it was hidden beneath the wide brim of the kimono sleeve, whispering only in the form of ruby liquid dripping and staining a wake where it trailed.

 The Ronin had been injured, hefting the long curved katana as they back themselves into a corner without realizing. Remembering the story in the dust, Din realized that the Ronin had not anticipated crossing the Wampa and had been ambushed, the wound a telltale sign that the yeti had gotten the better of them if only for the briefest of moments. The fact  they were still alive was a testament for their speed and agility, but such luck was running thin and the Ronin seemed aware of this. Drawing a second blade, the Ronin turned it toward themselves, poising it over their heart, more willing to commit suicide than be ripped apart by the monster.

 Din raised his pulse rifle and fired.

 Crashing and echoing like the mighty smash of cymbals, the shot took the Wampa on the side of the heat, incinerating the skull and causing it to collapse in a white mound just ten feet from the Ronin. The blade clattered from the Ronin's hand, head whipping up to leer at him from behind a snarling countenance, pausing as they shuddered and reached over to grip their wounded arm, an attempt to staunch the flow of blood that had led Din to them like a trail of crumbs.

 "Mando," the gravelly, demonically modulated voice had rarely been leveled his way. In fact, this might have been the first time they had officially spoke other than a few muttered words that their vocoders never properly translated.

 Shouldering his rifle, his T visor listed down to meet the darkened pits of black sit into the wolf's face. "Ronin." A silent stalemate, leering between two hunters, and the obvious predicament they were both in. Perhaps not so much Din, as he was uninjured and had the comfort of two dozen feet between him and the swordsman. And yet, he drank his fill of the bottomless abyss of the Ronin's mask and wondered what the creature behind it was thinking.

 "The bounty is hiding deeper in the caves," Ronin informed him eventually, sheathing their sword and glancing over to their injury still obscured by the copious amount of fabric that they somehow moved as if made of wind when the samurai stirred. "It would seem Karga gave both of us the same puck." No suggestions were made, just a plain statement that this might have been a setup to see which hunter would return victorious and if their counterpart would ever step within the cantina on Nevarro. A petty game on Karga's part.

 "It would seem," Din agreed solemnly.

 Another terse quiet slipped over the caverns, interrupted only by the heavy mouth breathing of the Ronin who appeared to be more gravely wounded than they were letting on. "Mando. I owe you one," they proclaimed, bending down to pick up the fallen dirk, sliding it into the plethora of multicolored obi sashed wrapped around their waist. "The bounty is yours, but-" Ronin fell to their knees, not out of faintness or blood loss, but in a respectful manner. The rim of the ashen rice hat tilting toward the ground as they pressed their uninjured arm over their heart. "I owe you a blood debt. Had you not shot the beast, I would be dead."

 The legacy of Jakonan honor was not a matter to be taken lightly. He knew enough of their culture to be aware that any debts incurred were always paid in full. Saving the Ronin and expecting payment aside from the quarry, had not been his intention. However, in the few moments whilst he stood there regarding the cloaked silhouetted, he realized the debt he'd carved for the samurai.

"The bounty is payment enough," Din shifted uncomfortably, disliking the idea of being owed such a favor. He didn't need help, nor any indentured servitude from the Jakonan. What he had done was purely to create a means for an end. The Wampa needed to die regardless and letting it kill the Ronin did nothing but cost the galaxy the skill of another veteran bounty hunter. While they were not friends, he had passed the Ronin in the cantina for nearly 8 years now and they were the only hunter not to press his patience.

 "A debt is owed," the Ronin repeated, the gravel in their voice softening and becoming disconcertingly soft compared to the imposing swordsman Din had warily watched from a distance. "And it may be paid in any manner which you see fit. Now or in the future."

 He spared no other words to the Ronin as he stalked by, continuing to eye the figure as he slipped by, wondering if the samurai would ambush him while preoccupied with the bounty. However, upon returning with the wilting quarry in tow, the Ronin had departed, making well on their relinquishment of the bounty and leaving behind a few more droplets of blood. Despite how ominous the Ronin had always seemed, they could bleed.

 "Did you offer the Ronin the same quarry?" Din asked tersely, leering down at Karga as he spoke of a Client in need of very particular and talented help. Two years had passed since his encounter with the samurai on Hoth, the snarling wolf's mask tilting toward him questioningly when they did manage to cross paths, a debt not forgotten. He had no intentions of ever making good on what the Jakonan felt they owed him. It had been a job and the Wampa was in his way.

 "Ronin isn't interested. Fellow's got a list of jobs he won't take and this one falls under that category. Real shame, would've liked to see you beat him at his own game again," Karga yawned, glancing at his nails in disinterest over the finger details of why his other premier bounty hunter wasn't willing to take the job. This should have been an obnoxious red flag to Din, but instead a pang of relief echoed in his chest, glad that he wouldn't be crossing the swordsman again. Apparently, Ronin had given Karga an earful about passing the same fobs between them and had set boundaries that Din didn't care to discuss.

 As far as Karga was concerned, Din had beaten Ronin to the punch with the quarry on Hoth. The disgruntled magistrate was unaware that the Ronin had been paces ahead of him and had their roles been reversed, it might've been Din getting his durasteel crushed in by the Wampa in place of the Jakonan. Most of the other hunters in the Guild were under the assumption that there was a bitter rivalry between the two of them. Ironically, they couldn't have been more incorrect. Both warriors kept their distance and respected each other's abilities. There was an unspoken line neither crossed and until Karga had decided to play his games, no necessary requirement for either to interact.

 Despite the masks they both wore, the modulated voices, and the predatory prowess both of them moved in, the Ronin was different. On many afternoons, Din had entered the cantina to find the Ronin sitting at tables playing sabacc and conversing gently to other hunters. Despite the metallic and earthen tone the demonic mempo spoke with, there was something rather quiet and soft spoken about the samurai. He supposed that was why the majority of the hunters in the Guild preferred the Ronin to him. Din did not spend any longer within the grimy cantina than required, ferrying himself out to the next job unlike Ronin who tended to loiter and collect stories.

 It had taken Din the better part of three years to glean why Ronin did this.

 Despite being quietly charismatic, the Ronin did nothing without a reason. Subjecting themselves to the teasing of other hunters, to having to share a few stories of their own, it was minute payment in exchange for the tales and information other hunters adored vomiting up. Most bounty hunters, while guarded, loved to brag about their endeavors. While Din ignored his competition, the Ronin got to know them when they were least suspecting, over a hand of cards and with a few drinks in their system. Not once had Din ever noticed a drink in front of the samurai.

 The Jakonan was playing them like they played sabacc, gleaning the intentions and ambitions of any hunter that stepped foot on Nevarro. Had Din the patience or social skills, he might have entertained the idea of making a futile attempt to commit the copious amount of time and credits that the samurai did.  Though his patience had waned long ago and Din did not gamble. Despite this, the Ronin's intellect was not lost on him and he respected his adversary - who, until Hoth, had never failed bringing in a quarry.

 Not until the fated day that he had donned a suit of full beskar did Din ever contemplate speaking to the Ronin about the incurred debt. Only when he sat up in his cockpit, staring forlornly through the observation shield with a silver orb rolling in his gloved palm, did he notice the flapping of the crimson kimono as the hunter trotted toward their own small starship to depart on a mission, did he consider it. Aside from his Tribe, he rarely put weight into the words and promises of others. Carrying him as if his legs were wind, he was outside his ship and following in the wake of the sandal imprints the samurai had left in the sand, peppered with ash.

 "Ronin!" he called brusquely, the figure freezing, slowly craning to glance at him with the bottomless eyes, tusks peeled back in a menacing snarl. A palm rested calmly on the hilt of their katana, a gesture he'd noticed was natural rather than defensive. "Your debt."

 The wind danced across the space-port, kicking up a haze of dust and ozone from the sulfuric lava flats less than a kilometer away. Neither figure felt it, their respective masks filtering the haze. A questionable tilt declined their hat and Din knew what it was they were wondering, without voicing it outwardly.

Greef Karga leered out through the long, rectangular window behind the bar of his establishment. Dozens of hunters were holed up in the cantina, huddled in their cloaks to ride out the storm. They weren't common, but when they did come, it was as if every petulant God in the galaxy had tilted their wrathful eyes, smiting the already inhospitable landscape that was Nevarro. The first fat raindrops were accompanied by a strike of lightning on the horizon that quaked the earth with the yawn of a mighty titan stirring deep within the volcanoes.

 He grimaced, fingers tightening around his spotchka as the glowing blue liquid seethed at the edges, ripples produced with each thunderous strike of the weather, the titan had gone to its forge and was hammering the core of the planet sending out crashes and booms, accented by the staccato thrumming of the rain and the wailing soprano of the wind. Each storm creates a new orchestral symphony, raw, powerful, and dangerous. This would only last the better part of a day, maybe two if they were truly unfortunate; their composer might bless them with an encore of his work, which would result in more anxious, moody bounty hunters as they were forced to stay on-planet. No one could fly from the space-port without risk of being taken down by, the affronted composer had done this before, spitting on those who couldn't endure the beauty of his work, sending them down to the depths where his percussionist, the titan, could reforge the steel of their starship and melt it amongst the Nevarran core.

 It was on one of these days, a fateful storm, that he met one of his best hunters.

 The door to the cantina hissed open, hydraulics moaning painfully as the wind shrieked in, stealing the souls of the nearest patrons who shrank away as if shadowed by reapers. A curtain of rain made the figure nearly indistinguishable as they hovered there, a forlorn and drowned visage, contemplating being resigned to their fate in the storm or taking the opportunity to seek shelter. Only when a hunter snarled in indignation at the door still being open, did the silhouette finally pass the watery threshold and enter the common house of the Guild.

 Puffing shut, the figure stood there dripping as if they'd just gone swimming in Nevarro's nonexistent ocean. Eyes turned, tracing the details of the stranger, and spines stiffened. Karga's own interest was piqued, as he had never seen this hunter before, but he knew of the stories from the lush planet on which they hailed.

 Beautiful crimson robes clung to the stiff edges of armor that was hidden beneath the folds of kimono. The thick fabric, despite being soaked, was large and loose on the stranger. Black and gold mist spiraled up from the hem and curled breaths of onyx clouds along the scarlet shoulders and collar. The layers beneath were black and the sharp curves protruding indicative of the figure being a droid or the metal beneath an ensemble of hidden armor. Karga placed his bet on the latter, admiring the finery.

 The people of Jakon had always been renowned for their eye for detail and beauty in all facets of life, be that war, love, culture, or poetry. Dripping on the stoop was an example of this tantalizing poetry, from the curve of a thick ashen scarf hemmed with silver tracings, to the wide brimmed conical hat that cut the figure's face from view. The mysteriousness of the Jakonian was just as enticing and succulent as a Mandalorian's; a forbidden fruit on a tree just as likely to poison as to provide life. But there were distinct differences between the two cultures, as Jakon still thrived, as did its people. A collection of multicolored sashes along the figure's obi secured one of the famed blades.

 He had met Jakonans before, but never one who possessed one of those weapons. A katana forged of Tamahagane, a steel just as coveted around the galaxy as beskar. While not impervious like the Mandalorian steel, it was known for producing the sharpest edges that never chipped or required sharpening. Even vibro-blades were all a mock imitation of what Jakonans had perfected thousands of years ago. Master artisans poured their hearts and souls into the detailing, which he could not make from his spot in the corner of the cantina. The sheathe, however, was glorious. A long, curved strip of magnificence based in charcoal and overlaid pale powder blue clouds swirling up to greet the crossguard of the sword in a gentle kiss. A golden serpent curved around the clouds, flat head notching to the seam and brushed close to where the Jakonan's gloved palm rested naturally.

 Crimson fabric laden with water snapped outward to reveal a sandaled foot. The clicking might have gone unnoticed if every eye in the room was not fixated on the blood-hued enigma that was carefully trotting forward, the edge of their rice-hat tilted downward, charms tinkling on the guard of the sword. Instead, each clack echoed, a dull solo in the mad symphony of the hurricane blasting the windows with feral wrath.

 Karga's heart began to thrum with the beat of the sublime music, the clacking sandals drawing to a rallentando as the figure halted in front of him. A peal of lightning illuminated the entire cantina, a fatal strike juxtaposed to the space-port. The searing white light blinded the patrons, himself included, eyes rapidly readjusting as the hat tilted up and he caught his breath, convinced he was in a nightmare. No human face greeted him beneath the cowl of wide brimmed hat. Frozen in an animalistic snarl, tusks, a snout, and menacing metallic teeth were peeled at him. Shocked for the briefest moment, it took the man a beat to realize that the face was an ornate, detailed metal mask in the shape of a ferocious wolf, detailed all the same with swirls of steel clouds.

 Covering the entirety of the Jakonan's face, the eyeholes of the figure covered by dark, transparent plastoid that mortal eyes were gazing out from. Karga could not see the stranger's eyes, but he knew they were there, just as he knew that beneath the T visors of a Mandalorian, their eyes were also there. Though, Mandalorians were imposing for a different reason and not because their helmets were fashioned to be intimidating as the somen mempo that the Jakonan donned.

 "Welcome," Karga entreated after battling his racing heart, opening his palms to shatter the disconcerted silence that threatened to smother the cantina as eyes continued to leer in the direction of the warrior. "What may I do to help a fine, regal Jakonan such as yourself?" Flattery was his favorite weapon, smoothing over his workers, making them think he actually gave half a womp rat's ass about them. All that mattered was making deadlines and bringing in bounties. He already had a Mandalorian in his employ, but not a Jakonan and Karga was a collector.

 "Work," simple, to the point, and astonishingly not curt. The voice was being translated through a modulator in the mempo, a gravelly, grating tone that was harsh on the ears, flipping the original voice on its head and dropping it an octave. Despite the cordiality of the tone, the demonic grinding of it made the hairs on Karga's neck stand straight up.

 "Are you a member of the Guild?" he inquired lightly, trading the minute details in the embroidery on the kimono, the rutting sharp lines of the armor hidden beneath. The figure was not tall or short, nor exceptionally broad. However, a person could be intimidating and be two feet high. It was the confident set in the shoulders, throwing them back in erect, perfect posture and the constant need to have a hand on the pommel of the sword. The hilt elegant wrapped in gold shimmersilk.

 "No."

 A man... or creature of few words. No matter, Karga dealt with this type quite often. Bounty hunters were not typically chatty persons. "Then I'm afraid we're at an impasse. I can give you an introductory job in order to earn your keep, but otherwise I cannot hand out typical pucks. A standard introductory job would be low paying-" he started with the details, the figure craning in to listen to his spiel before leveling the wolf mask at him.

 "No," they repeated carefully, reaching within the fold of their kimono and drawing an article out. From their lack of words, Karga was beginning to wonder if they could speak Basic. In the dim lighting of the cantina, punctuated periodically by the glare of lightning, a painted card flickered and cast refracting the ruby eyes set into the clay. Placing it gently, with the care a mother would caress her child, the Jakonan slid it across the table."My work is not cheap."

 Karga lifted it, tracing his dark fingers along the edges of the card and turning his thumbs over the garnet eyes that winked at him. Shand. Glancing back up, he gave the stranger another once over, the calling card of the Shand House impossible to mistake, the laughing fox sneering at hip in its frozen reverie. "Hm, perhaps we can work something out," he considered, passing the token back to the owner. "I'll need a name. I presume you will go by your house?"

 "No. Just Ronin," they tucked the card back into their robes. Turning around, Ronin started for the door again, undaunted by the torrential downpour.

 "Ronin!" Karga called after them, the figure pausing to glance back.

 "Call me when you have a job."

 Karga's brows furrowed, but when he looked back down, he noticed a chip had been left on the table with the number for a comlink. He snorted, amused by the sleight of hand despite how lethargically Ronin moved, each flutter of the heavy sleeves intentional, but... those sleeves had covered their hand and Karga hadn't noticed what transpired beneath the fold of crimson. Turning the chip over, he heard the door hiss open, rain drumming rapidly, before Ronin stepped back out into the storm and disappeared.

On the comlink, a swirling cloud like the eyebrows of the mask Ronin had wore.

"Let me go for you, father!"

 Cherry blossoms swayed, pale petals fluttering from the boughs in a shower of floral snow. At the base of the tree, a man sat with the molted obsidian blade of his family displayed on his lap. A polishing cloth lathed the edges, bringing out the molted crackles of white inlaid within the steel. He did not glance up, did not acknowledge the girl in front of him, kneeling in the grass and pressing her brow dutifully at the toes of his sandals. Instead, he gazed past her toward the smooth reflective surface of the neighboring pond. Petals danced along the surface, sending minute ripples and shattering the perfect blue sky.

 "It is not up for debate, Asa," he answered calmly, breath like the smooth wind that tossed the flower petals now, and like the name of his daughter - the morning wind; Asakaze.

 Lifting her head, nebulous black eyes implored him, respectful but desperate. "I am ready. It is in my blood, just as it is in the blood of every Shand."

 She was still little more than a girl playing at war. The Empire cared not for their ways, nor the details in their lives. All the poetry and song would be replaced with a field of white, blackened visors, and a bucket that did not sing their heritage. He did not wish for his daughter to lose her lineage so young, but the Empire would not leave until Jakon had given them the resources they desperately desired: bodies.

 "Then it will be your blood used to paint the Empire's victory," he replied thinly, imagining her amber skin as pale as the cursed plastoid, her silken hair matted with dirt and residue, and her delicate palms, that played the shakuhachi so dexterously, broken. "What honor will you bring to our family from behind a mask that is not our own?"

 Asa's lip quivered, but to her own credit, the girl did not balk. Instead, her fingers tightened into fists, curling into the grass which was ripped up in her quiet wrath. "You will die. I am young. I can survive."

 "I am old, Asa. You have your entire life ahead of you," he sighed, lowering his katana onto his lap and bringing his hand forward to caress his daughter's hair back. "And you are gifted. The God-beasts chose you, as they have chosen many Shands before. Your Chi will not go unnoticed amongst them and they will wish to wield it for their own demonic purposes. Purposes the Gods would not wish. I must go."

 "If... she was here, would you have sent her?" Asa did not look up, instead continuing to pick at the fragments of grass.

 "No, my decision would still be the same," he assured her, bringing his fingers to tilt his daughter's chin up so that she could gaze into his eyes. Reflected in his dark pools, there was no fear, but a strange astonishing peace and resignment to his fate. He wondered if Asa would have been here had the Order not fallen or if the allies of Jakon would have taken her at birth as they had so many before. "Your Chi will guide you, as it always has. Trust here-" he brushed her kimono over her heart. "Now," sliding his palm underneath the blade of his katana, the other balancing along the hilt, he lifted it. "Amagumo."

 Asa froze, her eyes tracing over the blade that appeared to be marred by strikes of lightning, her father's head bowing as it was offered to her. Amagumo, the sword of the Shand House, the raincloud to the laughing fox. Passed down for centuries, erring on over a thousand years from whence it was forged. Trembling, she reached forward, her head bowing as tears collected in the corners of her eyes. Only the head of the Shand House wore Amagumo and by passing the sword to her, he passed the title as liege.

 "May the Bushido guide you in all things you do. The way of the warrior is a path we all walk, regardless of our upbringing, regardless of our luck, and regardless of our gender," he recited, passing the polished katana to her. Meeting her flesh, her skin crawled as the song of the sword hitched to a high, her Chi humming with the knowledge that Amagumo had been a dutiful partner for so many Shands before her; warriors, lovers, poets, and Jedaii. While the blade was not of kyber or light, the primordial power remained and had not faltered. There had been a time where Jedaii - before the Jedi - used such blades when lightsabers had yet to be developed. Their alliance with Jakon did not fade, even if the use for Tamahagane did. Now they were gone.

 "I will protect our culture, our way, and our life with the strength of my body and this sword," Asa promised, staring into her warbled reflection in the steel. Sitting in the peace of the zen garden, she savored the last moments she had with her father before he marched to his final battle, never to return. However, just as the cherry blossoms bloom, scatter, a new year will bring about the same change.

 But as Asa stood in the place where her father once sat, Amagumo dripped crimson, splattered against the verdant grass she'd once torn up. The blue sky was polluted with the haze of demonic black smoke, screams echoing in the distance like sharp punctuation of chimes, the throbbing of the war march cascading over the din. Laid before her, snow-white armor painted with blood, but not her own as her father had once worried. Frozen by the strife that had engulfed Jakon, a single tear slid down her face as she left the cherry blossom behind and started through the massacred hallways of her home.

 No longer was there a house to govern. If there was, Asakaze would not take part in picking up the fragments of a broken clan, half of which had turned their blades in her direction for not forfeiting to the Empire when requested to send another thousand Jakonans to their losing war. Asa refused. Watching the unbidden tears of her people as they wept, begging for the God-beasts to hear their pleas as their population dwindled - a continuous pulse for the Empire until now. Now, she'd severed the artery after six years of this hell. Now, she paid the price in full, splattering the blood that would have fallen eventually. At least, it had been on their own soil.