It had been a mixed species affair, set up long ago and struggling during the years of the Clone Wars.  They’d stayed out of the wars, or tried to, but since the fall of the Republic… it seemed that the Empire had little use for small, struggling settlements asking for supplies and assistance… as was their due as citizens.

The Twi’lek man he’d been working with, Navilt, was carefully poking through rubble on the other side of what had been a street.

Now it was just rubble.

He nudged a bit of rubble aside himself, swallowing hard when someone’s hand tumbled out of the wreckage.  

He wasn’t unfamiliar with death.  He’d walked beside it, fought and railed against it, held brothers in his arms as they marched on ahead.

He was a soldier.  His vode were soldiers, they were literally bred for war.

These poor shabuire were civilians.  This building had once been a bakery, judging from the industrial ovens, now strewn over the blast field.  Broken glass from the large bay windows lay on the ground like shattered shards of dreams.

There had been no warning of the bombings.

There were few, if any, survivors.  It would be the words of a few refugees now, drowned out by the sheer size of the Empire.  What happened here would never make the holoreels, would never be seen by the Core.  

Ka’ra, news of this wouldn’t even make the Mid-Rim.  

Rex’s best estimates had listed some five thousand residents, human and near-human, in a small agricultural colony.

The fields had been firebombed, and were still smoldering, in the distance.

Even if there were survivors, enough to repopulate the colony… there was nothing left to rebuild.

Five thousand residents, three survivors so far.

Two of which likely wouldn’t survive being transported.

The third was missing three of four limbs.

He sighed, trying to look away from the ruined stump of the leg sticking out from beneath the ruins.  He wasn’t sure why he’d taken this patrol with Navilt, just… he had the itch, the urge, to get out of their small transport.  

The same feeling was in the back of his mind even now, like a buzzing.

Navilt was gingerly easing around the corner of the street, his rifle at the ready out of habit.  He was a good man, his blue lek strangely vibrant in the smoky air of…

Nova snorted.  He couldn’t even remember the name of this colony.

The air was rife with particulate matter though, smoke and settling dust.  It was cloying, mixed with the smell of death, of… things better left unmentioned.

He was standing in what had been the cafe section of the bakery, shattered displays now holding stale and molding breads and cakes.  It looked like the production area had been hit directly by the bounce of a launched bomb, shrapnel spraying out and leaving nothing alive in its wake.

Even the store’s tooka hadn’t survived.

He turned, heart heavy, and made to leave before the faintest sound had him turning on his heel, his rifle up and at the ready.  His finger, having stayed straight in a ready position so long it had threatened to cramp, now hooked over the trigger.  Just a twitch of pressure and he’d be taking a shot.

He thought about calling for Navilt, then discarded the idea.

He had children at home to go back to, if this went poorly.

Yara would miss him, Purrgil… maybe would?  They’d get over his absence.

Another rustle.  

What the kark.

Whatever it was, it was small.  If the tooka hadn’t survived, maybe it was a scurrier, something even smaller.

Or a roach.  They had been the majority of the life that had been found.

The flashlight mounted to his barrel cast a sharp beam of light over the darker corners of the wreckage, casting long shadows against the crumbled remains of walls.  Broken glass crunched underfoot as he eased towards the source of the sound, a slab of duracrete held up precariously by the twisted frame of what had once been a display case.  

A roach ran over the toe of his boot, something he only realized in his hyperaware state.  

Another rustle, louder this time, more distinct.  

There was something in the lee of the fallen wall.

Rifle up, hands sweating in his gloves, he shifted so the light fell into the crevice.

Oh.

Oh.

Bright… pink… eyes stared up at him, wide and unblinking.  The blue skin immediately gave them away as Pantoran, too young for any clan markings.

Somehow, the baby had been saved by the way the wall had fallen, strapped into a carrier.  They were covered in dirt and filth, tiny scratches on their face scabbed over, but otherwise apparently unhurt.

The bombings had been two days earlier.  

Had this baby been trapped here, alone, for two days?

He shifted, flicking the safety on his rifle before slinging it over his back and gingerly pulled the bottom of the carrier out into the relative safety, away from the wall.  

The baby’s eyes were aware, but they were gnawing on their hand like they were starving.

They probably were.

He palmed his commlink and sent a “come here” message to Navilt before turning back to the baby.  Hydration, a voice that sounded suspiciously like Purrgil’s echoed in his head.  You can live days without food.  Dehydration will kill you long before anything else will.

Always such an upbeat personality.

He had a bottle of water in his pack.  

Knowing that and getting it out were two different matters.  He fumbled like a kriffing shiny, rooting around until the smooth plasti slipped into his hand.  

The entire time, the baby watched silently, their eyes visible above the fist they were trying to chew.

The bottle opened, and he ignored the drips on his hand as he tilted the bottle carefully towards the now empty mouth.

It took a few attempts, but the baby figured it out soon enough, tiny blue fingers wrapping around the bottle… and his own hand.  He pulled the bottle away after a moment though.  Even he knew too much too fast would be a recipe for a disaster.

He ignored the shifting of debris behind him; Navilt had a very precise gait and was easy to identify.  Instead, he dusted off the straps holding the baby down and unfastened them, awkwardly lifting them, her, up.  

Never had he regretted not taking any shifts in the Kaminoan nurseries before.

Bits of dirt and chips of mortar fell off her dress as she was lifted, and for the first time she made a sound, a bit of a warble.  Her hands, as soon as they were in reach, latched onto his jacket, the drab olive almost clashing with her skin tone.

Pink eyes blinked at him again, and she put her head on his shoulder before resuming chewing on her fist.

“She likes you,” Navilt was so helpful as to point out.  He had the clipped accent common to the Rylothian lowlands, and his sense of humor was drier than summer on Tatooine.  

Nova just blinked at him before trying to detach her.  Navilt had kids, he’d know how to-

The Twi’lek shook his head, his smirk bright.  “Finders keepers.  Besides, I already have a pair at home.”

He rolled his eyes as he rolled to his feet, ignoring the creak of his joints.  “I’m not keeping her,” he snarked back, even as he adjusted his jacket to cover her, to keep her warm.

To keep her from seeing the fragmented bodies of what could have been her parents.

He had no idea if she was old enough to remember, but the idea of not taking the precaution made his stomach roil.

He ignored Navilt’s look as he zipped it up over her small form, his arm folded over his midsection to offer her a seat.  

The entire time, she was nearly silent, just watching.

“Sure you’re not,” Navilt agreed cheerfully, almost too cheerfully.  “Mando not adopting a war orphan, news at ten.”

“You’re a shabuir.”

He clutched his hands over his chest, miming.  “You wound me, sir.”

The sound of babble came out of his jacket.  

“See?  She’s calling you on it, too.”

Nova glared, adjusting his pack and pulling out his pistol.  He’d rather have the rifle, but with one arm occupied… it’d do.  “We need to get her back to the evacuation point.  The medics will know what to do with her.” – As it turned out, the rebel medics?

Did not, in fact, know what to do with her.

The senior medic that had come with them sat behind the desk in her tiny office.  She was Bothan, and her ears seemed to swivel and focus on every creak of metal.  Seeing as how their transport was old and its hyperdrive was being held together by bad welding and prayers, they were constantly in motion.

She’d been talking for a while, the complete destruction of the civilian population they’d been too late to help taking a clear toll.

The baby was the only survivor.  The two that had low chances had slipped away.  The third, the one who could have potentially lived a life, had commited suicide, somehow using their arm, their sole remaining limb, to dose his IV bag with a lethal dose of sedative.  They’d died with an apology note scribbled onto their datapad, left on their chest, with a tear in their eye and a smile on their face.

“... orphanage.  Captain, are you listening?”

He snapped back to himself, the baby curled in the crook of his arm.  They’d put an IV to get her hydrated, softened up a bit of ration bar for her to gum, but they didn’t have supplies for an infant.

“Yeah, sorry May.  Won’t one of the pacifist worlds take her?”

The medic looked at him like she’d already covered this, and in all fairness, she probably already had.  “They can’t.  With the Empire weeding out colonies like this, the orphanages of the pacifist worlds?  They’re all full.  Even if we can get her into one, it’s…”  Her eyes went misty for a moment.  “I was a war orphan, Captain.  I was left in an overcrowded orphanage, stuck in a crib most of the day.  Sure, I was fed, but there was no education, no stimulation, no hope.  I was a lucky one who was adopted by a good family, but most?  Most age out of the system, if they’re lucky.  The unlucky ones fall in with the deathstick dealers, the gangs, or just get straight up sold.”

His arm tightened around the small body without his conscious permission.  As if she knew he was in the middle of an existential crisis, the baby blinked at him before nuzzling back into his shoulder.

“... I don’t know anything about babies, May.  Especially not a natborn-”

She snorted at him, inelegant.  “Welcome to parenthood.  No one does.  Trial and error, Nova.  Somehow the vast majority of sentients make it to adulthood as functional, despite the fact our birthgivers and guardians have no karking clue.”

The baby looked at him again and giggled, her toothless mouth opening in a wide smile.  The tiny thing had to be hungry, but holding her…

Well, he understood why Mij was in the running for ‘most adopted children’ in the Ripley’s Book of Galactic Records.

May softened, the stress lines around her eyes easing.  “Here’s a suggestion, Cap.  Head to your bunk, get yourselves tucked in.  Call your buir.  Relax until we get back to Dantooine.  If Mij Gilamar can’t help you, he’ll know someone who can.”

He blinked at her.  “You know-”

She had the nerve to laugh at him.  “Kid, I’m Alderaanian.  We all know Gilamar.  One of the most eligible bachelors on planet had the nerve to go and marry himself into the Clans and vanish for more than a decade, then comes back a few years ago by dropping feelers into the medical communities.  He’s a good man, he’ll know what to do.” – The rest of the rebels had decided to give him space and leave him, and the baby, alone as they flew back towards the Dantooine base.  He’d taken another ration bar and soaked it in a bit of water to make it softer than duracrete, and she’d eaten most of it without fuss.  

It had made a kriffing huge mess, but she hadn’t fussed.

He considered it a win.

By virtue of being an associate of Rex, and by association, Fulcrum, he had a berthing of his own.  It was possibly even smaller than his had been, back with Halo during the war, but this… was closet-sized.

The baby didn’t seem to care, sitting propped in his lap, quietly chewing one of his spare gloves.

He’d already tried to get a line to Rex, but whatever mission he was on, he was comm-dark.  

Typical luck.

Looking down gave him an eyeful of pink hair and eyes, her blue skin looking… healthier now?  Certainly, it was’t as dull as it was.  May had confirmed that she was, in fact, Pantoran, and only about a year old.

She waved a chubby fist at him before cramming it into her mouth.

Mij answered almost immediately, looking tired.  “Gilamar, go.”

“Buir,” he breathed softly, still hesitant about using the word.  “I… have a few questions?”

The image of Mij wavered, flickered, before settling.  “Are you all right?” was his first question, was always his first question, to any of them.

“Yes, I’m… fine.  I… can’t get into it too much, but this last mission… it was hard, buir.”

Mij scrubbed his hands through his hair before looking up, looking rueful.  “Do you want me to get Yara or Purrgil?”

He was already shaking his head.  “No, no.  I had some questions for you, actually.”

He had already known the words were going to fail him, so he just reached out and tipped the projector forward.  

“She’s not yours, is she?”

The teasing mirth in his buir’s tone told him right away he was joking, but the break in the tension was welcome, a physical weight off his shoulders.  

“She was the only survivor, and none of the pacifist worlds are accepting war orphans.”

Mij was looking away, and if Nova knew him, he had another datapad out and was already researching.  “Pantoran?”

“Yeah, about a year old.  That’s about all the information we have.”

He was still focused on the other datapad, chewing his lower lip.  “I don’t have any experience in babies, Nova.  We… I… never got to that point.”

He hid his frown behind the baby’s head.  Mij didn’t often talk about Tani, not without pain in his voice, and he regretted bringing that to the man who’d done so much for them all.

“I sent a friend a message, he said he can help give you the crash course.  He’s out in the Outer Rim though.”

He couldn’t help his curse, rubbing his temples when the baby smiled up at him and clapped her hands.   Yeah, he’d have to be more careful about that, apparently.  “I don’t think I can borrow a transport to go that far…”

There was a long moment of silence.  

“Nova.”

He blinked once, twice.  He’d apparently gotten lost in his thoughts, the baby’s head cradled under his chin, her downy hair tickling his neck.  “Sorry, buir.  I can-”

“Want a ride?”

He couldn’t help it.

He gaped.  

Mij’s smile was soft, almost bittersweet.  “Nuts and Yara, with their di’kute, are off in the Core working on a project to bring some vode home.  Fi and Sev can watch the place, they basically live here anyway.  It’s up to you, ad’ika.”

Not for the first time, the man amazed him.  The man with no blood to tie them together, who wasn’t a vod, who owed them nothing… who had taken in so very many of them, housed them, given them care they’d never gotten before, who pushed them off to do what they wanted, to be their own person.

And he put up with their osik shenanigans.

Here he was, yet again, prepared to put his entire life on hold.

“I couldn’t ask-”

“You didn’t.  I’m offering.”  Even through the lousy connection, there was a smile in his voice.

He rolled his eyes, not that Mij could see.  “... your friend… is safe?”

“He’s a vod, Nova.  He married a Twi’lek and adopted her two kids.”

He laughed, a lump in his throat he didn’t want to consider.  “If… if you’re around…”

“Give me twenty four hours.” – Twenty five hours saw him sitting in the navigator’s seat of Mij’s freighter, the little girl bouncing happily on his lap with a bottle in her hands.  

“I was sent a shopping list,” was all Mij would admit to, but Nova somehow suspected the list hadn’t included tiny socks with tookas printed on them, or tiny, soft baby clothes, or the soft gummy rings stored in the freezer unit to ease sore gums.

At least Mij had been able to answer his terrified question of just where her teeth were.

Twenty five hours had them burning away from Dantooine, their destination the home of a certain Su and Cut.  

Mij was frowning at his medscanner, letting autopilot navigate them through hyperspace at the moment.  “Two days?” he asked again, looking somewhat amazed.  “She’s the luckiest little girl out there then, because other than the superficial scratches?  Scanner says she’s in perfect health.”

The baby thought this was the most hilarious news ever and clapped her hands.

Nova ignored the string of drool dripping down her chin and towards his lap, caught up in the clear depths of her eyes.  “There… isn’t anything wrong with her, is there?”

Mij still didn’t look up from the tiny display.  “She looks like she’s hitting developmental milestones, but I’ll need to watch how she reacts to her environment.  Why?”

“... she has no teeth.” – Mij threw back his glass of whiskey, enjoying the peaceful calm of the cockpit.  Nova had finally calmed down over The Teeth Incident, finally believing him that no, most near-human natborns were born without.  

He couldn’t help the soft laugh or roll of his eyes.  Nova, who had never asked for anything for himself, had called him for help.

It warmed the cockles of his black heart, and the gleeful screeches of the baby, when she’d been turned loose to play, had him melt just a bit more.  

She really was a beautiful little girl, happy and innocent.  Nova hadn’t quite come out and said it yet, but… well, the Fett genes, and Mando culture, ran strong.  His ad looked like he was about to become a buir in his own right.

Tani would have loved being a grandparent, perhaps more than being a buir.  She had loved spoiling the random clan kids who had come in with their parents, either for an appointment with him, or with their parents, on business.  Having a little of her own, that she could hand back when they were grumpy?

He poured himself another measure of whiskey and swirled it in his glass, buzzed enough that he didn’t care about the lack of ice.  

He knew scarcely anything about littles as small as Nova’s tiny Pantoran.  Mandos were fiercely protective of their smallest ade, and ones as small as she was rarely left their clan holdings.  

Thankfully, Rex had put him into contact with Cut and Su well Before, just in case they ever needed to get out of wherever they were, or if they had a vod that needed to not be on Concordia, for whatever reason.  Information trickled both ways, and whenever Rex physically dropped in to check on them, he’d always made sure there was a little something extra for the ad’ike.

They’d eagerly offered to help after hearing the details he’d managed to pry from Nova, Su giving her husband a pointed look.

He might not have ever experienced it himself, but he knew what that look meant.  

Hopefully Cut wouldn’t be caught by surprise when Su went into labor.  Non-medic vode in general seemed to be somewhat foggy on how natborn procreation worked, and this one would be Cut’s first, biologically.

Tani would have loved them too.  Su and her rough, blunt personality who called things exactly as she saw them, and Cut, who treated her like she was the sun in his sky, and the kids his moons.  She’d have spent time with Su, working on Clan finances and teaching her proper Mando culture, time in the fields with Cut… causing shenanigans.  Teaching, too, both Cut and the kids.  She had wanted to be a teacher,

Ah, the what could have beens. – Two days later had them walking up to the Lawquane house, the still unnamed baby happily perched on Nova’s hip, chewing on one of the teething rings Mij had sourced.  She seemed like such a happy little thing, blissfully unaware of the turmoil her life was… and just how terrified Nova was for her.

Mij was already knocking on the door, and he just… he wasn’t ready.  What if whoever it was was going to try to hurt her?  Or could see that he really had no idea what he was doing, despite trawling the net for every article he could find on Pantoran infants.

The door swung open and…

Oh.

He knew Mij had said it was a brother, but… that information hadn’t quite processed properly.  But… it was his face looking back, perhaps a bit weathered, certainly lacking his vitiligo, but… His mind automatically moved him into the ‘safe’ part of his world, and he fought to loosen his fingers on the baby’s hips.  

“Cut Lawquane,” the other man separated from the embrace he was in with Mij and grinned at him, his face… smooth.  It lacked the tension that Nova seemed to carry with him like a cloak.  

“Nova… Gilamar,” he returned, his pause barely noticeable.  Mij beamed.

It had taken him a long time to stop introducing himself as a captain, but… There was nothing left for him to be a captain of.  

The hurt from that hadn’t quite gone away, but-

The baby flapped her arms, whapping him upside the face with a bright smile.  The teething ring tight between her teeth, she began to poke at his cheek, trying to pluck at it.  

Cut laughed.  “She’s your first, isn’t she?”

Mij wheezed as he blinked at him slowly.  “She’s… not mine?”

His words sounded weak, even to himself.

The baby patted his cheek with a hand covered in saliva, as if in commiseration.  

“Sure she’s not.  And I’m a Hutt.  Come on in, I got a pot of caf going.  Su and the kids are out to town right now, so we have a bit of quiet.” – Mij rolled his shoulder as he tossed his duffel onto his bunk and made for the cockpit of his freighter.  

Sure, the Lawquane house was gorgeous, vivacious and full of life with the kids and the baby playing happily.  Squeals of joy periodically broke the otherwise pleasant calm, the kids being careful as they played with the exuberant baby.

Nova was off doing whatever, and for him?

It was time to go home.

He’d gotten his ad settled in with friends who could help him adjust, teach him how to care for his… his own ad.  

He fought back his wistful smile, mentally berating himself.  He was thrilled for Nova, of course he was, and… he had all the ade of his own he could ever want.

He just wished she could have been here to be a part of it.  

Regardless, he shouldn’t live in the past.  She would have kicked his shebs for it.

No, Nova was a buir in his own right now, whether or not it had quite clicked with his lonely braincell.  The way he looked at his little girl?  It was the same way a man on Jakku would look at a glass of water after a day in the desert.  

Su, noticeably pregnant, not that Cut seemed to be aware of it, and her husband had opened their home and their lives to Nova and the baby, ignoring his protests and setting him up in a room upstairs that suspiciously already had a crib in it.

He couldn’t help but to laugh at Cut.  

He’d better catch up on his sleep now.

In a month’s time, Mij was pretty sure he knew who was going to be on night-feeding duty.

He settled into the cockpit, idly flipping a few switches.  He’d debated staying, enjoying the easy camaraderie, but…

No, it was time for him to go home.  Assuming, of course, Sev and Fi hadn’t burnt the clan halls down while he was away.

Nuts and Yara and their di’kute partners were due back from whatever mission they were on within the tenday, and he always made a point of being there for his kids when they returned.  Originally, it had been to bully Nuts into a checkup, to let Yara decompress, but… now that they seemed to be in sync with their partners?  Now it was a matter of routine, something that soothed his soul.

Nova was behind him.  

He knew, of course, as soon as he came aboard.  He might be adopted into clans, but doctors tended to have better situational awareness than most regardless.  

That, and the baby was babbling happily.

“Buir,” Nova broke the silence, offering him the little girl as he sat in the co-pilot’s chair.  

His lip quirked as he accepted her, setting her on his knee.  Nova always sounded… wary… when he used the term, like he was afraid on some level that the privilege of using it would be taken away.  

Not likely.  Not until the suns burned out.

“Let me know when you’re coming home, ‘lek?”  He gave him a side-eye with a smile as he bounced the baby on his knee.  “We’ll have your room aired out, and set one up for your little one.”

He hid his smile as Nova blinked at them.  

“I have a name for her.”  Nova blurted out the words, uncharacteristically rushed, without quite meeting Mij’s eyes.  “None of the Pantoran ones seemed right, so… Cut helped.”

Cut should be thinking of names for his own ad, but that was a Su problem.

Instead, Mij leaned forward and toggled a few switches to send the engine warm-up sequence into idle.  “I’m sure its better than calling her ‘the baby’ for the rest of her life,” he teased gently.  

Honestly, he expected something simple.  Clone names were important, meaningful, and usually meant something either to, or about, the person they were about.  Monosyllables were typical, things that could be shouted across a battlefield, but… that was Before.  

Nova shifted, turning in his seat.  His fingers drummed on his thigh, his nerves clear.  

“Tani,” he blurted.  “I… I named her Tani.”

Mij’s world stopped moving, the ground falling out from beneath his feet.  If he’d been standing, he’d likely have stumbled.  “Tani,” he repeated woodenly, his voice coming out like a croak.  

“Tani,” Nova repeated, sounding more certain this time, despite the look on his face.  

The baby, Tani, seemed to know there was something going on, and looked up at him with wide, pink eyes.  She waved her pudgy fists at him, and without thinking, he cradled her, letting his forehead drop to hers.  

The words came to him, and he had a moment of realization.  This must have been how Yara and Nuts had felt, when they’d adopted him.  

“Ni kyr'tayl gai sa'ba’ad,” he told her gently, the words flowing.  Ba’ad.  Grandchild.  A word he never thought he would use.

Tani didn’t seem to care, patting him again and squealing, reveling in the attention.  

Nova looked… shellshocked.  “You… don’t mind?” he sounded incredulous, like he’d been expecting… to be rebuked.  

Mij had Tani in one arm and Nova in the other before he realized he was moving, crushing his ad to himself.