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The Razors Crest was rarely ever this crowded. Or loud. Especially for this long. The long hyperspace journey to Navarro was beginning to test the Mandalorians patience. A droid, two humanoids, the child, and several blurgs meant there was very little space for him to be alone. For the past thirty six hours he had been reduced to stuffing his face with pieces of ration bars while everyone else slept, unable to get away from anyone long enough to properly take off his helmet and have a meal.
He was unused to so long in the uninterrupted presence of others and it left him drained in a way sleep did not fix. He had adjusted to the child, but like many so young he slept a lot and gave Din ample opportunity to go about his usual routine.
In the chaotic and violent galaxy in an even more chaotic and violent line of work, Din found great comfort in routine. Habit and ritual were familiar, safe. These were lessons he learned as a child, drilled into him by the Mandalorians. He could recite the creed by heart. The movements of his fighting drills were etched into every muscle. Sitting alone in his ship he had always found reassurance in knowing that across the galaxy there were his brethren putting on their armor in the same way he was.
When one was Mando’ade they were never truly alone. Mhi solus dhar’tome , Din thought, closing his eyes and trying to block out all the noise surrounding him. He was too polite to ask them to quarantine themselves for a few hours of privacy, but that is what he desperately wanted. The fear of alienating his new friends was greater than his desire for a chance to shave and eat a proper meal.
He could feel the stubble prickling under his helmet and knew he was overdue for a shower and shave. He usually used the long hyperspace jumps between planets in the outer rim to rest and recuperate, tend to any wounds and clean his armor. It was a rare time it was totally safe to be without his helmet, no chance of anyone disturbing him. Now, he was a prisoner in the closest thing he had to a home.
Kuiil looked up from where he was tending the blurgs, his thick brow furrowing when he saw how the Mando quietly shifted in his seat. He nodded once and stood, clapping his hands.
“Cara, IG, take the child to the cockpit. We are infringing on the hospitality of Mando. I have spoken.” Kuill’s gravely pronouncement left little room for debate, even though Cara looked like she wanted to. Din tipped his head towards Kuiil in thanks as he herded the others up the ladder, an equal mixture of gratitude and embarrassment. He was not embarrassed about being a Mandalorian, no, holding to the creed was one of his greatest sources of pride. He just hated to be a bother, to impose on anyone. “Mando, take your time, we shall wait up here until you are ready.” Kuiil interrupted Din’s thoughts, a kindness and understanding in his voice that seemed to say you deserve the right to live out your beliefs.
The door to the cockpit sealed with a metallic thud and Din let it echo for a second before he slowly took off his helmet. Sucking in a deep breath of unfiltered air, he let it out slowly as his eyes adjusted to the light without his visor. He made his way to his little cot, setting his helmet down and sliding out a small box that held his spare clothes.
His stomach gurgled but that could wait till after he was cleaned up. He slowly began to unclip his armor, reverently laying out each piece on his cot. Next his boots came off, then his gloves. Left in his just bodysuit, Din grabbed a clean one out of the box, along with matching undergarments. He lived a rather asedic lifestyle, but even that allowed for a few changes of clothes. He knew he was probably beginning to smell and he had some wounds that needed cleaning if they were to finish healing properly.
He held the clothes in one arm and shuffled to the small fresher in the back of the ship. It was a bare facility but it served its purpose. There was a shower and a small shelf and a makeshift clothesline and that was all he needed. The Crest only had about fifteen minutes worth of water on board for such superfluous things, but a scalding hot shower was one of the few luxuries he had in life. Fifteen minutes. Ten for washing, five for laundry.
After years and years of this life his routine was very dependable. He slipped out of his dirty clothes, leaving them in a pile on the floor. Din remembered to get out a small detergent pellet, he would need to be expedient when he washed his dirty suit. He cranked the water on and stepped in, rolling his shoulders and wincing when his back popped and muscles ached.
“You’re getting too old for this.” Din muttered to himself, easing into the hot water. Steam began to rapidly fill the small room and he closed his eyes again. Alone had never felt so nice. He took a few deep breaths, letting any tension melt out of his back before he reached for the soap. In seconds he was covered in suds that faintly smelled of fresh air and new clothes.
Rinsing his hands off and reaching for his razor, Din could not help but chuckle at the fact that he put any effort at all into his appearance when no one would ever see it. There is something to be said for comfort , he mused, knowing he was more comfortable and confident when he was shaved and washed, even if it was a patchy shave and a fast shower. He felt the water begin to sputter and he knew his ten minutes were almost up.
Scrubbing as fast as he could, Din washed all the soap off and stepped out. After wrapping his one towel around his waist, he grabbed the dirty clothes and tossed them into the water with the detergent pellet. He began to hum as he worked the detergent through the garments, the water hitting his forearms growing colder and colder. The last bubbles washed down the drain as the shower finally gave out, leaving Din to ring out his clothes and hang them on the clothesline.
Clothes drying, Din finished patting himself down before slipping into his clean undergarments. The bodysuit can wait, he thought, I had better make sure these cuts are all taken care of first . He flipped a switch to suck all the steam out of the room before grabbing his med kit and moving back into the hull.
Sitting cross legged at his small table, Din began to methodically apply a bacta goo to all his still healing wounds, changing bandages as needed and singing softly to distract himself from any stabs of pain. Singing and chanting had always been a big part of mandalorian culture, it was another small thing that helped him feel connected to his vod when out in space.
“Motir ca’tra nau tracinya, gra’tua cuun hett su dralshy’a …” Din heard his voice echo back softly, smiling at how it made it sound like he was not singing alone. He moved on from applying the bacta goo to taking the stitches out of his arm, carefully cutting and pulling out each one with sterile tweezers from the first aid kit. Before he could even finish one, he heard the cockpit door slide open with a clang, panic settling in the pit of his stomach.
“Wait!”
🔹
Cara slumped in the pilots seat, scrolling aimlessly on her holopad. It was boring and cramped up in the cockpit, but she understood Mando’s need for some privacy. On Sorgan he had sequestered himself to the barn he was staying in several hours a day while the child played, taking time to eat and clean his armor.
It must be challenging, she mused, following a creed with so many restrictions. Cara tapped a new search into the holopad, one simply reading “mandalorian culture”. Most of the pages it pulled up were leftover imperial propaganda or conspiracy theories. Pah. This is silly. They are so secretive I’m not surprised this is all I can find.
Just as Cara was about to exit her search and go back to the holovid she’d saved earlier, a more promising link popped up. It appeared to be from a journal of living anthropology, scholastic work devoted to saving what the Empire had tried to destroy.
The information was fascinating, she would not have guessed that the Mandalorians were as family oriented as they were. In a moment of bitter irony she realized that while they both came from people devastated by the Empire, Mando’s would survive and probably once again thrive while hers was already on the verge of extinction with no hope for revival.
Alderaan is dead, but Mandalore is carried by each person who swears the creed. She sighed, scrolling without really reading until she landed on a section titled “language and code”. Cara stopped scrolling and sat up straighter, eyes darting over the text.
“Ba'jur, beskar'gam, Ara'nov, aliit, Mando'a bal Mand'alor— An vencuyan mhi. Translated: Education and armor, Self-defense, our tribe, Our language, our leader— All help us survive.” Cara tried to absorb the simple creed, the Resol’Nare as the article had called it, and found elegance in its simplicity.
Actually knowing something about what made her mysterious friend tick almost felt like she was peeking under the helmet, violating some secret ritual. She scrolled down to the basic Mando’a dictionary. He must speak this language, it’s in the code... even though I’ve only ever heard him use basic.
Cara’s musings were interrupted by a foul stench that began to fill the cockpit. She set the holopad down and looked around the chair, making a face as her eyes landed on the child.
“The child needs to be changed” IG-11’s metalic voice stated matter-of-factly. “All of the supplies are down in the cargo hold.”
Eager to get away from the smell and stretch her legs, if only for a brief moment, Cara jumped up.
“I’ll get it.” She quickly said, moving to smack the door open button. It only occurred to her after Mando shouted to wait that they should have given him a moments warning.
“No one is looking, the child needs to be changed. Let me know when you are ready.” She shouted down, careful to keep her eyes glued to the bulkhead above her. She heard him shuffling around below her and it sunk in that this was the first time she’d heard his voice without the assistance of his helmet. It was… different than what she had expected.
Mando was a quiet guy, and a polite one at that, and every time she saw a glimpse of the humanity behind the beskar it was surprising in its own way.
“Alright, I’m ready.” His voice once again had a mechanical edge from his helmet. Cara slid down the ladder, landing with a solid thump. She looked over to see Mando sitting cross legged at the table, taking stitches out of a healed gash on his arm.
He was only wearing his underclothes and helmet, an admittedly odd sight, and Cara could not help but notice that this was the first time she had seen his skin. It was a tanned olive, not exactly what she expected, but it occurred to her that she had not actually known what to expect.
Everything about this was surreal. Even though the helmet was on she was getting a look into Mandos private life that was wholly surprising. Little details scattered around revealed more than she expected about her elusive friend. The way he was sitting cross-legged with more flexibility than she knew he had, the way his armor was laid out so carefully, the way his med kit was worn from years of use.
Mando looked up, hand stilled in its work of removing the stitches. “The supplies are in a bag by the cot.” he volunteered, voice somewhat monotone. Cara nodded, walking around the blurgs and digging around till she found a large canvas tote of childcare supplies. She stood and looked back over at Mando.
She had seen his displays of strength, she knew how strong he was, but now in this light… he was softer than she had expected. Mando was not this hard, chiseled man she had sort of imagined him to be. The power in his form was quieter, hidden under the gentler lines of his shoulders and stomach.
This is a man who has been loved. Cara was not sure where the thought came from or what prompted it, but she knew it was true. He has a family and a people, he has known great love and he probably still knows it.. No wonder he is so good with the child. Nothing about the Mando struck her as romantic or even sexy, he did not have an ounce of that energy, but he had clearly knew what family meant.
Omera had been beautiful, but of the two of them Cara had been the one crushing on her. Mando seemed to be more attracted to the life, the home, the community. Cara had exes, she had a family back on Alderaan, but none of her old girlfriends or long destroyed home had left the same imprint on her that Mando carried.
From some of their talks back on Sorgan she knew he had seen great sorrow, had faced much pain, but he somehow still carried the love of his family. Maybe this is what happens when you culture is more than just a place. You can be together even when you are lightyears away.
“Do you need anything else?” Mando’s voice broke through Cara’s musing and she realized she had been staring. She sputtered for a moment, slipping the bag over her shoulder and moving back towards the ladder.
“No, this should be good.” She said, putting one hand on the ladder, pausing for a moment. A last thought crossed her mind, once again not what she had expected. “If I can ask, what color is your hair?” It was a surprisingly intimate question, she realized that there were very few people in the whole galaxy who knew the answer. Cara had just learned what color his skin was, maybe this is a step to far-
“It’s a little darker than yours.” His voice was soft, head cocked to the side, as if curious to her motivations. Cara blushed a little, not understanding why she of all people had this connection with Mando. There was not even the mildest inkling of romance between them, much less sexual attraction, but there was a bond of friendship she had not experienced in a long time.
“Vor entye ” Cara said, the words foreign on her tongue. There were no pronunciation guides in the little dictionary of Mando’a she had been looking at just minutes prior. Mando’s surprise was palpable, his head popped up do what she assumed was stare at her. She did not know if there were any rules about non-mandalorians using their language.
“Gar're olarom, gar cuyir Mando’karla.” He replied after a minute, the smile coming through in his voice. He had a different accent than she had in her head, but it was a beautiful language. Cara did not know what he said, but she would look it up as soon as she was back with her holopad. She smiled back at him, nodding a little, before hoisting herself back into the cockpit and closing the door behind her.
🔹
Din watched the cockpit door slide closed after Cara. I didn’t realize she knew some Mando’a . He slid his helmet off and set it on the table. Not many people do, especially after the purge. He finished pulling the stitches out and set down the tweezers, inspecting his work and nodding that he was satisfied with how it was healing.
With the med kit packed up, Din went about making himself a real meal. Ration bars made up most of his diet, but he had a few odds and ends that actually had flavor. He watched the caf heat up while he dug out the bag of freeze dried berries he kept for a treat.
Cara had been down for only a few minutes but it felt like much longer. Her eyes were on him most of the time and he could not blame her. Seeing a Mandalorian completely without their armor was unheard of, rare for even their own kind. His face had been covered and that was what mattered.
He was glad he had friends who did not mock his beliefs, who made an effort to understand. Bitter memories of crews past came to mind, the mocking tones they used still ringing in his ears. The Way was his world, his life, having friends who respected that meant so much.
Friends. It had been a long time since he had been able to use that word in plural. He had his family, his clan, but they were scattered in coverts and he did not get to see them much. It was his job to be out and above ground, to earn them money so their plates would not go empty and their armor would not fall to disrepair.
For his clan, Din was more than willing to do that. They all had jobs to do, and he was the best bounty hunter they had. The Armorer put her faith in him, and everyone else followed. The Mandalorians had taken him in and made him one of their own, now he paid back that debt. Loyalty to one's clan. I swore the creed, this is the way.
The caf steamed in the cup, bringing a smile to Din’s face. He took a little sip, the warmth flooding his body. The nerves over the insane plan they were going to pull off on Navarro began to settle, his usual pre-mission meditation settling in. It had been a part of their training, preparing to go into such situations. Death was as life, inevitable and ever present. He would fight with honor, he would defend what was his, and if it came to it, he would die the death of a warrior.
He began to eat his bowl of high calorie mush, dried berries sprinkled on top, reveling in the silence and solitude. He would ask later how Cara knew some Mando’a , he was more than a little curious. There was no way to know if she understood what he said back, but he hoped she knew he was paying her a compliment.
Cara did not just respect his beliefs, but she also respected his space. People he worked with in the past thought it was fun to flirt, even when he made it clear he had no interest. His private life was an easy thing to take shots at, loudly speculating about ex-girlfriends and scandalous escapades.
Except… Din had never lied when he calmly and briefly stated that there was nothing to tell. He had no exes littering his past, nothing scandalous to keep from the gossip circuits. Family was everything to them, but never had that been synonymous with marriage. Single parents were not looked at any different, just like adopting your little ones.
He had never pictured himself with a spouse, from a young age he knew he had what some of the elder Mandalorians called the gift of the warrior. No one had ever been appealing to him in that way , family and his few friends had always been enough to satisfy. Cara never questioned that, she never pried or made him feel bad for his inclinations or lack thereof.
Omera had been soft on him, he was not blind. Her lifestyle, the close knit community and supportive families that harkened back to his own youth was far more attractive than any woman (or man for that matter) had ever been. Cara had been soft on Omera, that much was also obvious. Din might not have the most well developed social awareness or emotional intelligence, but even a gundark could see Cara’s feelings for the widow. I’ll have to wingman for her sometime, there are some women in the covert who would find a Mando’karla shock trooper appealing.
Omera and Sorgan were far behind them now, his time was better spent preparing for the task ahead. He set his empty bowl aside and refilled the cup of caf, making his way over to his armor.
The beskar gleamed in the artificial light of the ship and Din could not help but smile. Proper armor, a piece of what the Empire stole reclaimed. He sat down on his cot, going about cleaning his armor in a slow, measured pace. What was he without his armor? Nothing. At least, nothing important.
Piece by piece the armor was meticulously cleaned and set to the side, carbon scoring scrubbed away and electronics working at full capacity. It was all muscle memory, he had been cleaning his armor since he first began wearing it. He sipped the caf, nodding in approval of his work.
Din slumped back against the wall, knowing this blessed quiet was only going to last a little longer. It was not very kind to his guests to keep them cooped up in the cockpit, especially when they had an important job to prepare for.
The blurgs began to stir and Din knew it was almost time. He stood with a hmph and stretched slowly, muttering under his breath
“Yeah, yeah I hear you. Don’t worry, Kuiil will be back soon.” He shuffled over to where his body suit lay, tugging it on with a practiced hand. Next, he wrapped his cape and hood around his shoulders, tucking his air dried hair under it so his shaggy cut would not fall into his eyes under his helmet.
This is the Way , Din thought, attaching his armor one piece at a time. With each piece he felt more whole, connected to a long and proud legacy. Lastly he donned his helmet, the world once again it’s familiar tint through his visor. He made his way to the cockpit door, each step echoing through the cargo hold with the power of countless generations past. He would carry all of his Vod with him as he fought for his foundlings protection. The coming days would bring battle, but also the chance to uphold his honor and the honor of his clan.
He was ready for that fight.
This is the Way.