Chapter Text
Through the scope of his rifle, Din could see his quarry taking what would hopefully be the last few steps of his lumpy, green existence. He could have captured him and flung him in carbonite, but this particular target—for once, not a bail jumper—had dragged the Mandalorian on a karking bantha chase down the Rimma trade route all the way to Kal'Shebbol, and Din was not feeling particularly generous. It hadn't taken him this long to catch up to a target in years.
The Ishi Tib, wanted dead or alive for his role in a botched spice smuggling operation, seemed to think he'd lost his pursuer. He walked unhurriedly through the small market area of the town, perusing the stalls of the various vendors. Din didn't like to kill out in the open like this—there were families around, potentially New Republic officials, people who knew of his reputation. All in all, far too many variables. But his Tribe needed the money from this bounty, and Din wasn't about to risk losing the bastard again.
Din centered the crosshairs at the back of the target's skull, his finger settling on the familiar curve of the Amban's trigger. He exhaled slowly, steadily pulling back...
And that was when everything got complicated.
At the moment his shot fired, Din heard an intelligible shout of warning and a blur of movement briefly obfuscated his view. The disruptor blast left a smoking, singed spot in the cement barely a foot away from the target, who'd been tackled out of the way by a young man in a blue striped poncho.
Din barely got a look at them before the poncho man was hauling Din's quarry to his feet and ushering him down the street, weaving between civilians. Din fired once, twice more—but there were too many bodies in the way, and killing bystanders would reflect poorly on the hunters' Guild. And despite what some may believe, he wasn't made of ammo.
"Dank farrik," Din swore under his breath. They were doing this the hard way, then.
He rushed down from his rooftop sniping position, swinging the Amban onto his back, and gave chase.
As he ran through the startled crowd, he scanned for his targets. Din finally caught a glimpse of the pair turning down an alley and sprinted towards them, drawing his pistol.
When he turned down the alley, however, he found himself face to face with a flat plascrete wall. Huh. No climbing that—but they'd definitely turned down this alley. There were no windows or doors they could have ducked in to, either. Maybe that man had a jetpack hidden under his poncho?
Din turned from the alley and considered his options. Clearly he'd been outmaneuvered this time, but there were only a few logical destinations. His targets would need to get off the planet soon. There was one large docking bay and four smaller ones in the area. The large one required an array of New Republic clearances to access, none of which a fugitive would have. Two of the smaller stations, one of which housed his own ship, were several klicks back the way Din came from. Of the final two, only one was operational.
Din headed calmly in the direction of the last docking bay.
-----
As Kal'Shebbol's long day cycle ended, bathing the area outside the docking bay in blue half-light, Din waited patiently for his targets to emerge, rifle once again at the ready.
At long last, two figures—one with eye stalks, one in a poncho—slunk towards the docking bay. The poncho man seemed to be whispering something. Din activated the long range audio in his helmet.
"—a big scary Mandalorian after you. I can give you a lift off this planet, anywhere you wanna go. Then you're on your own."
"That's very kind of you, my boy. I swear, I didn't know that the crew I joined would be hauling spice. I never would have...well, I suppose it doesn't matter now."
"Don't worry, my ship's just inside. We'll get you out."
No you won't, not this time, Din thought, and he pulled the trigger for the fourth time that day. But fate had other plans for his targets once again. His aim was true, but somehow, when the dust cleared, both of them were still standing there looking decidedly not-vaporized. Din wanted to yell.
"Go on! I'll be with you in a minute!" The poncho man pushed the Ishi Tib towards the entrance of the docking bay as Din prowled out of his hiding place, blaster drawn.
"Maybe we can talk this out," Poncho said to him with an unconcerned smile, one hand raised in an appeasing gesture, the other pushing thick red hair back from his face. Din fired twice, but both shots narrowly missed either side of the man's head. His aim wasn't normally that bad, was it? He wasn't a notorious bounty hunter by accident.
"Or not!"
Din didn't even see the man move. He blinked, and his blaster was flying away from him, kicked straight out of his hand. He caught the punch to his head, barely—a bold move, to punch a Mandalorian in the helmet—but he wasn't so lucky with the second kick, which caught him at a weak point in his armor. Din stumbled, recovered, and went to respond with a blow of his own—
But Poncho was gone. Completely gone. Din stared around for a moment before darting to the docking bay—but it was too late. The only ship in the hanger—a shining Latero Spaceworks S-161—was slowly ascending into the sky. Din watched it go.
No one was that fast. If Din hadn't just been kicked in the ribs, he'd have thought Poncho was an incredibly convincing hologram.
He sighed. Perhaps it was best to let this one go. He had no idea where they could be headed, and the Razor Crest would never catch up to an S-161. If the conversation he'd listened in to was anything to go by, the Guild's client shouldn't expect trouble from his original target. The only real damage was done to Din's pride—which was, admittedly, pretty damaged.
Hopefully, he'd never run in to Poncho again.