#the mods

The Pyke encircling the Mesra Palace were impatient.  This was supposed to be quick, the palace unguarded and resistance minimal.  The screams of their comrades had crescendoed and ceased. Those remaining were unsettled in the wake. The desert stilled, poised and waiting for more carrion.  The platoon leader, a low level lieutenant, gazed across the expanse from their position to the balcony.

The old man on watch was a decent shot, but he was tiring.  Groupings getting just a little wider, the volleys having longer pauses between.  Now was the time for them to rush in. The lieutenant raised his com preparing to give the order.

“Unit one to front gate, how copy...” Static flowed through the frequency with no reply. Perhaps they had joined the other group? He tried again, “Unit two, how copy?”

There was a crackling before a voice broke through, “Their... coming... HEL-”

“Unit two?” The Lieutenant tried again and again to raise the others, but no reply came.  What was this place, this hell mouth?  Looking to the others, the senior enforcer raised his blaster before going to investigate. “Keep firing and watch yourselves!”

Moving along the rock shelf, he retreated back to the vehicles. Drawing nearer the smell of fuel filled the intake of his mask.  Cursing, the Pyke saw that the speeders were now little more than scrap, green blood mixing with the leaking motor fluid to color the sand. Inching closer he could see only one set of tracks trailing round the carnage. Trying the com his words came rushed.

“There's someth--”

There was a sickening thud as the head of a gaffii struck against his skull, cutting off whatever else he had to say.  Dazed, he tried to look up from the ground, grasping for his weapon in vain. 

The Tuskin looming over him let out a shrieking cry before striking again and again.  No more sound, no movement, only the sand whipping past.  

“Run!” 

Boba barked as an incoming fire from the B-1 rattled the street. Din watched as the Freetown garrison ran like whomp rats from a fired nest.  The Hulking terrors turned to recalculate the trajectory on the retreating force.  

Good fucking lot of good those patroling New Republic Rangers were.

Drash held her ground next to the two hunters, opening fire at the oncoming threat. Little good that it did.

“Get out of here!” Boba barked as the building facade above them cracked, raining down on their heads. Shaking off the adobe bits, he turned his visor to the girl,  “Drash you need to go.”

She shook her head angrily, “I'm not leaving you!”

“I’m ordering you to go!” Boba roared as the droid took aim again at them. “Fierfek!”

Drash was quick though, twice as smart as a kid her age should be. Looking at the droid's path she pulled out a detonator throwing it at the building entrance diagonal. The detonator went off perfectly, though it damaged the building more than the droid. As the three moved to the next corner down she grumbled at the Daimyo,  “Mama Kay'll kill me if I don't bring you back.”

“What do you think she'll do to me if you get injured?” Boba spat out exasperated.

“That's if these two don't kill us first,” Din groused, still monitoring the droids.  The mandalorian couldn't help musing with a shrug, “Worse ways to go.” 

Drash shrugged, “Think I'll take the droid personally.”

“Drash, go with the others. Keep them safe and we'll buy you time,” Boba grabbed the girl and practically threw her at Krrsantan.  As much as he appreciated her loyalty, he wasn't about to let the girl get killed so needlessly. “Get her out of here Santo.”

Krrsantan growled in acknowledgment before throwing the human under his arm and taking off.

“No!” Drash raged at being out muscled. The audacity of the old man to send her away like a child when she could stand and fight! “Put me down you hairball! We can't leave them!”

“She's a spitfire.” Din chuckled as he cleared a jam in his sidearm, ready to go another round.

“That she is,” Boba nodded as he watched the Wookie disappear around the corner, Drash screaming like an angry nexu. She was nothing if not her mother's daughter, “K'oyacyi Drash.”

“Why hasn’t my nephew returned?!” The Klatoonian family head roared at Esox after storming back in the room. “They’ve been gone too long!”

“Patience is more prudent in these cases, surely they are only delayed.” The Pyke stirred his drink with an air of certainty. “After all, what can a half breed cook do?”

There was a shuddering grumble from the Mayor across the room, “Much, I’m afraid.”

“This is all your fault, you karking slug!” Guran grabbed the Ithorian by the lapels, spitting as he barked. “If you had killed that bitch before, none of this would be happening.”

 “And brought the wrath of the rebellion down on our heads if I HAD!” Shaiz was quick though, reaching to tune out the dampener he wore and setting loose a roar.  Straightening his robes the Mayor glared at the mutt.  “Their best intelligence officer suddenly going missing in the Dune Sea? Only a fool would invoke such wrath, especially after what happened to Jabba.”

Lucius sighed heavily, vexed by the squabbling. “I can assure you that Bane will take care of Ms. Manu one way or another.”

“You can be patient,” Guran shook off the claws of the Trandosians who had assisted him to stand. “I want that bitches head.”

“Gentlemen please, this is most unprofessional. I am certain this shall be over quickly.” The Klatoonian stormed out of the survey office while the others took a seat. Esox made a mental note to deal with him after this business with the Daimyo was completed.  Business partners with rash tempers served no one’s bottom line, much less his own. 

 Ah well, it was all just business he supposed.

The outlanders were dead, Kaska watched as his tribesmen piled the bodies for disposal.  Greedy creatures, trying to take that which was never theirs.  They all made the same fatal error, thinking one could tame the dessert.  This was Tattoine, cruel Goddess of the Suns. The screams of her enemies traveled the wind as an omen, blood painting the sand with every vanquished foe. Battles memorialized in the amber glass of varying hues. 

Only those who respected her power remained. 

Even still one could fall prey to the whims of fate, he wondered again if you yet lived? As he gathered the others, the old warrior prepared himself to add your name to his list of the remembered.  It was as ash in his mouth to consider, but the old man knew too well your odds.  Cautiously his tribe entered into the darkened fortress, already the air hung heavy with death. 

“Should we stop the one on the balcony?” 

Kaska paused, staring not at the young warrior but as though he were trying to see beyond. Argos was smart, always considering the shifting of opponents in a battle.  He had come along, after all it was his behest that had moved the old warrior from his perch. They both well remembered what had befallen you and the children years before.  Argos was a good Chief, a better one than Kaska had been.

It had been during the years of the high sun when Kaska had started trading in town.  Even as hardy as his people were, the water had gone and the black melon had receded.  Younglings had cried in hunger as mothers struggled to find nourishment. 

Bartering with the Jawas had brought in little and the farmers fired on sight of a Bantha.  Almost no one in town wanted the business and the ones that did paid a paltry sum for the goods he brought in.  Not until the mad woman of Mos Eislie had told Kaska of you, going so far as to arrange an introduction.

He well remembered the reaction the first time stepping into your establishment with the Moto woman.  She had been prudent enough to enter the back of the kitchen, lest a gun fight ensue.  You had come in the swinging partition and directed them to the small alcove that served as an office, unbothered and even friendly. 

“Pele you always have the most interesting friends.” You had smiled, not the usual reaction of an outlander.

“Always good to have friends in high and low places.” Pele had cackled. “Now you liked those goodies I brought you so much and my friend here needs a trading partner… so.”

With one appraising look at Kaska's thinned frame, you'd pushed a plate of snacks across the table with a smile. “Well I do like to shop local. What do you have to trade?”

Desert delicacies, information, weapons among other things. You had become good allies and eventually friends.  You never had much money to pay, but instead brought him items that even his meager credits could not.  Food, cloth, medicines and he suspected in larger quantities than was equal to the goods he brought in. 

When Pele had sent word all those years ago that you were in grave danger he had hesitated.  Choosing not to rally his warriors, fearing retribution from the town. Instead Kaska had ventured on his own, arriving only after the destruction had been done.  He could do nothing for the damage of that night, only try to offer what aid he could in its wake.  Even that seemed a paltry compensation.

He’d had to live with that regret ever since. 

Kaska shook himself from his reverie, “Let him handle the stragglers for now.” 

Hand flying up in silent order, Kaska heard a noise ahead as smoke emanated from the archway. The others found corners as he and Argos slipped into the kitchen.  The smoke was putrid, rising from the grill incinerating what looked to be some form of polymer.  Both males' eyes followed the trail of viscera that painted the floor, splattered as it smeared down the hall.  

Cautiously taking the stairs, Kaska readied his weapon. There was more grunting as they hit the bottom landing and a form came into view.

“Ok Biscuits one more... Damn bastards… made such… a mess.  Whew, there we go! You are the best boy helping me clean up… before Boba comes home and gets grumpy.” You cooed through straining breaths down to the rancor, reaching over to set off the trap door again. Disposing of bodies was never a pleasant task, less so when it hurt to breathe.  As you pulled yourself up there was a distinct tapping on the tiles. 

If you rushed or reacted too quickly then whoever was sneaking up behind you would have the upper hand. So instead you straightened up using the side table, feigning worse injury.  Well feigning may be a stretch as you were pretty banged up. Hand wrapping on the handle of your pistol you turned, dropping to slide down the first two steps with a grunt. Just as quickly though you took the muzzle away from the disturbance's source and relief washed over you immediately. “Kaska!”

The old warrior watched as you hobbled across the floor. Practically fell forward into him as you extended an arm and greeted each other. The same warm greeting that you also extended to Argos. Kaska helped to right you before signing, “You are injured.”

“Only a little,” You smiled, hands trembling as you signed.  “But what are you doing here?”

“You needed help,” Kaska signed, pausing a moment before his head dipped to look at you better.  Mother Mastiff that had indeed survived, at least so far. He felt his heart lighten at last.  “This may not be our war, but you are my friend.”

“Thank you,” you embraced him, wrapping the old warrior in a hug. Tuskins were not known to do such things, but as with so much of your relationship, the norm was rare. With a sniffle you straightened up again, “I'd offer you something to eat, but I'm afraid that the kitchen is in an awful state.”

Argos roared, signing furiously, “Outlanders are coming this way.”

“It seems lunch will have to wait.” Smiling sadly at your friend, you took out the small blaster at your hip checking the charge. 

“These two will destroy the whole city!” Boba growled in frustration as the B-1 fired at the street indiscriminately.  The Pykes didn't care if the whole town burned to ash, they would still consider it a victory. He could not let them win, it would be a death sentence. 

That was if anyone made it out of this at all.

“Our energy weapons can't get through,” Din was cut off as Fett shoved him quickly to the cover of another building.  The damn clanker was firing at anything that so much as twitched. “and our kinetic weapons have too much velocity.”

The Daimyo cursed, trying to think of a solution. As he surveyed the street he saw a head peering out of a window two buildings down.  Waiving furiously, he tried to warn them. It was far too late though, the second droid fired hitting the other side of the wall. Nothing moved after that. His fault, his responsibility, his failure of leadership.

Self pity is for the weak, that’s what his father had taught him.  Boba had survived his early years as a hunter, survived the Empire, the Sarlac, everything that should have sent his spirit to join his ancestors in the Manda. Jango Fett had not raised a weak son.

Boba gritted his teeth, “What about trying to draw them away from the town.”

Din shook his head at the thought of open ground and no cover. “Better to face them here and now.”

What they needed was to overcome the shields, but how? The strongest of the group was Krrsantan and even the Wookie couldn't bend steel. 

Couldn't bend…

“Djarin can you keep these two busy?” the thought hit Boba like lightning, “Just for a while?” 

“I can distract them for a spell,” Din was being shoved again into a corner wall as adobe crumbled from the cornice.  Looking at the older hunter he was confused, “Why?”

“Watch OUT!” Boba pushed the younger man away before the latest volley landed. Panting heavily, he checked the street behind them, “I may have an idea.”

“We are cut off.” The man must have cracked his head, Din's words tried to convey the gravity they faced. “You've run out of allies!”

“Not yet,” Offering no explanation Boba set to the air, issuing one last order. “Protect the others!”

Vol couldn't hear you, heard nothing but the ringing in his ears after the door was breached.  As the Pykes and Klantoonians scrambled back the old trainer lobbed a detonator in their wake. It hadn't taken them long to regroup, concentrating their firepower to destroy the wall at his back. Not that he thought he'd be getting out of this

Time passed and the oncoming fire ceased. The stillness began to seep into the stones of the palace itself. The howling of the wind echoed off the canyon walls.

“Que demonios?” 

Vol remained as he was, waiting for the inevitable. Minutes felt like hours, his knees cramping from the crouched sniping position. Yet he remained, refusing to die from stupidity or impatience.

“Vol?”

Startling, his hand swung out nearly knocking you cold. Harder to kill than he thought. Raising a finger to his lips he whispered furiously, “Shh,tricky skacks are up to something.”

“Not anymore,” you whispered back, “but there are more headed this way, come on.”

The old trainer looked at you puzzled, still hugging the wall as he followed after.  There were bandages on your hand, loose linen over some kind of fruit rind. Turning the corner he froze, coming face to face with an entire tribe of Tuskin Raiders.

“Look out!” Vol grabbed your collar, pulling you back. 

The tribesmen began to scream, running forward, gaffi's raised.

“No! Wait wait wait!” Raising your arms the tribesmen did as you asked.  Turning you placed a hand quickly over Vol's half unholstered weapon to keep things from escalating further. “They came to help.”

Argos charged, coming mask to face with the old man. Staring down as air roared through the filter.  Vol straightened, throwing back his shoulders with a glare in return.  Two bulls posturing to see who was superior.  

“Vol stop it, these are my friends!” You grunted, wedging yourself to stand between the two. “We have worse problems!”

His mouth opened, ready to ask when another Tuskin popped out shouting.  Vol turned to you, seeing the color drain beneath your tan.

“He says that someone just landed on the upper balcony,” whispering as your hand went to the blaster at your hip.  

Staring at one another for a moment longer, Vol nodded to the angry tribesman before following you to the stairwell.  Yet another Tuskin came to flank the opposite side of the alcove, the first took a spotter's position across the room.  You may be friends with these raiders, but that didn't mean that Vol trusted them. Pressing his back to the wall, the trainer could keep an eye on the whole room. 

The Warrior across from them began to sign, fingers flying so quickly he wasn't sure how you could make heads or tails of it. Your reply was slower, more deliberate, at one point gesturing to him and then the floor grate.  

“He says they only caught a glimpse of them passing,” you whispered, “Heavily armed.”

Vol grunted as he raised his blaster, “When they come in range, don't let up until they drop.”

The sound of boots could be heard on the steps, heavy and graveled.  The scratching of sand was unnerving, sending a shiver down your spine. Kaska raised a finger, confirming only one.  Nodding you translated for Vol who gave the old Tuskin a begrudging grimmace of thanks.  

The boots grew louder, more purposeful as they drew near. There was no stealth, only a certainty and purpose to the caidence trod.

Your lungs burned and muscles ached, you weren’t even sure if there was any fight left in you. But Nikita was below your feet, medicated unconscious and vulnerable. Eyes closing, your finger took up the slack of the trigger as you blew out a breath and drew down on the intruder.  Not your kids, not today.

“Vol, in case I forgot to say it…”

The old trainer raised an eyebrow at you.

“...remind me to ask Fennic for double hazard pay.”

Vol could hardly contain the snort that escaped, shaking his head. The footsteps weren’t slowing though, no time for a joke.  Looking at you his lips turned up in a crooked grin, “I hope you collect it, with interest.”

The footsteps paused and the air hung heavy.  Whoever it was knew of your presence, so why wait? Jaw tight, your temper overrode better judgement as you roared into the space, “COME OUT AND FIGHT YOU BASTARD!”

There was a faint movement before a tall figure emerged, gruff chuckle crossing the space. “Such disrespect…”  

“Boba?” Choking on a sob you ran forward, relieved. 

“I see we have guests?” Boba muttered, nearly knocked back by the force of your embrace. You were a bloody mess, but you were alive and breathing. He watched Vol and the warrior by the door lower their weapons. The trainer was equally bloodied but still defiant. The old Dune Warrior was still postured at the ready.

Boba tilted his helmet to the side, “Kaylee, who…?”   

“This is my friend Kaska,” You turned to the old trader signing, “This is Boba Fett.”

“He doesn’t look like a war chief.” Kaska signed back. His fingers paused before proceeding, subtle in their flow, “Yours?”

A flush crept up your neck to color your face under the bruising. Damn the old man, seeing everything.

Boba smirked under the helmet, his reply was pronounced and deliberate. “I am in your debt.”

Kaska turned his head to you moment before studying the man in armor. Weighing the sincerity of the man Kaska decided in favor, giving a nod.    

Letting out a breath you hadn't known you were holding you suddenly realized something, "Where are the kids?”

“I came for ordinance,” The panicked hitch in your tone pained him, even more the fear he saw in your eyes. Releasing you was excruciating, but there were Pyke to be delt with. Walking over to Vol he grabbed his arm in greeting. “And I need the rancor ready, as quick as you can.”

“Boba?” your tone had shifted to a commanding tone.

“They're alright, Djarin is protecting them.” Sighing heavily he turned to you, “Can you hold the Palace?”   

You snorted, “Is that an evaluation of the job I've done thus far”

He was in no mood for humor, growling in light warning. “Miss Manu.”

“Yes, your great Daimyo-ness I can keep the Palace safe,” Snapping right back at him you couldn’t tell what his reaction was under the helmet and you were too tired to care.  Fuck it! Straightening up to whatever height was to be had, you crossed your arms to level a look of your own at him. “Well go on! Kick those smelly, fish bastards off this rock. And bring the others back while you're at it!”

Helmet tilting Boba watched the fire spark in your eyes. Well, better anger than fear. He should be annoyed at the little woman, giving him orders in his own home. And it would be infuriating if you weren't so damn sexy ordering him about. He took two steps crossing the space, taking your chin between thumb and finger.  Angling your head to meet his visor, he growled. “Be here when I do.” 

You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak. Boba bent to press his helmet to your head, the touch over before it really started. There was no time for what you wanted to say to him, for all that needed to be said.  As he began to walk away you called out a gruff final order. “Boba, kill the bastards.”

Tags: @the-rain-on-kamino @pickleprickle @daimyosprincess @acatalystrising @kimiheartblade @cw80831

Definitions: 

Que demonios- (Spanish) What the hell

Fierfek- (mando’a) Fuck