#shakari

Make Shakari known for its cuisine and highlight the street food vendors some more. Show more than just the Ardennian, and highlight how much live catch you can choose from in the market and have prepared for you right then. Once you’ve shown all these space chickens and crab-fish or whatever, move on to the more sentient stuff like Kowakian monkey-lizards being roasted on kebabs with others in cages hanging nearby the closer you get to the arena (“Oh Hounds that’s so mean, how could you—!” oh boo hoo that exact thing is literally in THE PILOT EPISODE. OF THE SHOW. THIS MOVIE IS BASED ON.)

Additionally, since we as the audience already know that Hutts are known for eating stuff live and wriggling, contrasting Rotta with that by having him eat just like, normal food while also being willing to share food with the kid will have more weight to it and will contrast with the visuals the rest of the time around consumption at the expense of/detriment to others.

Now. Once we’ve established the exotic animal trade and competitive, diverse cuisine as part of Shakari all the way up to Din going to find Janu at the bar, him walking in to see all these little critters up in cages above an array of sushi chefs and giant open flame stir fry griddles down below is already going to set you up with a sense of unease, and it’s going to make the Iktotchi’s offer to buy/threat to the kid suddenly a lot more personal and direct. The whole bar fight is now suddenly about more than just making contact with Janu, it’s about making sure the kid isn’t the next thing on the menu.

If you want to strengthen Janu’s character and make him more specific at the same time, here’s where you have him eyeing the kid while he talks to Mando with an array of food set out before him that he picks from while the two of them bargain over Rotta. Make Janu look like the Hutt in this story and you’ve already made him a more interesting and intimidating and nasty villain.

Now when we see the kid in one of those cages at the dejarik match surrounded by a crowd of people buying roasted meat and stadium food made from the creatures we’ve seen up to now, it has a lot more weight. When Mando sees the kid upon his entrance it’s not just a generic fear of what might happen to the child, it’s a very specific fear of what might happen to him. Now your bad guys have a bargaining chip compelling Mando to fight Rotta beyond Rotta just going on the offense because as long as he does, the kid is safe. Mando understands that the second he shows any resistance or looks like he’s pulling his punches or looks like he’s going to yield, that he’s not going to put on a show, the kid is going to be put in immediate danger by the specific people he’s with.

The question then becomes, “How long can a Mandalorian fight?”

(And if you actually gave these fights consequences and showed Mando actually being affected and challenged and injured and beaten, the tension would have ratcheted up immediately. You know what should happen to a Mandalorian when it’s squashed by a creature that weighs a literal ton? Same thing that happens to everything else.)

You remember your mother, in pieces—feelings and sounds and the way the light would catch on the bracelets she wore. In the night, when you couldn’t sleep, she would whisper stories to you, of gods and monsters and ancient magic. She would point out the window and show you the shapes in the stars. Everyone said she was beautiful, one of the fairest in all of K’un-Lun. It was a shame, they said, that your looks favored your father. 

You remember your mother’s death, too. In a city of immortals, death is a whispered threat, a mystery. It comes sometimes, through disease, through combat. But it is rarely spoken of, as if, by never mentioning it, it might be possible to avoid attracting its attention. You did not see your mother die. One morning she was there, she and your father leaving you alone in the house in the company of a caretaker, and then only your father returned. No one would tell you what happened, only that she was gone and would not be coming back. You imagined, at first, that she'd simply walked away; wandered off through the valley that held K’un-Lun, and beyond, vanishing into the mountain mists. It was only later, when you saw her body carried into the city, cold and bloody and still, that you began to understand. She left, and she never came back. 

Soon after, your father did the same, followed her out through that gate. It was your uncle who told you. He had never spoken to you much, had never taken an interest. But he came to you as you sat, waiting for your father to return. He was off to face the dragon. He was off to become the next Iron Fist.

“Your father failed the trial,” said your uncle. “He’s gone.” 

It wasn’t long before you learned what “gone” meant. Your father had done worse than die: he’d run, fled the challenge of Shou-Lao and scurried back across the dimensional void at the moment of convergence the same way he’d come. He was a coward, an embarrassment. The Yu-Ti, publicly and with great shame, renounced him as his son and promised that if he ever attempted to return to the city, he would die before his foot touched the threshold. 

You don’t remember how, don’t remember much of anything from that day, but you found yourself up on the wall that surrounded K’un-Lun. The stones were warm from the sun and your palms and knees were torn from the climb. You sat, and felt as if a deep gash had opened inside of you. You pictured your mother, the gaping wound in her chest as they’d carried her body home, and you felt as if the same had been done to you, as if someone might find you still on the wall in the morning, bled out and lifeless. Your mother had not chosen to leave. She had been taken, ripped away from you by the gods who wanted her long before they had any right to have her. But your father...he had chosen. He had chosen to leave you behind. 

You find a home with your mother’s parents. Your father’s family, the Yu-Ti and your uncle, have no interest in you, a girl with no particular skills. You fall into a routine, into the life of the city. Your academic studies begin and you devote yourself to them with great interest. They remind you, in moments of weakness, of your mother and her stories. You learn the complex calculus of the dimensional cycles, the cosmic rhythms that bring this plane into contact with Earth once every ten Earth years. You learn the history of K’un-Lun, and of the other Capital Cities of Heaven. You learn the names and deeds of the 64 men and one woman to have held the mantle of the Iron Fist. 

“Wu Ao-Shi,” says your teacher—a man, with a small, sharp beard and severe eyes, “showed the weakness of her sex when she used the dragon’s sacred chi for personal gain rather than the glory of K’un-Lun. Her failure teaches us a valuable lesson, one I hope you will all remember.” 

You glance around at your classmates, all girls. No one looks happy. No one speaks up.

While you strengthen your mind, you know that elsewhere in the city the boys are enduring grueling physical training at the hands of the war-master, Lei Kung the Thunderer. K’un-Lun has no Weapon; the situation is growing urgent. You can hear them as you walk past the training grounds on your way to and from school: the shouts of the boys, the slap of fists against wood, against stone, against flesh. There is a rule against women watching such things, but in a city of immortals, there’s time to find the weaknesses in rules like these. An eave along the side of a nearby building, discovered by curious women sometime in the city’s past, provides a glimpse over the wall, and you curl up there and watch them train. You try to copy their movements, to feel the power they must feel as they move as one, working their bodies to the limit. One boy in particular catches your eye. He is not the best of the group, but there’s a lightness to him, a joy that you can see even from your perch. When he spars, he dances around his opponents, flicking in lightning-fast with a kick or a jab before skipping back. His opponent catches him, throws him to the ground and delivers the finishing blow, and yet he laughs. It’s a laugh that seems to flicker across the city, echoing up and over the rooftops, and you find yourself looking forward to hearing it almost as much as you look forward to watching the training. 

When you eventually meet him face-to-face, one day in the market, you discover that his smile, up close, is just as bright as his laugh. His name is Conal. He’s the youngest son of a noble family, skilled enough to keep his parents and the Thunderer pleased but not skilled enough for anyone to expect much of him. He tells you all of this cheerfully, without prompting, when you ask what his training is like. 

“But do you enjoy it?” you ask.

“Well,” he says, his fingers fluttering in thought. “It’s a challenge, and those don’t scare me. But I don’t think you’re supposed to enjoy it.” He looks at you intently, but he’s smiling. “Anyway, I don’t think you’re supposed to be asking these kinds of questions.”

You smile back. “I’d like to think I can trust you.”

Conal bows. “I’m honored by your trust, my lady.” He offers you his arm, and you feel your face grow warm. You take it. 

You don’t know how long you spend with him, just talking, but at some point, you feel something shift inside of you. This world can’t be so terrible, you think, if there are people like Conal in it. 

When the gateway between K’un-Lun and Earth next opens, it spits out a boy.

News spreads quickly through the city, and you and Conal arrive at the gate in time to see him: small, thin, his skin lanced with frostbite, near death from cold and hunger. His Outworlder clothes are stained with blood. For one moment, his gaze flicks to yours and you nearly step back. There’s something there that you recognize. A deadness in his eyes that you know too well. You feel again that gash deep inside of you. You can tell at once, long before you learn his story, that this boy is alone. 

He is welcomed into the house of K'ai, the ruling family. Your father's family. But he also keeps his Outworlder last name in honor of his dead parents. Even without the name, though, you would have known. Even without the hair, as shockingly yellow as yours, you would have known. As he heals, as he begins to look less like a corpse and more like a child, you see it more and more clearly—that his looks, like yours, favor your father.

You want to hate him. You have been not just abandoned, but replaced. You see him with your uncle, who has never had a moment to spare for you. You see that deadness in his eyes, which refuses to fade even as he grows strong on the food and sun and flowing energies of the immortal city, a deep grief he feels for a father you can't bring yourself to mourn. You imagine how kind your father was to this new child, this son. How much he must have loved and doted on him.

You want to hate Danny, but every time you look at him, you see yourself.

You decide to speak to him. You find him up on the wall, and try not to think about the day your father left. He's staring out across the valley, his arms wrapped around his knees. You can see, up close, the faint traces of scarring on his hands and cheeks, remnants of frostbite.

"Are you all right?" you ask.

He glances at you, and there it is again, that deadness, emptiness, eyes that don't belong in a face so young.

"My parents are dead too," you say. It isn't what you meant to say, but it comes out too fast for you to stop it.

He stares at you for a very long time. You stare back, right into those eyes. This little Outworlder boy will not unnerve you.

He looks down. "I'm sorry."

His gaze returns to the valley. After a moment, you can see that he's crying. You look away. You aren't used to seeing such weakness. It's embarrassing, but after a while you realize you find a strange comfort in it.

Eventually, you hear him sniff, and then he says, "Can I ask you something?"

"All right."

"Why's your hair like that?"

You glare at him. "Like what?"

Again he stares at you for a long time, as if considering this very carefully. And in that moment, you think of telling him. That he isn't as alone as he thinks. That you know him better than he could ever imagine.

"Nothing," he says. "Sorry."

You don't tell him. You may not hate him, but you can't share that part of yourself, that deep wound, with him. He has so much. This is one secret you get to keep.

Danny hasn't yet been offered immortality (you ask him about it once, and he says he isn't ready. You can't tell what he means by that, but he says it with enough conviction that you believe him anyway). He ages quickly, turning from a boy into a young man. You watch him in training. He's terrifying, like a fiend. Most of the other boys are training out of duty, because it's what they are expected to do, what the men of K'un-Lun have always done, but something entirely different drives Danny. Something primal.

Conal tells you what it's like to spar with him, the blankness behind his eyes. "Like he isn't fighting me at all, but something else." Conal tells you other things too, things far more secret and forbidden.

"I'm tired of it," he says. His arm is broken; his usually exuberant movements are weak. "I wish I could go to the women's school with you, learn numbers and history. I'm never going to be the Iron Fist. I don't want to be." He looks around. They're alone, in one of their secret places, but it never hurts to be cautious.

"I'd trade with you without a second thought," you whisper back. You make a fist. "What would you think of that?" You don't say any more aloud, but you hope he can hear in your words, see in your expression how serious you are, how much you've longed for this.

He replies, eyes sparkling. "I think you should meet me back here at midnight. Unless the dark frightens you, Miranda."

You grin. "Nothing frightens me, Con."

You start slow. Basic stances, the proper way to make a fist. Things you've observed from your secret perch above the training grounds. Conal is a gifted teacher, you discover, and his understanding of each technique is precise. With every new lesson, you feel something growing in you. An excitement that you have never felt about anything before. You can't deny that part of it comes from how forbidden this is, how dangerous. There's power in secrets, you're quickly learning, and you have never felt powerful before now.

In return, you bring Conal books, share with him your lessons. You have long conversations into the night about the properties of the chi of Shou-Lao, the feats of the pacifist Iron Fist Li Park, the mysteries of what might lie beyond the valley, out in the wilderness from which no K'un-Lun citizen has returned alive.

"Should we invite Danny?" Conal asks one night. You know what he's really asking: Can we trust him?

You would have said yes, at one time. Underneath it all, the rage and the pain, Danny is kind and thoughtful, and cares about you in a way few people ever have. He shares with you his deepest thoughts, his questions, his hopes. He always asks you how you are, in a way that you found unnerving at first because you realized he really meant it. He's a friend. One of the only friends you have.

But you think of him on the training grounds, growing strong, ruthless, a warrior of K'un-Lun. You see him with your uncle, and under the proud gaze of the Thunderer. There's still the tournament to make it official, but you know that he stands a chance of winning the honor of facing the Shou-Lao the Undying. That is his world now. And like the other secret, this is a precious, vulnerable piece of yourself that you simply can't bring yourself to share with him.

"No," you say. "I don't think he would understand."

Conal nods. And so your training continues.

The tournament arrives, with joy and fanfare but also an underlying sense of urgency. The last tournament ended in disaster. This next one cannot do the same. You sit in the stands and watch Conal beaten to a bloody mess. In the end, as he is carried out of the arena, you can see that he's smiling. It's over for him, at least for now. He can rest.

Danny cannot. He goes round after round, one opponent after the next. You can see his exhaustion; you know him well enough to spot the cracks in his relentless façade. Blood is pouring down the side of his face. He is favoring his left leg. You will him to yield, to give in, to step away before it's too late. But of course he does not. You know him better than that. Danny wants what you want, after all: power in a world that beats down the powerless. He could do nothing to stop his parents from dying. He will never be so weak again. Absently you rub at your knuckles, grown calloused and hard from your secret training. If you were standing where Danny now stands, you know that nothing short of death would stop you from fighting.

At sunset, it's decided. Just one man remains in the arena, gasping for breath but still standing tall.

"Today we welcome a new champion," the Yu-Ti announces to the crowd from his royal box. "At sunrise, Daniel Rand-K'ai will face the dragon."

You find him up on the wall after, his arms wrapped around his knees. It's become a place you have often found him since that first conversation, so long ago.

"You should be sleeping," you say.

You look him over. He's covered in bandages and bruises, one eye black and swollen. K'un-Lun's medicine is powerful; by sunrise, he should be fine. But you can't help but feel afraid for him.

He smiles, though it looks like it hurts. "I'm too excited to sleep."

You raise your eyebrows. "Excited? To face Shou-Lao? That might be a first."

He chuckles.

Over the valley, the stars are bright. You can feel the words now, closer than they've ever been before. Please stay safe. I would hate to lose my brother tomorrow.

Instead, you just say, "Be careful, Danny."

He nods. "I will. Don't you worry about me."

You do worry, of course. But there's no need to. By the next morning, K'un-Lun has at last found its new Immortal Weapon.

It's a long time before you see Danny again. He is swept up in ceremony, in relentless training and testing. Becoming the Iron Fist, it seems, is simply a new beginning, a gateway to even more rigorous work. If not properly handled, the dragon's chi could kill him, roast him alive from the inside out. He has the Challenge of the Many and the One to prepare for.

You instead focus on your own training. With the Iron Fist secured, Conal's days have become freer and he is noticeably happier. You, in turn, are happier too. Life feels full of hope. You have found a way to exist. You feel that wound within you knitting, closing just a little bit more.

You wonder how it all could have gone so wrong so quickly. You think back on it now, with what remains of your mind. Danny being attacked. The fight. The secret, kept so tightly between you and Conal, spilled out in the broad daylight. Being dragged before the Yu-Ti. The announcement of your punishment: a total mind-wipe and reprogramming. A punishment worse than death. The moment that you and Conal decided that the only way forward was to leave, to travel out of the valley, into the mists beyond. You couldn't help but picture your parents, when they did the exact same, the day your mother died. How they must have held hands the same way you and Conal did, pushing forward into the unknown because what lay before must surely be better than what lay behind.

You can feel it all draining away, your energy, your mind. You're too exhausted to even think of moving, can't summon the will to try. You hope that Conal is nearby, that he can sense your presence, that he knows he isn't alone and that you don't blame him. That you don't regret any of it. That you are at peace.

Like a dying dream, a figure appears above you. You know him, distantly, though you have never seen such fear on his face before.

You shout for him. You call him "brother."

“Yep. I’m tired, Ardos,” Faulkron said, moving to push past.

“Of what, son?”

“Well first of all, that! Stop saying that, you know I’m not your son,” Faulkron said with a growl.

“Well first of all, that! Stop saying that, you know I’m not your son,” Faulkron said with a growl.

“Maybe, but I raised you, didn’t I?”

“I don’t care! I’m sick of all this! I’m tired of being here, with you!” Faulkron snapped.

Ardos’ face fell further, and his shoulders sloped. “You don’t mean that, do ya?”

Faulkron groaned and leaned against the wall, throwing his free hand into the air. “Maybe I do! I don’t know! I don’t even know who I am, Ardos! This town is all I know, but it isn’t me! How am I supposed to live like this any more?”

“Oh, a simple life ain’t so bad-“

“Yes it is, da— Ardos,” Faulkron quickly corrected, turning away.

“You almost called me dad,” Ardos said, a tiny kindling of hope in his voice.

“We all slip up,” Faulkron said, the coldness of the words making him almost regret saying them. Almost.

“You’re sure you wanna leave?” asked Ardos, voice much softer than it had been before, and laced with pain.

“Yes.”

“You even know where you’re goin’?”

“No. That’s the point. I’m tired of the things I know, I want something new.”

“I won’t stop ya, son.”

“I know,” Faulkron said as he turned back to face the door again.

“Come back and visit?”

“Ha. We’ll see,” Faulkron muttered, pushing past Ardos and out the door.

“Be careful!” Ardos called after him.

“Hmph.”

“I love ya, son.”

Faulkron didn’t respond.

•••

Fuego

•••

The fog lay, as it always had, like a heavy blanket over the island.

Fuego lit the lamp at the front of his boat with his fire, coaxing it to life and sending the fog hissing back, the slender ship’s front pointed out to sea.

He turned back to shore. His family, friends, the King even, were all gathered on the beach, similar lanterns in hand. The whole island had gathered to see him off as he sailed into what could prove to be a fatal journey.

Fuego took a deep breath, then spoke.

“People of Zul’Zagan! I promise you all, this great journey I’m taking now? It will be nothing compared go the glory of my return! I swear by my life I will sail the sea and find the fire to burn away the Shroud, the gods have decreed it and so that is what I go to do. I will keep you all in my mind, my heart, and my soul. I know these gifts are a thanks for what I’ve done, but it feels wrong not to thank you all as well. This is and always will be my home, and you are my people. I carry you with me anywhere I may sail.”

The king stepped forward, voice regal and booming. “And I pray for smooth seas and a forgiving sky on your quest, Fuego. We will not forget you either, lightbringer.”

The king bowed his head in salute, and Fuego returned the gesture. Waving goodbye to his family, he whooped as he unfurled his sail and his ship leaped forward into the unknown.

•••

Shakari

•••

“Shakari A’Tusaara. You have violated the laws of the Duulza, your people. You have stolen from the Vhamani, those who are your elders and who wield magic you are not yet strong enough to control. You show yourself to have dangerous hubris. Your ambition could be the downfall of all of us, you know this.”

Shakari hung her head. She couldn’t bear to look at her family, watching from the crowd.

“I am aware.”

“So then you know why we must exile you.”

“I do,” they responded, fury and pain boiling inside their chest.

“Very well. Shakari, you hereby lose your place among the Duulza. You are no longer your mother’s child, and have no home in Duulza lands. You will be sent into the desert alone. If you should return and you have not been humbled, you will be met only with blades. If you should return and have made right your crimes, then you will be welcome once more.”

The elder, a rugged-looking dragonborn with sandblown blue scales, stepped forward, magic swirling around their claws.

“I place this Mark on you now. When it has gone, return to us. Remember, you are not above the world, but part of it. A dragon’s ferocity is wasted on destruction.”

A searing heat pressed into their chest, a white-hot symbol appearing on their scales as the elder placed their palm over Shakari’s chest.

“It is done.”

Still wincing from the brand, Shakari turned her back on her tribe for the last time, and walked into the desert.

•••

Jetra

•••

Jetra scowled at the man on the street corner.

“Marakos, the Hero! He died for you, all of you! He fought off a bandit scourge, and sacrificed his life! Honor his sacrifice. Be a hero! Join the army of Leinos! Remember him, and fight!”

She was sick of hearing the army talk about her father like this.

Setting her jaw, she slunk through the crowded streets toward the recruiter.

She snuck up behind him where he was standing on some crates, and before he could spew another lie she kicked the crates out from beneath him.

He crashed to the ground, sputtering, and Jetra took off back into the crowd.

When she was sure she wasn’t being followed, she made her way back to their house.

Her mom wasn’t home yet, so she let herself in. She packed her stuff quickly, and when she’d finished, she waited.

When her mom finally opened the door, Jetra had already made a meal.

They ate it in silence for the most part. They were both tired, and their minds were making all the necessary noise.

When the food was gone, Jetra finally spoke.

“I’m leaving tonight, mom.”

“I suspected,” her mother sighed.

“I can’t take this anymore, and-“ Jetra started.

“Hush, love. The less I know, the better, remember?”

Jetra sighed. “I know.”

“You’ve got everything?”

“Yes.”

“Come here,” she said, opening her arms and standing.

Jetra walked over and sank into her arms.

“I love you, daughter. Please, be careful.”

“I will, mom.”

With that, she stepped out into the nighttime streets of Anikora.

As she walked through the shadowy streets, she saw a small glowing bird appear on a nearby rooftop. It flapped its wings once, then took off. She smiled, and followed it out of the city.

•••

Alejandro

•••

His parents didn’t say why they were leaving, just that it was today. Alejandro wasn’t sure how to feel. He would miss the village a lot. He waved goodbye to all his friends, his old house, the beach, and the rest of the village, as his dad held him on the horse they were riding. His mother was on another horse next to them, with all the stuff they’d taken with them. It wasn’t a lot, because they couldn’t afford that much more space.