INVICTUS

by classifiedgenomes

Summary:

“Oh, Mando, you wouldn’t even consider doing this favor for an old friend?” Karga smiles, genuine, pleading.

“We’re not friends.” The Mandalorian has all the charm of a brick wall. Sturdy, but Ocha doesn’t expect him to grab a microphone at Karga’s next open mic night.

“I have the credits,” she says. It shouldn’t matter to them how she got them, just that she does. “I know your typical rate is high; I can triple it. I’ll give you half now, and if anything happens, you can even keep it.”

OR: The Mandalorian picks up another job after turning in the Child.

Notes:

thank you to my wonderful friend and beta reader danaë !! you can find her here at TheSparklingDiamond , please read her fic 'everything to win' it's so good !!

Chapter 1: Prologue

PROLOGUE

NEVARRO, 9 ABY 

 

Out of the night that covers me,

Black as the pit from pole to pole,

I thank whatever gods may be

For my unconquerable soul.

 

In the fell clutch of circumstance

I have not winced nor cried aloud.

Under the bludgeonings of chance

My head is bloody, but unbowed.

 

Beyond this place of wrath and tears

Looms but the Horror of the shade,

And yet the menace of the years

Finds and shall find me unafraid.

 

It matters not how strait the gate,

How charged with punishments the scroll,

I am the master of my fate,

I am the captain of my soul.

 

— “Invictus”, William Ernest Henley

---

“I’m not a taxi service.” His voice is even, neutral. Maybe a little tired. There’s no disdain, no frustration, just a simple statement. He isn’t a taxi service. The Mandalorian is informing them that he doesn’t run a taxi service.

 

Ocha is ready to leave it at that. In truth, she’s a little afraid of Mandalorians, she thinks maybe it’s appropriate to be afraid of Mandalorians. Her stomach hurts in an odd way— perhaps it’s anxiety, perhaps the bayoneted rifle on his shoulder. If she can avoid traveling with him, she will, but Greef Karga is doing her a massive favor and she’s not looking to earn his ire by being difficult. She stands behind him just a step, dressed in plain robes, picking at her blue-gray cuticles. Don’t look him in the eye. Remain so still they both forget she’s here.

 

“Oh, Mando, you wouldn’t even consider doing this favor for an old friend?” Karga smiles, genuine, pleading. He’s closer to an uncle than anything else, a former dear friend of her father’s. She trusts Karga enough to choose money over loyalty and not inform her father of Ocha’s plans to come see him. 

 

“We’re not friends.” The Mandalorian has all the charm of a brick wall. Sturdy, but Ocha doesn’t expect him to grab a microphone at Karga’s next open mic night. “I said no.” Quickly, Ocha steals a glance at him. His armor is a shiny silver color, solid beskar. She’s fairly sure she’s never stood so close to something so expensive, certainly not something as culturally rich as this. His helmet is the plainest she’s ever seen, like he’s attempting to blend in and is woefully unaware of how badly it’s backfiring. The helmet is in the typical bucket shape, no antennae, with the visor pinched into a T shape instead of something with eye holes. He’s covered himself partially with a worn cape— Ocha has one, too— but don’t Mandalorians typically wear jetpacks? 

 

When nobody continues speaking, Ocha decides it’s her turn. “I have the credits,” she says. It shouldn’t matter to them how she got them, just that she does. “I know your typical rate is high; I can triple it. I’ll give you half now, and if anything happens, you can even keep it.” It’s a long shot, and Ocha squeezes her toes together, invisibly trying to work out stress. 

 

The Mandalorian cocks his head and Karga answers the question he’s silently asked. “She needs to get somewhere safely.” Anxiety bubbles up in her gut and she swallows it down, ignoring it. She focuses outside, watching as one of Karga’s worse hunters picks a fight with a droid. 

 

He exhales loudly. Maybe he doesn’t know the rest of the world can hear his sighs but it’s more likely that he simply doesn’t care. “Fine.” Ocha breathes a quiet sigh of relief and digs the credits out of her pocket.

 

She tries to put them in his hand but he doesn’t move a muscle: still, as soon as they’re on the table they’re gone, squirreled away. “I leave in four hours— whether you’re on the ship or not.” He turns and leaves without so much as a goodbye and Ocha slides into his place across from Karga. She sees herself move in one of Karga’s funhouse mirrors, a swirl of blues and white. Ocha rests her chin in her hand and waits for Karga to speak. 

 

“Don’t get your hopes up,” Karga warns her immediately. “What you see is what you get. You’re not going to be able to make friends with him.” 

 

“That is a sad and limited viewpoint,” Ocha tells him, ignoring the spotchka the Mandalorian didn’t touch. Her stomach lurches even without the help of the drink. “I’ll make friends with him if it’s the last thing I ever do.” 

 

“Must be the heat,” he says, grinning. “You’ll feel better on the ship. Are you all packed?” Karga lowers his voice, shooing off a droid that comes to refill his drink. 

 

Ocha shakes her head, trying not to look nervous. “I’m blowing the last of the money he gave me to go to this wedding. If it goes badly, can I—? Will you—?”

 

“I’ll always be in your corner,” Karga promises. “But I’m serious. That Mandalorian is dangerous, Ocha, and I’m putting you with him because I trust him to be less dangerous to you than he is to anybody— everybody — else in the galaxy. Stay out of his way, stay quiet. Ocha?” 

 

This is the part where Ocha starts to drift. “I’m listening,” promises Ocha. “Just thinking. Have you talked to my dad recently?” Ocha’s father is arguably the most famous Togruta politician in the inner rim— Armand the Conciliator— and she doesn’t have the ability to lay claim to his last name. Or any last name, really. She doesn’t even look that much like him, they share a general similarity between their facial markings. It’s the only tie she has to any other Togruta in the galaxy. 

 

“Yes, but a few weeks ago. I shipped him some spirits. Should have shipped you with it, now that I’m thinking about it.” 

 

“Those cargo bays get cold. I would have died.” Ocha tries to tease but it just comes off as desperate— she swallows around what feels like a thick lump in her throat, hard as a rock. Her heart jumps every time she thinks of seeing her father— if she’s right in front of him it won’t be possible for him to ignore her, right? 

 

Karga waves his hand dismissively. “Do you want to go over your plan?” 

 

“No,” Ocha says, and finally feels confident about it. She knows what she’ll do and repeating it at this point will do little other than cause anxiety. She squeezes the very end of her lekku until it hurts her hand and then lets it go, watching the blue rush back into her knuckles. She wants to say some sort of meaningful goodbye to Karga, but it’s not something she’s used to. Ocha hasn’t yet been off Nevarro, born and raised on the volcanic planet, struggling to blend in with the environment and even more so the people. She stalls for a minute with a low um… but Karga knows her too well. 

 

“Come back with good stories,” Karga says simply, rising from the table. He almost looks content with that as a goodbye, but Ocha offers her hand anyway. Karga grasps her forearm with a pressure, but eventually loosens it and drops his hand to shake hers. “Be good.” 

 

“I’ll do my best,” affirms Ocha, “But no promises.” 

 

When Ocha turns to leave, she almost runs into a Durosian, narrowly avoiding him. She hears a low snarl before anything else so she apologizes with a quiet whisper and looks back as Karga does business with him. 

 

When the light hits Ocha’s face, she covers it instinctually. The evening sun seems almost brighter in the morning, but it must be a mirage, because it’s almost sunset. Ocha drops her hand once a glint of Beskar steel peeks through, though she continues squinting to focus. 

 

It’s the Mandalorian, as though he’s appeared out of nowhere. He stills when he sees Ocha, but instead of mirroring him she moves even faster— her home is on the outskirts of town and she’s barely halfway packed. Maybe if she doesn’t pack all the way, there will be a chance she could return. Maybe. Hopefully. But probably not. 

Chapter 2: Footnotes / Job #692

DAY THREE OF FOURTEEN

SPACE, 9 ABY 

Ocha is sure she hasn’t spoken in days. 

 

Three, to be exact, and she’s scarcely seen the Mandalorian in that time. He’d passed through the tiny storage unit a few times to get downstairs to use the refresher, and had continually brought up cold air with him, carried by his cloak. Ocha has chosen to combat this by tying up her blankets into a hammock, which coincidentally puts at eye-level with the Mandlorian’s victims. 

 

Ocha isn’t fond of the fact that she can fit her entire life into two suitcases with room to spare. It does make packing easy, but it also means that if these cases get lost or destroyed, she’ll have to start all over from only the clothes on her back. It’s why she keeps them bound together with rope even though Karga assured her the Razor Crest is safe. Ocha knows better than to trust salesmen. 

 

“Don’t touch the carbonite,” the Mandalorian had said, upon catching her in the storage unit. “You—” and then he had stopped, suddenly, strangely, and when he resumed speaking his tone had a sort of flat inflection, pressed there artificially. “Shouldn’t touch the carbonite.”

 

Ocha doesn’t respond, but presses her lips into a firm line and nods. Ocha has to respect his rules so long as she’s on the ship— which, with luck, will be fourteen days. There isn’t a direct lane that goes from Nevarro to Coruscant, and there’s a terrible amount of stuff in the way, planets and the like, that they can’t exactly fly through. 

 

So they exist separately, and at times tangentially. Ocha is awake when the Mandalorian passes through to brush his teeth and instinctually she turns, fighting her hammock to face away from him. She wonders if it’s uncomfortable, keeping all of that armor on so she won’t see him. Ocha doesn’t know a lot about Mandalorians and she imagines the history books won’t help: they’re hiding and want to be that way on purpose. 

 

She doesn’t struggle with impulse control, not at all, but something else is powering her when she calls: “Mandalorian.” It’s a shot in the dark— he could simply ignore her and keep walking forward, or tell her to keep quiet. He’s already treated her better than just about any other adult that Ocha knows, and that’s excluding Gruncle (Greef-Uncle) Karga. 

 

The Mandalorian has just come up from the cargo hold. He doesn’t turn around to acknowledge her but he stops, and tilts his head just slightly, putting his ear to face her. Maybe he’s expecting a stupid question. What’s your name? Can I see your face? Are we there yet? But nothing comes. 

 

Instead, Ocha decides not to waste this. She has one shot to get in with the Mandalorian— the next eleven days could be pleasant or they could not be. He is dangerous, becoming friendly with him grants her a level of protection that may make him think twice about killing her for making a joke that doesn’t land right. “How do you become one? A Mandalorian?” Ocha keeps her voice down, unfurling herself from her hammock like a spider might from its web. 

 

“Do you find yourself interested in joining up?” A pause and then some. When it approaches conception he coughs. “You’re young. Why would you want to?” He turns and walks back to the cockpit but the way he raises his voice as he does implies he expects her to follow— so she does. 

 

“Mandalorians live in communities with other Mandalorians,” Ocha informs him, as though he wouldn’t know. “I don’t know. I like that.” It’s an odd, fumbled answer, and while it’s mostly the truth, it’s not all of it. He must know this, because he waits for her to continue speaking. Ocha does put serious thought into simply running out the clock, but he’s entertaining conversation. She might not get this chance again. “Family. Fortitude. Honor. What else is there?” 

 

When the cockpit door slides open, Ocha has little other choice than to follow him in and take a seat in the copilot’s chair to his left. “Adventure,” he offers as though it’s obvious. “It seems everyone your age wants to skip off their home planets and find the next-closet system.” Ocha smiles but tamps down a laugh, swallowing it back into her stomach. 

 

“How old do you think I am?” Ocha asks, not really expecting an answer. She doesn’t have a good reference for how other teenagers look, or if she looks young or old for her age. Ocha has always felt different— fundamentally different— from other people. Separate, like she’s an island unto herself even when surrounded by people. That’s not how Togrutas should work: even alone they can build their own communities. So maybe Ocha is just broken. 

 

The Mandalorian pauses uncomfortably, fully aware now of the trap he’s walked himself into. “F…” he shifts, hands tight on the controls. “Fourteen?” 

 

Ocha didn’t expect him to be so polite. Actually, she didn’t expect much of anything: Mandalorians aren’t known for their small-talk capabilities. “Yes, that’s right,” she confirms quickly. But then she sobers, the smile slipping off of her face and into her hands, and then to the floor where it stays. “Adventures are for people who have at least something to lose. Even if it’s only a little.” 

 

She knows by the short hum that he makes that this must be an uncommon answer. Ocha is fine to leave well enough alone, but then it’s the Mandalorian himself who keeps going. “There’s a Creed,” he says, low, tired, with the sort of breathlessness of someone who both doesn’t sleep enough at night and can’t get enough air in his lungs. “It’s meant to protect us.” He takes a breath. “Wear the armor, speak the language. Defending oneself and the family, defending the clan. Raising Mandalorians.” 

 

It’s anticlimactic when compared to what Ocha had in her head. She expected something more… dogmatic. Still, it sounds somewhere between stale and dreamy, depending on how much push and pull each Mandalorian gets with the rules. “You remove it to eat,” Ocha nods along. “I can hear when you put it on the ground.” 

 

The helmet tips to the side, just a little bit, before he concedes. The tall montrals on her head do serve a purpose— Ocha, like all Togruta, can echolocate through them. Ocha’s are small, but with luck, they will continue to grow, much like her lekku. Like her mother’s and her father’s, her montrals and Lekku are white with blue markings— Father has a thin, striped pattern and Mama barely had markings at all, just some blue on the undersides of her lekku and on her montrals. Ocha will have to look at the holos again to see the angle and shape of Father’s montrals but Mama’s stood straight up, like a frightened cat’s fur. Ocha’s slant backwards. 

 

“When I figure out how to eat with it on, you’ll be the first to know,” the Mandalorian informs her wryly. “It’s part of the Creed. I like wearing it.” The anonymity must be comfortable— especially within his profession. 

 

“It’s noble,” Ocha assures him, feeling a sort of hollowness only known by someone entirely disconnected from their culture. “It’s noble,” she repeats, shaking herself off and realigning herself to the mission. “Do you enjoy being a Mandalorian?”

 

“Yes,” he says simply, not missing a beat. “It’s not just the helmet. It’s…” he trails off, growing quiet. “The choice. This is the Way.” Ocha looks around the cabin to ponder this and sees that the other copilot’s seat has been removed, and its space sits a chrome orb— mechanical, closed. It takes Ocha a moment to realize it’s a broken crib. She looks back forward with a haste; she tries and fails to remove the image from her mind. A crib, cribs are for babies. There was a baby on this ship, and Ocha only has to assume by the presence of no baby on the ship that it has died. 

 

It’s too late. The Mandalorian notices and tenses up. Ocha opens and closes her mouth several times, trying to find something, anything at all to say. I’m sorry your child died, perhaps, or do they even make armor that small, maybe, but she decides on: “We don’t have to talk about it. We shouldn’t talk about it. It’s none of my business.” 

 

“I agree,” he says, sternly. “I have to stop to take care of a bounty on one of these planets. Stay on the ship, the atmosphere isn’t breathable.” 

 

Ocha stands and smooths down the sides of her pants, heart thrumming out of her chest. “Fine,” Ocha says. “I have some work to do as well,” she lies, to prop herself up in the eyes of the Mandalorian. She turns and leaves, and barely gets out of the cockpit before the Mandalorian is remote-closing the door behind her. He almost nicks her back lekku in his haste. Ocha reaches back to touch and soothe the slight graze— he’s barely harmed her. 

 

Fine, Ocha thinks. I do too have my own business to take care of. She starts by first laying her hand flat on the carbonite— nothing happens. It’s a little clammy and cold but little else. Then she unties her hammock and throws it over her shoulder. She’ll sleep in the cargo hold, no matter how cold it gets— she won’t let that walking, talking hunk of Beskar disturb her beauty rest. 

 

She drags her suitcases down after a moment. There isn’t anything terribly fragile in there— clothes, a photo of her and her mother, a scrap of her baby blanket, her only surviving childhood toy, her journal. Still, the dull thunks feel too unceremonious as this should be. Ocha wishes there was a stick and some sand— or anything to draw a line on. This is the cargo hold of the Razor Crest. There are many like it, but this one is mine (temporarily). She ends up picking the corner furthest from the opening to the ship, hidden by the ladder going up to the cockpit. She’ll be safe, hidden. What more can she ask for? 

 

She ends up having to get pretty creative. The only thing she can safely secure her warm, thick hammock to is about six feet off the ground— Ocha balances precariously: one knee wedged in the triangle created by a support brace and the other leg outstretched to press against the adjoining wall. It’s her rubber boots that help her grip the wall, and when she slips, she’s able to recover quickly enough that she doesn’t lose her place. 

 

The ship rattles and Ocha realizes they’re pulling into the atmosphere— ship rattles as it settles into the gas giant’s stratosphere. Ocha’s hammock swings wildly and her suitcases rattle against the floor; she drops with a haste and pounces on one, throwing her arm forward to stop the other from sliding down the deck. She curses to herself and pulls them both back under her, feeling the ship shake until it finally settles. 

 

She hears the Mandalorian stand from the pilot’s seat and then she hears him crack his aging back. The sound filters through the air and onto and then through her montrals, before the synapses transmit the sound to her brain. He stomps— he’s still upset— down the hallway to the ladder and Ocha takes a moment to roll her eyes so far they nearly spin past her brain. 

 

The Mandalorian drops with a heavy thunk and whirls around, his cape fluttering dramatically behind him. He opens the weapons closet (Ocha didn’t even know that was a feature of this ship) and pulls a specific blaster from it. He sets the butt on the ground and leans the tip against the door as he lifts something else, something heavier. He slides it onto his back and Ocha recognizes it as a set of oxygen tanks— the tubes running up the tanks connect to the weirdest looking mask Ocha’s ever seen, but then she realizes it’s an airtight seal for the bottom of his helmet. 

 

Ocha stands and folds her arms across her chest, watching quietly. It’s like viewing the world’s weirdest museum exhibit, like every step the Mandalorian takes has been trained and tested. Like there’s a specific way to inhale and exhale to guarantee the outcome of a fight. It makes sense, and it makes her uneasy. 

 

He could kill me, Ocha thinks, nervous. I’d be only a footnote in my father’s biography. Perhaps not even that. A match, snuffed out. 

 

She watches him go.

Chapter 3: I Do Not Scream / Kuiil’s Daughter

DAY FOUR OF FOURTEEN

UNKNOWN PLANET, 9 ABY 

 

Ocha wakes several hours later to clanging on the outside of the ship. It’s not startling: she had gotten used to some movement with how fast the winds had been whipping around the ship, but this is decidedly different, more intentional. 

 

Ocha stretches her arms and legs and rolls out of the hammock. There’s a tiny porthole window she can peer out of, and she stacks two crates to get up to it. During this time the smacking sound grows more fervent and yet it grows weaker as well. Ocha pulls herself up to the porthole, fingertips digging into the thin seam created by the metal meeting the transparisteel, and angles her head awkwardly to look down. 

 

She’s caught halfway between perhaps my montrals are taller than the mirror suggests and the Mandalorian is dying, and if he dies, I’m screwed! Her predicament becomes clear. The Mandalorian is outside beating on the ship with a beskar-less, gloved hand, but he’s slumped over, with the bounty unconscious on his back. 

 

She leaps off the crates with a nervous ferocity and slaps her hand against the controls, pressing the buttons in so far they might spring out of the wall when she removes her hand. The pad turns from red to green and the door, just the door, shudders. It opens up, first, and the air whooshes in, thick with reddish-orange dust. It struggles against the high wind, which howls its way through the ship with a tone that distinctly reminds Ocha of screaming. She takes a breath, deep, deeper than she’s ever taken one before. 

 

Ocha puts her hand between the ground and the door and shoves it up, before attempting to manually open the ramp. It won’t come out, and a cough escapes her in confusion. She looks out into the distance. Gorgeous, she thinks, gorgeous. Her first new planet. That Mandalorian really knows how to pick them; the wind bustling around in swirling reds, oranges, and yellows, obscuring everything but the shadows of the slums. At the top must be Cloud City, the shining jewel of an otherwise unremarkable mining planet. 

 

Ocha forgets that she shouldn’t breathe. She takes a soft inhale and chokes. It’s enough for the dust to get caught in her throat, her lungs. The dust burns her, like it really is made of the same fiery color it appears in the light of the sunrise. Ocha can’t stop another cough and then when she breathes in again it’s in the form of a wheeze.

 

The Mandalorian throws the bounty up first, with a strength considerable for how low he must be running on oxygen. Ocha catches it— her— an Ugnaught, remarkably and perhaps worryingly light. Then the Mandalorian commands Ocha. It sounds a little bit like something something “Air,” and through her own coughs Ocha opens the weapons closet and yanks down one of the masks, propping up the Ugnaught on her chest to pull the mask over her face. When it’s properly situated, the nose cannulas tucked into her nostrils, Ocha tries to turn the pump. 

 

It won’t budge. The Ugnaught’s chest slows, and Ocha jostles her to try and wake her up. She tries to twist the pump with all her might and her hand slips— if she wasn’t panicking before she is now. Ocha slams her first against the oxygen pump; and a hard clanging noise rings out. But it moves, just a little. Ocha reaches up and takes the end of one of the Mandalorian’s pistols, banging it against the dial until it turns to the maximum setting. When Ocha can hear the oxygen flowing, she turns back to the Mandalorian. 

 

He’s too weak to pull himself up. Or, perhaps not— the wind is trying to suck him back out, and he has to fight it before he can think of pulling himself in. Ocha hears a threatening rattle and looks up, searching for it. It’s the door, threatening to come down on his neck. She forgets the bounty and pulls herself forward, the dust whipping at her face, bouncing off her montrals, her lekku, making it more difficult to hear what the Mandalorian is trying to shout. 

 

Ocha moves closer, against the wind. She offers her hands and the Mandalorian grabs her forearm. He tugs her closer but she still can’t hear his voice, can’t hear anything but the sharp wind, bouncing off her montrals, into her head. So Ocha pulls back. She wraps her fingers around his arm, his elbow, digging into the fabric between the beskar. Her foot finds a hold on the edge of the door and she pushes against it with all her might, muscles straining, her legs, her stomach, her arms. 

 

As a general rule, Ocha does not scream. Rather, she’s not screamed since she was a child trying to get her way when there were so few ways for her to possibly get. Ocha has rarely ever raised her voice. 

 

So Ocha screams with everything she has in her. It tears her throat apart, dust flooding in, it pierces the air like a rusty needle from one of those punch-guns, it horrifies the Mandalorian. But it’s a release: Ocha finds the strength to pull him up. He feels it first in his toes, the way the pressure on them increases as his heels are pulled off the ground, how his rifle slides against his back, how he can feel those last dregs of hope return to a steady drip. 

 

When Ocha’s nearly squandered her strength she finds more. She reaches down and sinks her fingernails into his cape, dragging him up. The rattling door grows louder and louder, incentivizing Ocha to get him through. He digs his hands into the grooves of the floor. Ocha crawls forward and bends over the edge of the ship, reaching for the Mandalorian’s leg. Blood rushes to her head and forces her to breathe, to regulate the pressure. 

 

Ocha can feel herself growing weaker. She reaches wildly, groping about for anything. Dust begins to accumulate heavily in her eyelashes and she squeezes her eyes shut reflexively. She slips forward further, the edge of the ship cutting into the front of her hips. Her nails tangle into the fabric just under the beskar plate of his thigh, and Ocha knows from both the pressure behind it and the soft, wet feeling on her fingertips that she’s accidentally damaged his flesh. 

 

But it means she’s got a lock on him, so she digs in further, until she can wrap her hand around his knee and yank him up. He doesn’t make a sound, or maybe Ocha just can’t hear him cry out in pain. She presses her knees hard into the ship, using the grooves as leverage to pull herself back and take the Mandalorian with her. 

 

It feels like more than a minor victory when she finally does get the Mandalorian back inside the ship. Perhaps more than a singular step in the grand scheme of things— he would have eventually figured out how to open the ship without her. He might have even gotten in open quicker. Maybe, Ocha thinks, flinching as the door slams shut over what was a second ago the Mandalorian’s foot, I should have stayed in the hammock.

 

The ship isn’t quiet, it’s not in the Razor Crest’s nature to be anything but alive with the hum of the engine, and now the howling wind, but compared to how loud it was before, the three of them could be in a deprivation tank. Ocha holds her breath for just fifteen seconds before she dissolves back into coughs, making awful retching sounds as she tries to prevent vomiting. She claws at her throat, rising to her knees just to fall on her palms again. 

 

But the Mandalorian and the Ugnaught bounty had come from that mess. Through tears, through sucking in greedy lungfuls of air, ones that burn her throat, Ocha crawls to the Ugnaught. Her chest rises and falls steadily, the amount of oxygen left in the tank still in the green zone. Her eyes stayed glued to Ocha, and because Ocha can’t recognize the expression in them, she remains uneasy. 

 

“Are…” even one word exhausts Ocha, but one leads to two and then three. “Are you okay?”

 

She wheezes: “Yes,” then “Thank you,” “Thank you,” “Thank you,”. Ocha realizes that the Ugnaught is grateful— when, if ever, has anyone ever been thankful toward Ocha? So she takes a moment to savor it, resting her hand on the Ugnaught’s foot. 

 

She turns to the Mandalorian, who looks decidedly displeased. She doesn’t know if it’s the helmet or just her imagining things, but he looks less than thrilled. He pulls the seal and oxygen tanks off his back, and as they roll toward Ocha she can see that they’re all the way empty, and one is damaged, torn. “I told you to get air first.” How long had he been without air himself? Had that damaged tank been feeding him the dust? 

 

“I could hardly hear a thing in that storm,” Ocha tells him evenly, touching her fingers to her throat. “You could have told me to jump into it and I wouldn’t have heard you.” 

 

“Well, I didn’t,” the Mandalorian says, in the same soft tone he’s always used, only now there’s a dull edge to it. He’s clutching his knee and Ocha looks at her hand, her bloodied fingertips, the single streak that runs down to her palm. 

 

“You have my apologies,” Ocha says, holding up her palm to show him. “Does she need to go in carbonite?” If he can’t get her into the freezing chamber, Ocha will. They’ve already spent too much time on this planet and Ocha would like to continue being rocked to sleep by hyperspace. 

 

“No,” the Mandalorian says quickly, glancing over to assure the Ugnaught. “No, that’s Azla. She’s a… she’s a guest.” Ocha breathes a thankful sigh of relief. “We’re going to drop her off on Bespin, she can get back to Nevarro from there.” 

 

“I see,” Ocha says intelligently, dipping her head in apology to Azla. She stumbles to the ladder and has to catch herself on the railing as another fit of hacking coughs overtakes her. “I can put the ship into hyperdrive,” she croaks. “How do I put the ship into hyperdrive?”

 

The Mandalorian watches her for a few long moments before nodding his head. “Turn on the ship’s engine,” he says finally. “It’s the small red button on the center-left side. That will turn on the center console. Use the joystick on the right side to navigate the GPS— Galactic Positioning System— over to the search bar. Type in Bespin.”

 

All easy steps, Ocha rationalizes. The hardest part about this will be getting up the ladder. She has to go up the rungs so slowly it feels like she’ll never get there. Hand, hand, foot, foot, pull. This sequence, what feels like a thousand times. When she finally reaches the top, she has to rest for about a minute, looking over her body. She’s not bleeding, nothing’s torn or broken. But the way she trembles is terrible, like she’s in her pajamas on Hoth. 

 

She puts her hand on the carbonite as she passes through, partly to steady herself and partly as minor revenge. Ocha fumbles her way into the cockpit, sitting in the comfortable pilot’s chair like she’s never sat in anything before. But she wastes no time; following the instructions. She turns on the ship’s engine and feels it rumble to life beneath her fingers, on her montrals. It takes some work, some trial and error, but she does eventually get the ship up off the ground. When the stars blur into lines, Ocha sags with relief and stands, staggering back to the ladder. She gets down five rungs normally before losing her grip and falling to the ground with a hard thud— and it is as painful as it sounds. She groans out softly, curling into herself at the base of the ladder. The floor is cold and uncomfortable but Ocha just needs an hour of rest before she does anything else. 

 

She seems to have attracted the attention of visitors. The Mandalorian, still bleeding from his knee, stands over her wearing an expression known only as pity. 

 

“Is she okay?” Azla asks carefully, sitting up. Ocha can only tell because the sound of her doing so bounces off her montrals— even with her eyes closed she can’t escape knowing where everything is. 

 

“I don’t know,” the Mandalorian tells her, and Ocha senses his honesty. Without asking, he gets his hand under her back and her knees, lifting her against his chest. He staggers as he walks, but eventually he settles Ocha in her hammock, leaving her to pull the blankets over herself. 

 

Ocha shakes until she falls asleep. 

Chapter 4: The Tightest Hug In The World / Ocha N-L-N-G

DAY FIVE OF FOURTEEN

SPACE, 9 ABY 

 

Ocha can barely keep her eyes open. Again, something jostles her. She’s too high up for it to be the Ugnaught, Azal—Azla—whatever. Ocha yawns, showing off her teeth. Leave me alone, she says, without saying anything. 

 

“Girl.” Naturally, it’s the Mandalorian, shaking her shoulder with a cool, leathery hand. He must have located his other glove. “Girl. Wake up.” Ocha would like nothing more than to stay in bed until she dies. Everything hurts with a passion— even blinking over her grainy eyes is close to painful. But she sits up and almost clips her montrals on the cold ceiling of the Razor Crest . A chill seems to overcome her and she pulls the blanket tight around her chest. 

 

“What is it?” She asks, a soft demand. At least she hadn’t snapped at him. She can hear the Ugnaught snoring quietly on the other side of the bay, a thin blanket over her. She’s greeted with what should be his typical shiny beskar, but it seems duller than usual. Perhaps the dust, Ocha thinks, he was out there for far longer than I. He could do with a polishing.  

 

“Is…” and then he trails off, swallowing. Ocha can see his throat bob just slightly under his neck guard, but it’s enough. Is he nervous? Ocha ponders this with a split sense of giddiness and confusion. “Is there an antidote?” 

 

“Antidote for what?” Ocha asks, less patiently. She doesn’t have any medical experience, like she doesn’t have any piloting or mechanical experience either. The world is her oyster, but she doesn’t have a shucking knife. 

 

He shifts, embarrassed, and Ocha unfurls herself from her comfortable cocoon. The blanket remains tight around her shoulders, dripping from her montrals like a cloak. “Togruta are venomous,” he says, like common knowledge between them. “Do you… carry any with you?” 

 

“Did you hit your head?” Ocha asks, shaking her head so that her blanket hood falls off her montrals. “Out there? Or— previously? Should I call Karga?” When the words filter through Din’s audio processors he sags, and Ocha can see the issue. He’s favoring his knee, the one Ocha dug her nails into in order to lift him. Ocha peers at the wound, bending slightly. It’s wrapped in a white bandage that has since become soiled, framing the beskar pad of his kneecap. He clears his throat, prompting her to explain and perhaps apologize for the insult. “Togruta aren’t venomous,” Ocha says. “That’s a stereotype, a myth. A mean myth. You’ve not heard me say anything remotely similar about your people.” 

For a moment, he stares at her, unmoving. Ocha can’t even guess as to what expression he’s wearing behind the helmet, and Ocha finds herself unable to care. Ocha grows close to telling him to remove himself from the cargo bay, whether that be through the airlock or the ladder back into the cockpit, when the Mandalorian stops her from leaving with a surprisingly gentle hand. “I’m sorry,” he tells her honestly, earnestly, and the first thought Ocha has is: he’s only apologizing because he wants me to tell him he’s not dying. But then he continues: “I didn’t know it was hurtful. It was not my intention to offend you… truly.” 

 

Ocha tilts her head as though the information may make more sense at a forty-five degree angle. The Mandalorian follows the movement, tilting to the same side as Ocha. Uncomfortable, Ocha clears her throat and shakes her head, lekku shifting slightly. “I put my nails in your skin to lift you. I had dust on my nails. It’s probably just infected.” 

 

“Oh,” the Mandalorian responds intelligently. Ocha hasn’t spied any bacta kits on the ship, so he’ll have to wait until they drop off the Ugnaught girl later today. In all honesty, Ocha had expected someone of his Creed and age to be able to differ between an infection and venom. If Ocha finds herself to be the most intelligent person anywhere she goes, she will be sorely disappointed. “We’ll be at Bespin in a short time. You only slept for five hours, I’m sorry. I gave you all the time I could.” 

 

Ocha mouths the words after he says them and then looks down at her nails, still crusty with dust and dried blood. “Why? Am I going with you?” 

 

He nods once, firmly. “I can’t walk very well. I need backup getting Kuiil’s daughter to her ship.”

 

“I don’t know how to fight,” Ocha says quickly. “I don’t have any medical training, either.” She doesn’t know if she’s trying to warn him or trying to get out of going. 

 

“You’re fourteen,” the Mandalorian tells her. “You shouldn’t. But if you want experience, this is it.”

When had Ocha ever indicated she’d wanted something like this? But then she remembers: the Mandalorian had probably taken her interest in the Creed as interest in his lifestyle. And she would be lying if she said the thought wasn’t… alluring. So Ocha knows exactly what is driving her when she says; “Alright. I’ll go.” 

 

He doesn’t offer a verbal reply, but turns and slowly makes his way up the ladder, joints creaking. He’s favoring that bad knee— they really do need Bacta more than anything. When Ocha hears him finally sit down in the pilot’s chair, she sighs a breath of relief. Ocha rubs her face, still bone-tired and in pain. Without medication for the soreness in every muscle, Ocha will have to get creative. She’ll use the fresher, change, and then check in on the Ugnaught girl. 

 

Ocha hisses as she crouches, opening her suitcase. From her few clothes she selects dark robes— if she’s going out she’ll want something to cover her montrals, she doesn’t want anyone to see her and then recognize her later. The Razor Crest’s fresher is tiny, it doesn’t even have enough room for her to put her clothes on the counter, so she puts them in the dry sink. The door locks shabbily, but the fresher should be loud enough for the sound to scare off any intruders. 

 

The water starts flowing before Ocha even enters the fresher, heating until it gives off steam. Ocha is little less than pleased when it burns her hand upon her testing of the water. She makes it only a little colder before stripping and stepping in. 

 

Because Ocha doesn’t have hair, she washes her lekku and montrals with a scrub brush with a dab of what smells to be the standard hand soap available in public bathrooms. Ocha doesn’t mind; she’s grown oddly accustomed to the citrus-y, floral-y scent. She gets the dirt out from under her fingernails and the blood off from the top of them, and only dares to leave the shower once it turns cold. 

 

Changing proves to be difficult. She knocks her montrals against the sink as she tries to put on her pants and then almost falls over as the vibration rattles through her head. Still, it feels like a small victory when Ocha successfully ties the robes shut, zipping the turtlenecked top until it closes near her chin. 

 

Steam follows her out, licking at her heels and sticking to her shoulders. The Ugnaught is still asleep in the corner, chest rising and falling with a steady, if not slightly slowed, pace. Ocha approaches carefully, kneeling to shake the girl awake. 

 

“Azla,” Ocha says softly, rousing her. “Azla, Azla. We’ll be at Bespin shortly.” When Azla wakes, it’s with a startle. She springs forward, sitting up so fast Ocha nearly falls back in shock. Azla whimpers softly, holding her face in her hands. Ocha hesitates before she reaches out, cupping Azla’s hands with her own and pulling them from her face. Ocha’s voice is measured when she asks: “What’s wrong?”

 

At first, Azla shrugs, trying and failing to keep herself together. Then come the tears. It begins with soft, stifled sobs that grow larger, and larger, until she’s blubbering into her hands, producing so many tears they drip down onto the blanket. “I had— a nightmare,” Azla gasps, wiping her face, but more tears keep coming. “I had a nightmare— it wasn’t over,” she chokes, hyperventilating. “I want— I want—” 

 

“You’re okay,” Ocha assures her clunkily, squeezing her shoulders. “You’re okay, you’re going home.” 

 

“I want my dad!” Azla cries. “I know I’m— too old— to want him, but I can’t help it,” she sobs, and Ocha scoots forward to embrace her. It’s the first hug Ocha has had in a long, long time. It’s almost overpowering how tightly Azla squeezes her but Ocha breathes in and out through her nose, forcing herself to hug back. She presses their cheeks tight together and doesn’t care about the mucus and tears staining her shoulder. She’ll just wear her hood over it.

 

Ocha hasn’t ever really had a dad to miss. She’s missed her mother for longer than she’s known her and that has been enough. She misses Karga, maybe, but it’s more of a dull ache than what Azla’s fiery grief for the absence of her father. She knows the Mandalorian is upstairs, listening to them both, and Ocha thinks perhaps he’s more of a coward than I previously thought.

 

Ocha holds Azla until she settles down, lying back against the crates. But she doesn’t go back to sleep.

 

“Do you have a family?” Azla asks, sleep edging into her voice. Ocha thinks about the question before answering. Does Karga count? Karga had loved her mother more than anything in the world, but as much as people thought them similar, Ocha was not Anpao. Technically there is Armand, who is her father, but likely wouldn’t ever claim the title. 

 

“No,” Ocha says softly. “No, I don’t.” 

 

“You don’t have a father?” Azla asks, still holding Ocha’s hand. Ocha doesn’t know much about Ugnaughts, but she knows they mature a whole lot slower than other species. She could be fifty and still just a year older than Ocha simultaneously. 

 

“Can you keep a secret?” Ocha asks instead. Azla nods. “I’m going to see my father now,” Ocha says. “That’s why I’m with the Mandalorian. My father is getting married.” 

 

“That’s nice,” Azla yawns. “Who is he marrying?” 

 

Ocha swallows before answering. “...Dascha Paashi.” Dascha Paashi, who runs the most famous dance company in the inner rim, likely across the galaxy. Of course her marriage would be high profile. 

 

Azla’s brows furrow. “Your father is Senator Aziz? Armand the Conciliator?”

 

Ocha nods, ashamed. But it feels good for the secret to be out, even if just to a single person. “I’m going to find him,” Ocha tells Azla. “And…” I’m going to make him pay for what he did to my mother. I’m going to make him watch as his life explodes in front of him. I’m going to tell everyone our little secret. “I don’t know,” Ocha confesses, embarrassed. “You should get a little more rest.”

 

Azla releases her hand and Ocha crawls back, making her way over to the ladder. She’ll check how far away they are and then entertain herself by touching the carbonite. Ocha struggles up the ladder and pulls herself to the cockpit, sitting hard in the same chair as earlier. 

 

A comfortable silence exists between them: Ocha has forgotten to ask about their estimated time of arrival, instead basking in the comfort of the copilot’s chair. And then he ruins it, like two magnets flying together. He opens his mouth to ask: “Your dad is that Togruta senator on Coruscant?” 

 

Ocha hardly has the energy to defend herself. “Yes,” she offers, not meekly, but close to it. So what if he looks down upon her for it? In a few days she will never have to see him again. 

 

“And your mother…?”

 

“I thought you didn’t care about stuff like this,” Ocha warns, firmly but not unkindly. “I thought Mandalorians didn’t care about stuff like this.”

 

Thankfully, he clams up. “You’re right, I don’t.” But this means that they’re even; Ocha and the Mandalorian. Except he may think that she’s lying, he may turn around and take her right back to Karga if he thinks she’s doing something that will endanger him. It’s what Ocha would do. It’s what any sane person would do. 

 

So then Ocha says: “I was born a few weeks after my mother turned twenty.” She’s never told anyone about her life, all the people on Nevarro just knew. “She was young. He was… older. Much older. And he was her boss’s boss. And he was powerful, and nobody would have believed her.” Nobody will believe me either, thinks Ocha, except for Armand. 

 

“I see,” the Mandalorian says, tone tinged with awkwardness. “Are you… planning on… killing him?” 

 

“I haven’t really thought that far,” Ocha tells him truthfully. “I mean, I guess whatever happens, happens. But I suppose I have time before the wedding.” 

 

“He’ll likely have guards,” the Mandalorian tells her. “Watching the entrances, the exits. Him and the woman, too. You could walk in and shoot him, but you’d be killed immediately after. And no matter what you’re taught, you only have ten days to learn it. Nobody could become adequately stealthy in that amount of time.” 

 

Ocha nods along, dumbfounded. Is he seriously helping her plan an assasination? It’s not like Ocha won’t accept the help, but it still throws her for a loop. “I could go in as a guest,” Ocha tosses out. “Many Togruta will be there, I would blend in.” 

 

“What’s your story? Why would you be invited to such a high profile wedding?” 

 

Ocha pauses. “I’m a distant cousin of the bride?” The Mandalorian shakes his head. “I’m attending from the office of another politician?” Again, the Mandalorian disapproves. “I’m a waiter,” Ocha tries finally, desperately. “I was hired late to work the event.”

 

He nods slowly, so slowly. But it's approval. “How old are you? What’s your name?”

 

“I could pass for seventeen,” Ocha decides. 

 

“Sixteen,” the Mandalorian corrects quickly. “Don’t push it. They’ll ask about college and you don’t have answers for that.” 

 

“My name is Anpao,” Ocha tells him. “That was my mother’s name.” 

 

The Mandalorian is wise enough not to warn her against it. “I’ll let you take one of my blasters,” the Mandalorian tells her. “I have a snub-nosed one that can fit under a dress if it has enough layers.” 

 

“Why?” Ocha asks. She doesn’t have enough credits to buy her own gun. But it would be difficult to kill Armand without it. She could lure him away and strangle him, but that would take time and influence. Armand wouldn’t follow someone he’d never met before, and certainly not without guards.  

 

The Mandalorian shakes his head. “I don’t know,” he says, after a long few moments. “I don’t know why. But this man has done wrong unto you, and unto your mother. If I can correct that, if I can help…”

 

Ocha holds her breath, ready for him to say something poignant. But the moment never arrives, as the computer’s monitor begins flashing and the speakers begin beeping. The ship rattles and Ocha startles, unprepared for a second helping of yesterday, but the Mandalorian holds up a hand. “That’s just Bespin’s atmosphere, we’re fine.” 

 

Ocha holds her breath regardless. She buckles herself in until they land, on the port of Cloud City. It’s beautiful here, too, but Ocha has learned to be weary of beautiful things. But before she can lose her nerve, she follows the Mandalorian down the ladder

---

BESPIN, 9 ABY

 

Azla is already awake by the time they get downstairs, so Ocha puts on her cloak and waits by the door. But then the Mandalorian motions her over, opening his remarkably large weapons closet. It smells remarkably clean, as though guns would be capable of having a new ship scent. Ocha imagines a tiny cardboard tree hanging from the top as the Mandalorian scans one of the doors, settling on the most unassuming blaster of the lot. 

 

It’s small, the same shiny color as his armor, and cold to the touch. It has a certain weight, just enough to be reassuring. Ocha hangs it on her belt, under her cloak. 

 

“I can’t believe it’s finally happening,” Azla says, the first out of the ship when the rickety ramp finally hits the ground. So many people don’t understand proper ramp rollout time, bemuses Ocha. Too fast and you lose the dramatic effect, too slow and you bore. “I lived in that hell for twelve years. I never thought—” she stops, swallows, and takes her first few steps into Bespin city. “I thought I was going to die there,” she laughs nervously. Ocha puts a comforting hand on her shoulder, leading her forward. 

 

“We’ll need to register to get in,” the Mandalorian tells them. “I don’t use my real name, but Azla, you should. I want you on the logs so your father knows you’re on your way.” 

 

Azla nods, sticking firmly between the two. Even with no formal training, Ocha feels powerful, being able to protect her. The blaster hangs heavy from her belt and Ocha fights the urge to lay a hand on it, but it bounces against her thigh as they approach the registration kiosk. 

 

They wait for less than ten minutes, a remarkably short time for Cloud City. Ocha would have expected at least a little congestion, but she snaps to attention as someone shouts “Next in line!” 

 

“Three,” answers the Mandalorian before the question is even asked. “One to leave the port, two for sightseeing.” 

 

The worker seems to appreciate his aversion to small talk. “Names. First, last.” 

 

“Man Dalorian.” 

 

The girls pause a beat to glance at him sideways before Azla answers. “Azla Kaddel.” 

 

Then, it’s Ocha’s turn. She doesn’t know why her heart rate jumps, or why anxiety spikes in her heart at the same time. She speaks: “Ocha N-L-N-G.” 

 

“You’re not coming up anywhere,” the worker says. “First time off your home planet?”

 

“Yeah,” Ocha answers nervously, chuckling. “Yeah, um, this is my first planet.” 

 

“As far as planets go,” the worker drawls, eyes glued to the screen, all eighteen-ish of them. “This is a good one. Have a nice time.” 

 

Azla leads the charge through the metal detectors, but she’s the only one with nothing to claim. The Mandalorian breaks down his rifle and puts it in a tray, and Ocha follows with her own blaster. 

 

Ocha and Azla pass through the metal detector without any issues. The Mandalorian is forced to turn around and give up a total of six additional weapons: tiny bullets in his wrist beskar, three different styles of knife, a second, smaller gun, an extremely shiny pair of beskar knuckles. 

 

Getting through security proves to be the hardest part of the whole journey. From there, Azla and Ocha elect to eat wriggling crustaceans from a foot cart, flash-fried and dipped in hot sauce. The Mandalorian chooses not to eat anything, for doing so would require the removal of his helmet. 

 

“Thank you,” Azla says suddenly, people boarding the ship around them. Azla has nothing, but she has someone back on Arvala-7. “I never expected anyone to come rescue me.” 

 

“Someone would have come,” Ocha tells her. “If not us, someone.”

 

“I have spoken,” Azla says gently. “Nobody was coming for me. But you two did. So thank you.” She looks like she wants to say something else, but the last call for passengers rings out over the intercom, so Azla does all she can. She throws her arms around Ocha’s neck and squeezes tightly— Ocha does the same if not more, tucking her nose into Azla’s shoulder as she gets on one knee to accommodate Azla’s shorter height. 

 

The Mandalorian is the one who separates them. The last Ocha sees of her first friend is her retreating form as she returns home. He puts a comforting hand on her shoulder and lets her have the next few minutes of silence, watching the ship power up and depart into hyperspace. Ocha sinks to her knees, quiet. Not despondent but close to it. 

 

“N-L-N-G,” says the Mandalorian. “What does it mean?”

 

“Eventually you’re going to have to give me something in return,” Ocha tells him flatly. “People don’t like when you know more about them than they do about you. And maybe you prefer it that way. But you’re not the only person in the galaxy. You’re not the only important one, the only one that matters.” 

 

A long time passes before Ocha speaks again. “I hope she’ll be okay. She seemed so… young. But I guess people backslide after they’re hurt or traumatized or whatever. Karga said my mom had trouble bonding with me at first.” Then she looks down at her hands. “N-L-N-G. No-Last-Name-Given. Now stop asking me about myself if you’re not gonna offer anything in return. You’re a good Mandalorian but you’re a bad friend.”

Chapter 5: The Child / The Child

DAY SEVEN OF FOURTEEN

SPACE, 9 ABY 

 

“Azla made it home,” Djarin tells the girl, whispering through the dark. She’s been behaving… oddly. He’s not entirely sure what did it, but he can’t just chalk it up to hormones. “Kuiil sent a hologram. I thought, maybe…” he trails off, ready to punctuate the sentence with a silent shake of his head. Maybe she would have liked to know. But Djarin can’t even see if she’s awake, even with the help of his helmet. 

 

Her hammock rocks hypnotically, but she’s faced away from him, bundled in her many blankets. “She’s safe.” Even to himself he sounds tired, and he’s been thankful for the day of rest on the ship. He has nothing else planned for the journey, no bounties, no jobs. Just him and the girl. 

 

Looking at her, the shadow of her, the hint of her, makes his heart twist. Her mother was just a child, and now she’s just a child too, traveling to the wedding of a man who would not care if she died gruesomely, if she died horribly, if she died alone. Or at the fault of a Mandalorian. “She said to thank you,” Djarin continues. “She said she never would have made it home without you. You saved her.”

 

Maybe she’s succumbing to some infection, too. Din’s knee healed more than a day ago with the Bacta kit he’d picked up, but he hadn’t asked about any of the girl’s wounds, and she took quite a fall from the ladder. Maybe she’d injured one of her horns or head-tails and the infection is leaking into her brain and that’s why she’s acting this way. Or maybe she’s just asleep and Djarin is talking to nobody at all. When we all fall asleep, where do we go? Djarin thinks. Is she here with me? 

 

He takes a step forward to make sure she isn’t actually dead and still warm, when she shifts. Ocha, he reminds himself. Ocha. Not Osha or Okja or any other alternative Din’s thought up. She turns, just a little, curling her arm a little tighter around something against her chest. 

 

“Do you ever think about your parents?” She sounds nothing less than exhausted, bone-tired. But she doesn’t sound ill— he means congested, nasal. Her voice is deep, clear, how it usually sounds.

 

“No,” he says immediately, but then rethinks it. He recalls a memory— just one. He must have been three or four. His mom is sitting at the table, teaching him to read. Behind them, his father is preparing dinner. It’s fuzzy around the edges but the core of it is still the same, his mother’s warm hand on his back and the sound of his father scraping the spatula against the pan. The smells, the touch, the sound— all of these, leagues more vivid than the sight. 

 

“Me either,” Ocha says, and falls back into silence. Djarin senses that his answer was wrong, but he doesn’t know how to correct the issue. He scratches the back of his beskar helmet, taking a step back. His cloak feels too hot for him, or maybe it’s the embarrassment of unintentionally and immediately shutting her down. 

 

“I wasn’t born a Mandalorian,” Djarin says quickly. Too quickly, almost, like he’s racing to get the words out, just shoving them out the door. “There was an attack— Separatists. It was their battle droids, and my parents… they hid me in a cellar. There was an explosion, and I almost died. But then…” 

 

He slows down, his words become more deliberate. When he finally trails off, he looks back at her, stepping closer, and closer, until he can just barely see the rise and fall of her chest. “There’s a shooting range on Kinyen. We’ll stop there for a few hours.” If he doesn’t let her choose, if he takes the idea of choice away entirely, maybe she’ll perk up. “It shouldn’t disrupt our arrival too much.” 

 

Din doesn’t stick around to see if she nods or shakes her head. He finds the ladder and gets back up to the cockpit, locking himself inside. Setting the course is the easiest thing to do right now, so he opens the monitor and redirects to Kinyen’s capital city. 

 

But then the kid’s metal pram catches his eye— he’d kept the broken pieces of it after he’d brought the kid back to the client. Eight days since returning him and the choice still stings powerfully, painfully. Maybe it simply won’t mature into a dull ache. Maybe the pain will stay this fiery forever. It would be what Djarin deserves. It would be what Djarin wants. 

 

He spins his chair around and picks up just the crumpled top of the stroller, smoothing his hand over the ridges and bumps. The paint flakes off under his hand, and it takes all Djarin has to pretend he’s not so nauseated with guilt he might put the ruins of the pram through the transparisteel, killing him and the girl both. And then more of that same crushing guilt for thinking about hurting the girl. 

 

His stomach rolls like he’s going to vomit, and Djarin fights himself— should he take off his helmet? It’s not easy to clean, the smell lingers, but on the other hand…

 

Not wearing the helmet isn’t like being naked. It’s like not having skin. It’s dangerous to not wear the helmet, and not wearing any of the armor is like being without the largest organ he has. It’s about protection— anonymity is an added plus. 

 

But then the nausea rolls up, and Djarin wrenches off his helmet with a fury, breathing in the sharp, cool air in inversely hot puffs. Was it something he ate? Was it something he drank? Djarin isn’t fond of alcohol but that doesn’t stop him from keeping some on the ship, for special occasions, like now , when he needs to self-medicate. He kicks open the ship’s secret compartment and the bottles fall forward with a definitive clink, and he grabs the first one he sees. It’s not spotchka, it’s some clear liquid he got as a gift from the grateful family of one of his bounties, maybe a year ago.

 

If he could travel back in time, he wouldn’t have taken the job with the Child. He certainly wouldn’t have taken the job with the girl. Maybe he wouldn’t have become a hunter at all. Save himself even the idea of heartbreak. Maybe he would have trained like the woman who knows Din’s name as her child, he would have become a beskar-smith. He thinks of her name only in his most private moments, when he’s missing family. Buir , he thinks, and the name ringing out in his mind is like feeling a long-lost security blanket between his fingers. He’s never seen his adoptive mother’s face. This fact doesn’t bother him as much as it used to. But if he were to ever have children, and if those children ever were to ask to see his face… Djarin wouldn’t be able to say no. 

 

And that’s what scares him the most. 

---

KINYEN, 9 ABY

 

Ocha perks up when Djarin puts a gun in her hands. Kids like weapons, Djarin reasons, rather, kids like when there’s less of a power gap between them and adults.

 

Din folds out the table attached to the fourth stall in from the left. “Get up and lay on your stomach,” he says, holding the gun so she’s incentivized too. “It’s easiest to start like this.” Ocha grunts softly as she accidentally pinches her lekku, and to placate her Djarin gives back the gun. “Stock,” Djarin says, touching the back of the gun. “Grip, scope. This flips up and down, so you don’t always have to use it. This one can fire semi-auto or single shots, you’re doing single. You’re gonna hold it by the grip and the hand guard up here. Inside the hand guard are the cooling fans, you’ll feel it vibrate after you shoot. It’s normal.” 

 

Ocha hums, mm-hmm. He angles the gun so that the scope is focused on the head of the nondescript but vaguely human dummy fifty feet-ish away. Laying down, she’ll have the most accurate shots. Djarin wants her to get an easy win. “Shoot when you’re ready,” Djarin tells her. “You might not get it on the f—” 

 

The first shot rings out and Ocha takes the dummy about four inches wide of what should be its heart, solidly in its arm. She shoots again and misses by a mile, and overcorrects the third and somehow puts the bullet in the dummy’s right hand. But she keeps going. 

 

A foot, the opposing shin, two in its crotch. The chest, the chest, the chest, all in varying spots. Ocha stops when she starts consistently nailing the dummy between its eyes, when the cartridge click-click-clicks.  

 

Sluggerthrowers aren’t safer than blasters, not by far, but Djarin prefers them for training. Ocha must, too, because by the time she finishes out the clip she’s panting like she worked up the strength to throw every one of those slugs herself. “Would you like another?” Djarin asks, but Ocha takes it out of his hand before he even holds it out. He has to show her how to load the clip in, but by the time they look back up, the system has cycled out the dying dummy for a new one.  

 

And off she goes again. Her aim isn’t as good as Din’s, probably won’t be until she’s a little closer to his age, but she has a raw talent that could be refined. She’s not loud, she doesn’t yell unintelligibly like some others do when firing a semi-automatic weapon, and that scores her extra points. When she makes a mistake, she overcorrects, and then corrects that correction until she’s shooting where she wants to. 

 

Such a place ends up being low on the dummy’s stomach. Unwisely, Djarin chooses to ask: “Is that where you want to shoot him?” 

 

“I’ll admit to becoming tired of the pit in my own stomach thinking about him.” Ocha says softly, voice crackling like a fire, though there isn’t any of the expected warmth. “It doesn’t matter where I shoot him, so long as he goes down before I do.” 

 

“That’s not what I wanted to hear,” Djarin says immediately, sternly. “Never, ever volunteer your own life for a bounty. That’s not how we do things. Do you understand me?” 

 

Ocha brushes some of the bullet shells off of the table, sitting up. “What would you do if you found the Separatists that killed your parents?” Ocha’s question comes out hard like stale hardtack, a double negative that Djarin knows all too well. “Would you forgive them just because you took a Creed? Or would you hunt them down— every last one of them, even if you died trying— because it’s the fucking right thing to do?” 

 

Din hasn’t thought about that question in a long time. Ten years seems like a good estimate, but it’s probably a lie, because sometimes he dreams about them. Two blurry faces he can’t save. How long until there are two more, one blue, one green?

 

“I ruined my mother’s life by being born. I have to make this right.” 

 

Something is wrong with her, Djarin reasons. She’s broken. Twisted by rage. She oscillates so rapidly between the gentle, kind teenager he met and this revenge-fuelled, hardened, young woman. She’s about to return to the gun in a sitting position, elbow balanced on her knee, when Djarin scrambles for something to stop her. 

 

He settles on: “I didn’t even know his name.” 

 

Ocha takes her finger off the trigger, letting the nose dip until it makes contact with the table. “What?”

 

“I didn’t even know his name,” he repeats. “I wanted to. He was a bounty, technically. I don’t know. We had a connection. Something. I was drawn to him.” The faster he gets the words out, the faster the story will be over, and the faster they can return to the tentative silence that has made the past week so comfortable. “Mandalorian scripture states that before our parents even know us they love us. That’s what it felt like.” A missed connection. The simple joy of a tiny, three-fingered hand in his. Hope dashed against beskar. “I only knew him for a few days, and I’ll probably never see him again. In my heart, he was… important.” 

 

Ocha keeps her eyes trained forward, but when she speaks again, it’s softer, more reclusive. Old Ocha. Good Ocha, whole Ocha. “When was this?” 

 

“I met you about sixteen hours after I gave him back.” 

 

Ocha deflates, glancing back at him, eyes glassy. She looks upset. Maybe if she was Mandalorian, Djarin would be more comfortable reaching out to touch her, to reassure her. With no faces, it’s easier. 

 

“Go back,” Ocha tells him simply, laying out the basest form of a plan for him to fill in later. “When you get me to Coruscant, turn around. Go back for him.” 

 

Din is quiet for a long time. Long enough that when Ocha raises the gun again, Djarin stops himself from flinching at the sound of the bullets. It’s not a bad idea— the hardest part will be figuring out how to get away after taking the Child with him. When Ocha hits her funny bone on her knee, Djarin corrects her gently by sliding her elbow a few inches down her leg. 

 

“Maybe I will,” Djarin tells her. 

---

“I have another bounty,” Djarin says. “I don’t have to get it. I don’t have to do anything, really, if I don’t want to.” The hum of the ship’s engine is quiet, they’re already back on their way to Coruscant. 

 

Ocha meets his eyes quickly. “An actual criminal?” The tone of her voice indicates that she’s still sore about Kuiil’s daughter. He wishes they had gotten to know each other better. But there’s still time.

 

“A drug kingpin,” Djarin confirms. “Skipped town. It’s more money than I’m usually offered, he must have pissed off some pretty powerful people.”

 

Ocha clears her throat. “More powerful than you?” 

 

Din grimaces under the helmet but shows no outward reaction. “I think you may misunderstand how powerful I am.” 

 

“You’re one of the highest ranking members of the Bounty Hunter’s Guild.” 

 

“...On Nevarro. How do you know that?” 

 

“My uncle wouldn’t have given me to you if he didn’t trust you, if you were no good.” 

 

Din looks away thoughtfully. Karga had placed a lot of trust in Djarin by allowing him to take Ocha— maybe more so than Djarin realizes. “I didn’t know you two were close,” he says evenly. 

 

Ocha doesn’t know exactly what to say to that. “He loved my mother. I’m…” a byproduct. A residual burden— the offal daughter of someone Karga really loved. “He’s doing me a favor. Spring cleaning, you know?” 

 

“Stop making those jokes,” Djarin tells her. “You might think you’re getting people to pity you, but they become annoyed instead. Be funny, but not too funny. Don’t make anyone laugh. People need to like you and then immediately forget you once you leave their sight.” 

 

Ocha sits up, paying attention. “But that’s not what you do.”

“I don’t need to. I’m a Mandalorian. Be nice but not noticeable. You probably remember everyone you’ve ever met, but these people don’t. Blend. On Coruscant, you’re going to see a lot of things that you’ve never even dreamed of before. But to you, it’s all old. Don’t even blink.” 

 

“Alright,” Ocha says dubiously. “I don’t have the clothes to look the part. I look like I live on Nevarro.” 

 

“You will figure it out,” Djarin assures her. “You’re smarter than you think, and you know people better than you think you do.” 

 

For a moment, Djarin can tell that Ocha doesn’t believe him. But it’s easier to acquiesce than it is to pick a fight, and she looks out the transparisteel to the swirling blues and purples of hyperspace.

Chapter 6: Sorry / The Intern

DAY THIRTEEN OF FOURTEEN

SPACE, 9 ABY

“His hands,” the Mandalorian grunts, seizing the back of the bounty’s skull. He drives it into the side of the ship with three dull thuds. But it does nothing to temper the blind rage that’s overcome their bounty. “Girl, his hands!” 

 

“I’m trying,” Ocha snarls, only to immediately catch a hard punch to the face. She steps back and makes a nasty, mean noise, spitting out blood. She attacks in kind, closing her mouth around the wrist of their bounty. 

 

“No, no, no,” the bounty yelps, trying to shake Ocha off. “No! Fuck, why would you do that?” But Ocha doesn’t, clings on tighter, until she can feel the flesh tear, until she hears the sound of soft, wet, bloody ripping across her montrals. She holds the tiniest piece of human in her mouth and spits it out, sending some of her own blood with it. 

 

“You chose this,” Ocha says. “I didn’t have to do that.” His eyes widen and Ocha can hear his heart rate spike, so many ba-bumps that they all blend together. Behind them, the Mandalorian punches the bounty square in the crown of his skull, knocking him to the floor. He ignores the blood under his boot and hauls the bounty up, putting him against the Carbonite freezer. Ocha stands, hands on her hips, watching as the Mandalorian freezes their bounty and then sends him up to the storage room. 

 

Blood drips steadily onto the floor and Ocha only notices when her tongue darts out to wet her lips. The taste is metallic, but more than that, Ocha notices she can’t breathe properly— she’s whistling when she inhales. “What a cunt,” Ocha says, already fired up and prepared to fill the Razor Crest with as many complaints as she can. But then the Mandalorian turns on her, and it’s a small miracle that Ocha doesn’t flinch and back away. 

 

“Hold still,” the Mandalorian says. Cautiously, he steps into Ocha’s personal space and hovers one hand behind her stubby left montral, softly pinching two fingers along the sides of her nose. Ocha grimaces but allows him to do so. It’s decidedly feline in shape, flat and broad, with a pinkish rhinarium. “It doesn’t feel broken,” he tells her. “Does it hurt?” 

 

“It’s a little tender,” Ocha admits. “I don’t think it’s even bleeding anymore.”

 

“Go put ice on it,” he commands anyway. “Let’s try to keep the swelling down.”  

 

The Mandalorian doesn’t have a kitchen, or even a kitchenette— he has a metal basin sink and a single electric burner shoved awkwardly between a cabinet and the wall. The minifridge and freezer are in the best condition out of all of them, and Ocha pops the top compartment open and sticks her hand in to search for an ice pack. She takes the first one, which isn’t entirely frozen, but still cold enough that it’ll provide some relief. She passes through to the cockpit, listening to the Mandalorian clean up the blood downstairs. She’ll have to learn how to do so eventually, but not today. 

 

Then she hears his voice, projecting so that she can hear. “Can you course-correct for Coruscant?” 

 

Ocha is almost happy as she plunks herself down in the captain’s chair and opens up the screen, searching for Coruscant. “Hey,” she calls back, touching the ice pack to her nose gently. “Can I watch that holo from Karga again?”

 

“You know how to put it up.” His voice carries enough to make her montrals buzz, even though he’s not quite yelling. Ocha does, in fact, know how to draw up the holo from Karga, and sits back as it plays again. 

 

“Hello,” Karga greets brightly. “Ocha, I trust that Mando is taking good care of you. Have you been eating well? Sleeping?” He leaves a conversational pause, but it stretches long enough to suggest that Karga may have been awaiting a response while recording. “I’ve also noticed that he’s caught a few bounties… I do sincerely hope he’s not endangering you. Because taking other jobs while traveling with you would violate the terms set for our contract!” Ocha giggles, a soft, panting sound, before the recording of Karga follows. “Send me a response as soon as you get to Coruscant. I… I hope you’re well.” The holo ends not with a click but with silence, and Ocha closes it before it repeats again. 

 

Then she sits in comfortable silence, playing with her blaster, the safety locked on. Her heart rate drops to its typical resting position, her body sags, she even begins to grow tired. Maybe she’ll lie down to rest later, but hyperspace is hypnotic, and Ocha wants to cherish this time a little longer. 

 

She doesn’t hear Mando come in, too lost in her own world. But she also doesn’t startle when he sits down in her typical spot behind him. “I looked at some static holos of the venue,” Ocha starts, their first casual conversation since going hunting. “All of them were in the day, so it’ll look different because the wedding’s at night. It’s so much glass. It looks like those pictures you showed me of Canto Bight.” 

 

“I’m more surprised it isn’t on Canto Bight,” Mando adds. “It seems like the perfect place for… someone like him.” He picks his words carefully, as though he isn’t sure how Ocha will react to it.

 

“Tell me about it,” Ocha says. “Maybe he doesn’t want to leave Coruscant. Which is great, because we’re almost there.” Ocha aims her finger-guns at the windshield and makes some alarmingly playful ‘pew-pew’ noises at it. But the cavalier attitude she takes towards the idea of assassinating her father makes Djarin shift uncomfortably. 

 

“You’re sure about this?” Djarin asks. “About… killing him?” 

 

“Yeah,” Ocha says softly, fingers reshaping from a playful finger gun to how she would actually hold her hand on a blaster. 

 

“Why?” Djarin asks. “I know you’re mad. Why do you think killing will solve this?” 

 

Ocha looks back at him, mouth flattening into a line. She waits for him to speak again, waiting for clarification, because she needs him to fix what he’s just said. She needs him to make it better, to take it back. But he doesn’t. Ocha tries to remain open-minded anyway. 

 

“Because fuck him, that’s why. Mandalorians hate tyrants, that’s what he is.” 

 

“We’ve fallen victim to tyrants, too,” Djarin says grimly. “We don’t have to go.” 

 

“What?” Ocha asks, turning around to face him. “I’m not giving you my credits unless you get me to Coruscant.” 

 

“Forget the money,” Djarin says, offended, “You’re right, fuck him. But fuck the money, too. Let’s go back, let’s get the kid. I’d… I would train you as a Mandalorian.”

 

That makes her pause, glancing up at him, nervous. She picks up her legs so that she can rest her chin on her knees. “You think I could be a Mandalorian?” 

 

“If anyone could, it would be you,” Djarin tells her, pleading. “This could be the Way. I really think—”

 

“I’ll do it,” Ocha says easily. “But you have to let me do this first.” 

 

Din deflates. That’s not the answer he wanted. I’ll do it— full stop. No elaboration. “I—” 

 

“Let me use this to prove myself,” Ocha says. “Let me prove I can make it on my own. Go get your son, come back. I’ll be here—there.” 

 

“And when you kill your father, where will you go? Who among them will protect you?” 

 

“Into the arms of my supporters,” Ocha tells him sarcastically. “If there’s anything I’ve learned out here, these past few weeks, is that— so long as there’s one opinion, there will always be an opposite. I’m not the only person who wants Armand dead.” 

 

It’s suicide, Djarin realizes, breath catching in his throat. She doesn’t care if she lives or dies, only that Armand goes first, he remembers. But he knows that part of her hopes that she’ll go down too. 

 

“Well,” Ocha grunts, getting to her feet. “I’m gonna go nap. Can you go a few hours without company?” And just like that, Ocha’s back to cheery, bubbly, friendly Ocha. It feels like whiplash, or maybe a trick. Djarin has to figure something out quickly, before they get to Coruscant. He can’t let Ocha give her life up.

---

Djarin attempts to sleep. He sits in Ocha’s spot, trying to get into her head, before he realizes how useless it is and takes his usual spot in the center.

 

Looking out the windshield, he knows there are only a few hours left before he has to act, before he has to invoke Ocha’s rage, when he stops her from killing herself by killing Armand. 

 

Djarin’s foot edges forward and it hits something light. He looks down suddenly, surprised, and finds the pram, still in pieces on the floor, its permanent resting place. He reaches down and picks it up, holding it in his lap, imagining the Child taking up the space instead. 

 

He closes his eyes and imagines the weight, the noise. The smell is more difficult, because the Child certainly had an odor, but the helmet had dampened it. Djarin has never, will never, never ever, hate the helmet, hate the anonymity, but his heart aches at the thought that the helmet has cost him another piece of the Child. His shoulders relax, his jaw unclenches, he breathes. In, hold, out, in five second increments. There is no harm, he tells himself, only sleep.  

 

But in that fantasy, where everything’s alright, where Djarin has his own family to protect, she’s there too. She’s sleeping on her side, round features at peace, her head in the lap of a woman who shares her face, only older.  

 

Anpao is stroking the lekku of her daughter, feet folded politely under the bench they’re sharing. She smiles when she sees Djarin, and he realizes that he’s coming home. He has the Child in a sling across his chest, blood across the back of it. But it’s not the Child’s blood that has been spilled, Djarin feels too content and even pleased for the blood to belong to one of his. 

 

“Did you do it?” Anpao asks. She sounds so different from Ocha, who has a deep voice for her age, but they both sound tired. She doesn’t let Djarin answer. “Of course you did,” Anpao says, smiling. She doesn’t rouse Ocha, letting her sleep. “I’m surprised you got away so easily.”

 

“I’m not the only one who wants Armand dead,” Djarin finds himself saying. “I told her she could be Mandalorian.” He hopes the news comforts Anpao. Dreams like this, Buir tells him, are gifts from the Gods. They connect the past, present, and future. He doesn’t know how he’s connected with Anpao’s spirit, he certainly doesn’t know her well enough.

 

“Well, alright,” Anpao says. She shakes Ocha gently, waking her from her rest. Ocha wipes her eyes and slowly gets to her feet, her mother following. “It’s time to make your choice,” she tells her daughter.

 

Ocha opens her mouth to speak and Djarin hears nothing but static. It’s not words, Ocha doesn’t even move her lips, but her mouth widens and widens, flesh tearing, bones breaking, the same noise that Ocha made earlier, and Djarin startles awake. 

 

“Mandalorian,” Ocha chirps, pleased as punch. While it should make him worried, instead the tone puts him at ease. It’s okay, Ocha’s happy. Djarin sits up in his seat, rubbing his hands over the front of his helmet to approximate wiping sleep out of his eyes. “It’s bigger than I thought,” Ocha tells him, looking out the transparisteel windshield. Coruscant is gargantuan, easily the largest planet Ocha’s ever seen. Not that it has much competition, of course, but making it even more beautiful is the circlets of civilization, straight lines branching through to connect them. Ocha wonders, for a moment, if Coruscant has any wilderness at all. 

 

“What do you think?” Djarin asks carefully, leaning forward to catch a glimpse of Ocha’s awestruck face. 

 

For a few long moments, Ocha is entirely quiet. “There are trillions of people on that planet,” Ocha says. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen more than a hundred gathered together. It’s wonderful— and scary.” 

 

Djarin looks at her for just a moment longer before he sits back and clears his throat. “Go over the plan again.” 

 

Ocha groans, thoroughly annoyed. “We’ve gone through the plan like sixteen times. You made me go through the plan when we were hunting that guy and he spotted us because of it. You made me go through the plan in my dream last night.” 

 

“You’ll go through the plan until I feel like you don’t need me to anymore,” Djarin tells her sternly. Ocha rolls her eyes and lists drolly: 

 

“The wedding is in four hours. I’ll camp out the venue and find a vulnerable server. I’ll shake them down for their uniform—”

 

“What will you say when they ask why a blue Togruta has replaced their waiter?”

 

“—they’re sick, corporate sent me on short notice. I’ll work the event and stay close to Armand. Then, as he’s leaving for the night, I’ll go up to the second level and get him as he’s entering his car.” 

 

It’s not Djarin’s most intelligently thought-out plan. But it’s the best he can do on short notice, it’s not like he won’t be right there with her. 

 

“Good,” Djarin says, anxiety building in his chest. “After we do it,” Djarin tells her, almost reaching out to touch her shoulder, “We’ll have to get clear pretty fast. We’ll park at the spot we agreed on, but you need to ditch the uniform because you’ll need to run.” 

 

Ocha grins. “And then we go back and we get the kid.” 

 

“That’s right,” Djarin says, smiling under his helmet. But he’s sure Ocha can tell. He leans forward to hit the intercom, connecting the Razor Crest to the hundreds and thousands of Coruscant’s docking bays. 

 

“Razor Crest to Coruscant, requesting permission to land.” 

 

“Coruscant to Razor Crest, what is the purpose of your stay?” 

 

“Appointment with a physician,” Djarin lies. “Only a few hours.” 

 

Whoever’s on the other line waits a moment before responding, and worry floods the ship. Ocha looks at Djarin, concerned, before the voice cuts back in. “I’m so sorry about that, our systems just got an update and I couldn’t find the option for your stay. There’s a twenty-credit docking fee, would you like me to charge it to the ship?” 

 

“I haven’t been able to link my banking account to the ship,” Djarin lies, mock-bashfully. “You… youngins, and all your fancy tech. I’ll come by the customs office and pay it.” 

 

“Sounds good, Razor Crest. You can take spot 16-F in the Blue docking bay.” 

 

“Thank you, Coruscant. I’ll see you soon.” Djarin cuts the call after Coruscant’s response and exhales a sigh of relief, taking the ship down and letting the autopilot take them down to the assigned spot. 

 

Behind him, Ocha squirms uncomfortably. 

 

“You should go now,” Djarin says. “You won’t want to be seen much once we leave the ship.”

 

“Your bathroom isn’t meant for people like me,” Ocha tells him. “I’ll just go in the office.”

 

Djarin rolls his eyes under the helmet, and Ocha must know that too. The docking bay is lively, the sun is shining, and it provides enough cover for them to pass through, even with Djarin’s status as a Mandalorian and Ocha as a fairly uncommon species. It’s Coruscant, even if there isn’t a Mandalorian covert on the planet, there would be one at one of Coruscant’s many neighbors. 

 

When the ship is fully parked, Djarin stands, knees cracking, and tells Ocha to stick close to him as they both exit the ship.

---

CORUSCANT, 9 ABY

Djarin would feel better if Ocha was holding his hand. Djarin can’t ask Ocha to hold his hand. So he makes her walk two paces in front of him so that he may watch her as they approach Coruscant’s customs office. 

 

It’s as busy as the lot, bustling with activity. The ships they pass on the way in are all in the same shape as the Razor Crest— so they’re separating the ships by how beautiful they are, Ocha reasons. 

 

Ocha knows exactly what she’s meant to do as she leads the Mandalorian into the customs office. Djarin makes a turn for the officers and Ocha stops him. “I’m going to the bathroom,” she tells him. “I’ll be right back.” 

 

“Be quick,” he says firmly. “Don’t talk to anyone, don’t make eye contact.” 

 

“I won’t,” Ocha groans, turning on her heel. “I’ll be right back.” 

 

Djarin grunts and makes for an open teller, digging his wallet out of his belt. “Hi, I’m the Razor Crest, I’m here to pay cash for parking.” 

 

“Hello, Razor Crest, is this your first time on Coruscant?”

 

“First time in a long time,” Djarin says, trying to be friendly. He hands over the exact amount— there’s no tax on parking if you’re staying less than a day. 

 

A machine to the right of the teller spits out a receipt and the teller gives it a once-over before handing it back. “You’re all set, Mandalorian. You have sixteen hours before you’re ticketed.” 

 

“Thank you,” Djarin says, tipping his head. “My… intern… is using the restroom. I’ll wait right here for her.” 

 

“We have benches over there,” the teller says helpfully. “I didn’t know Mandalorians do internships.” 

 

“Ah, some do. I do.” But he says it quietly, as he’s retreating to the bench. He sits on the solid metal and crosses his arms, waiting. 

 

He waits a minute. Then two. When five minutes pass he gets antsy. He doesn’t know exactly what’s going on in that restroom, but the churning of his gut and the sharp pain of his heart suggests it’s nothing good. He gives her another minute before he gets up, shoulders squared, walking to the restroom. 

 

“Ocha?” He calls carefully, but he gets no response. He calls again, and again. Then he stops a passerby as they exit. “Did you see a young teenager in there?”

 

“Uh,” they say. “Can you describe them?”

 

“She’s blue,” Djarin says, “and short. And… her face is round.” He tacks on “Togruta,” as an afterthought.

 

“No, sorry,” they say apologetically. “But I was the only one in there, you should go check.” 

 

Djarin freezes. “Thank you,” he says to the passerby, before shoving forward and entering the bathroom. 

 

Nobody and no-one and nothing. Djarin is entirely alone in this restroom. He searches the ceiling, then the row of stalls. He finds a single ajar window at the top of the restroom. He follows the lightbeam cast by it to the floor, where a scrap of paper flutters across, making a soft scraping noise. 

 

Before Djarin even realizes that he’s moving, the paper is in his hand. He unfolds it and steels himself to read: 

 

Mandalorian,

 

Thank-you for getting me to Coruscant. I’m sorry that I left so abruptly but if I kept you around, you never would have let me do it. I appreciate all that you’ve done for me, but I know that you were going to stop me. I promised you half when you got me to Coruscant, and I’m sorry that I can’t give you your payment directly. Please return to Greef Karga and he will give you what is owed. 

 

I know you’re wondering how I wrote this much in so little time— I penned this on the ship before you woke up. I feel you would appreciate a detail such as this. I’ve learned a lot from you. I really did want to learn more. 

 

When I first met you I thought you were scary and perhaps a little dull boring subdued. You did not seem terribly interested in me, either. I know now that you’re dedicated to your Creed, and your son. I think it’s in your best interest to return and get him before it’s too late. Maybe, someday, we’ll see each other again. 

 

Ocha

 

His rage boils over. The Mandalorian makes a nasty snarling noise and slams his fist into the concrete wall, cracking it. He works himself back down to a hot simmer and attempts to find Ocha through his visor, but Din Djarin knows she's long gone. 

Chapter 7: I Could Not Prevent It

THE DAY OF THE WEDDING 

CORUSCANT, 9 ABY 

 

Ocha walks at a steady pace, hood down, shoulders squared. I’m meant to be here, she thinks, raising her chin. Nobody gets to question me.  

 

Of course, Ocha is sure she’s being hunted by a Mandalorian. But she can’t focus on that right now, all she has to do is trust that he trained her well enough to outrun him. 

 

She imagines his rage. He’d been upset at her before, especially on that three-day detour to get the bounty, but she’s never pulled anything like this. She hopes that he’ll be so upset he simply turns around and goes and gets his son, like her letter suggested. 

 

Ocha shakes her head clear of these thoughts. She’s in the Federal District, and she has to get to the Botanical District soon if she’s going to start casing the venue. So she glances around, looking for a taxi. Her best bet will be finding a map or asking for directions, but she’s trying to be as forgettable as possible, so a map is her only option. 

 

Luckily, she’s quite close to a shopping mall displaying one prominently. It’s holographic, the standard, but still a wonder to Ocha, who lets the light flow around her fingers. When she’s satiated her hunger she finds herself on the map, a blinking red dot, and a taxi service close by. 

 

She continues forward through the mall, stopping once to glance at a store with a dress in the window. It’s terribly similar to what Ocha wanted to wear to the wedding, before the Mandalorian told her not to go as a guest. In the window is an orange-and-pink lehenga, tiny crystals and beads sewn into delicate designs trailing all the way down the skirt. The dupatta, a gauzy coral fabric, allows the light to filter through, painting the background behind it a softer version of that color. 

 

It’s resplendent, it’s memorizing. Ocha pretends it's wasteful and turns from it in shame, walking quicker to the taxi service. She lets the tiny beaded tears on her waterline dry, pulling her cloak closer to herself. She feels cold, she feels hot. She’s embarrassed and there’s no Mandalorian to turn to that will save her from it. She digresses. 

 

The taxi service is dead when she finds it, the two attendants sharing a brightly-colored vape. The one holding it coughs when he sees her, nearly falling off the ledge of the staircase he’s sitting on. 

 

“What can I do for you?” asks the other, a Togruta like her. He’s unfazed by her appearance, he probably sensed her before she even saw him. Ocha’s echolocation skills are more intentional. But still Ocha finds herself almost overwhelmed by the sight of another, real-life Togruta. He looks nothing like her and she shares more in common with him that almost anyone else she knows. Ocha’s voice is hoarse when she speaks. 

 

“Botanical District,” Ocha says, small, intentional. “I only have physical credits.”

 

“That’s fine,” the Togruta says. “Five should do it.” 

 

“Can you break a Calamari ten?” Ocha asks, digging in her messenger bag. When she thinks of how she’d acquired this bag, on day two of three hunting the bounty, her heart suddenly stings as she remembers all that she’d been forced to leave on the Mandalorian’s ship. Her entire life is on that ship, still packed in suitcases. She doesn’t regret it, but it still hurts. 

 

But after Armand is dead she supposes it won’t really matter. She’ll be dead too. And that’s only if she can do her job right.

 

She takes the split Flan from the Togruta and gets in the back of the airspeeder, holding tightly onto the railing. When the driver engages the engine the whole car seems to bow for a moment, before leveling out in the air. He pulls off the edge of the level slowly and starts the drive over to the Botanical District. 

 

Ocha hasn’t gotten a chance to appreciate Coruscant. It’s overwhelming, to be sure, what must be miles of skyscrapers both up and down. She imagines it will be even more beautiful at night, all lit up, but she can only imagine. The wind whips against her face and lekku as they pick up speed and Ocha becomes keenly aware that the airspeeders are dangerous. She looks around to be assured by someone who isn’t there. 

 

“Did you just get in?” the driver asks, shaking her from her thoughts. “You don’t look like you’re from around here.” 

 

“That’s right,” Ocha says softly, but she’s careful not to offer anything else. 

 

“Are you here for the wedding?” His question catches Ocha off guard, and stupidly, she decides to tell the truth before she can even begin to think of a lie. 

 

“Yes.” 

 

“I thought so. You kind of look like Senator Aziz.” The thought enrages her even more than she’d imagined. The idea of sharing her face with Armand makes her want to leap from this airspeeder, to become a fine paste in the undercity below. “Are you related?”

 

Ocha smells the acrid sting of her own hatred and tamps it down. She searches for a lie, but more than that, she dips into her own fantasy. “I don’t know. I’m adopted.” 

 

“Oh, sorry,” he apologizes quickly. “I didn’t mean anything by that. Just some of your markings are similar to his. Your eyes, too.” Ocha’s face markings aren’t anything special— she has six dots, three on each side, that trail down her forehead. Around her eyes are rings that run into tear-like tracks down the sides of her nose, only to bow out in a curve on her cheeks, eventually stopping just at her jaw. 

 

Armand’s markings are striped. He has them on his montrals, his lekku, and they bloom onto his face. He still has the same thick ‘eyeliner’ that Ocha has, and they share the same general idea of eyebrows through their markings, but that is where the similarities end. Armand’s skin is rusty orange and Ocha’s is dark blue-gray, but mostly blue. The patterns on Armand’s lekku are heroic blue, and Ocha’s are an even darker navy. From the holos she’d looked at, Armand’s montrals are impressively large, curled like a bison’s. Ocha is happy to have inherited Mama’s classic pointed shape. 

 

“Where are your parents?” Once was fine. Two became annoying. But three makes her want to dig her nails into the engine of this airspeeder and bring them both down. 

 

It’s none of your business, Ocha thinks, “Already over at the venue. I wanted to pick up moisturizer for my lekku.” 

 

“Okay,” the driver says, not totally believing her. But thankfully the driver slows to let her off in the Botanical district, which she finds to be not totally dissimilar from the Federal district. Lots of sculpture, standing and relief, but it’s quieter than the Federal district. 

 

“Thank you,” Ocha says, and closes the airspeeder’s door. The first steps she takes will be the first steps of the last day of her life. Ocha takes off her cloak to reveal her nicest clothes, but by Coruscant’s standards, they’re incredibly plain. 

 

She holds her cloak over her arm politely, starting the walk over to the venue. She can already see some of the hustle and bustle ramping up, even though the wedding won’t be for hours. 

 

Then an idea strikes her. The wedding won’t be for hours, but it takes hours to prepare for a wedding— especially one’s own wedding. Armand is probably here. She doesn’t see much security, they’re probably focused around the groom. But nobodies get wherever they need to go all the time, especially if they act like they know what they’re doing. 

 

The gun burns on her hip as she adjusts her pace, quickening. She’s not sure if the Mandalorian is still behind her but she can’t afford to think otherwise. 

 

The walk to the gardens is long and confusing, and she has to pay attention if she doesn’t want to get lost. She could buy another cab, but she doesn’t want to spend more money, especially if she can get to the gardens without having to speak to anyone. 

 

“Hello,” she mouths. “I’m here from the office of Senator…” she glances around, trying to find a poster or some such to take a name from. Of course, there are endorsements, but anyone currently running for a position is out, why would someone only running for Senator need to contact Armand? Why would Armand respond? 

 

But as she’s looking up, she spots a holo banner celebrating the completion of a project sponsored by Senator Elara Beren, and Ocha thinks perfect. “Hello,” Ocha mouths again, “I’m here from the office of Senator Beren. I have..” she swallows. “A note.” She’ll need to find physical paper, because there’s no way she’s getting her hands on a holo, or worse yet, buying one, only to immediately throw it away.

 

By the time she’s less than three blocks from the venue, she sees a lot more security. But they don’t seem to be doing a terrible amount, a few on their datapads, another leaning against a speeder. 

 

To get into the venue, she’ll use her first lie, to get to Armand, she’ll use her second. She puts her cloak back on— they’ll want to pat her down before going in and the more layers she has against her hip the better. Her walking becomes quicker, more professional, in a sense, far less bouncy. She ages herself psychologically and that bleeds into the physical. 

 

She approaches the barricade, waving a hand to catch the eye of a security guard, who stands straight up to receive her. 

 

“Hi,” she greets immediately, “Hi, I’m so sorry, I’m with catering. I guess one of the kids flaked, or got sick, or something. They just sent me from corporate.” Her voice is deep for her age, this works to help her even in spite of how young she looks. 

 

“You’re a temp?” she asks. “Explains the clothes. But you came from the south and we were told that Harmony Catering’s corporate building is, like, an hour and a half north.”

 

“Cab drivers are morons,” Ocha tells her easily, trying to copy her vocal fry. “They dropped me off, like, a thousand blocks away, and I have a bad hip.”

 

“Oh my stars, tell me about it,” the guard vents. “I almost missed the bus here this morning ‘cause they didn’t listen to where I wanted to be dropped off.” She looks to be getting away from herself because she refocuses on Ocha. “Wait, let me just pat you down and then you can go in.”

 

“Totally,” Ocha agrees, lifting her arms so that the guard can slide her hands down them. “How long are you here till?” 

 

“I get off at four,” she says. “I got here at five, and they called me in on an emergency or whatever. High security, you know.” 

 

“Yeah, for sure,” Ocha says. “I work till we close.” Her hands trail dangerously close to the gun and Ocha makes sure to wince. “Ah, sorry. You can keep going.” 

 

“No, you’re gonna be working all night, I don’t want to hurt you,” she says. Ocha is… touched. It’s a selfless thing to say, to do, and Ocha’s not familiar with that. 

 

“Thanks so much,” Ocha tells her, and walks in. 

 

Her heart rate jumps. The smell is lovely, decadent, and Ocha is sick of it immediately. But Maker, the botanical center is gorgeous, all stained glass and art built into every crevice. Ocha knows it’s likely been entirely redone to temporarily accommodate the wedding, but even Armand can’t ruin this. 

 

Armand, Ocha thinks suddenly. She looks around. He’s old-fashioned, he believes in tradition, including leaving vulnerable women on a lonely planet to raise a child. He probably has a guest book for people to sign, and given how large the gardens are, it’s probably equally humongous. 

 

It takes some poking around, but Ocha finds it near a gift shop that has been repurposed into a bar— she can tell because they’re still shoving all the merchandise into the back closet. 

 

Ocha sidles up to the book, and she was right, it’s massive and ornate, with what Ocha is forced to assume is solid gold detailing on the corners. Ocha’s hand is dwarfed as she flips through the pages, lifting and setting them down, trying to get to the back of the book. The pages are heavy cardstock, meant to last. 

Ocha waits for the worker to go into the back, dragging behind them a cart full of vases, before she tears a section of the page out. The book is easily eighteen inches tall and more than double wide, so she doesn’t need a whole page. She glances around for cameras and spots one, so she ducks into the blind spot she guesses is close to the doorway and takes off her cloak again. She folds the page in half and transfers it to her other hand while she gets her gun out, covering it with the cloak. 

 

I can do this, Ocha thinks, breathing in through her nose, out through her mouth. I have to do this. Just this and then it’s over. If I survive I go with the Mandalorian, if I die I go with Mama. 

 

Ocha calms and walks out, searching for the dressing rooms. They may also be repurposed if the whole venue has been, so she’s looking for something private. An office, perhaps, not one of the public bathrooms. She passes someone on the way, and they accidentally brush into each other, each apologizing. 

 

“Oh, um,” Ocha says. “I’m trying to find my mom, she’s one of the dressing ladies. Do you know where she would…?”

 

Suddenly the other person looks nervous— a humanoid with greyish skin. “Yeah, go up the grand stairs and to the right. Last door down the second hallway.”

 

“Thank you,” Ocha says, turning back around. She doesn’t run, but Maker, she wants to. She can feel her heart thrumming beneath her chest, but she controls herself, going up the middle of the staircase instead of by the sides for support. 

 

She turns the corner and comes face-to-face with another security guard. “Hello,” she says. “I’m from the office of Senator Beren, I have this note for Senator Aziz. It’s urgent.” 

 

The guard stares at her, dead-faced, and then touches the comm-link in his ear. “I have someone claiming to be from the office of Senator Beren… Yes. Yes, I’m sorry. She says it’s urgent… Yes. Yes, sir. I’m sorry to interrupt.” He clears his throat and nods, pointing down the hallway. “Make it quick.” 

 

It’s killing her— the suspense is killing her. Her palm begins to sweat and she tightens her grip on the gun, nodding and hurrying down the hallway. 

 

But as she approaches the door, she stops. She breathes, she thinks. She feels crushing guilt. That Mandalorian had cared and protected her for fourteen days and she repaid him by stiffing him and ditching him after he had offered her the Way.

 

She can’t go crawling back. She can’t, can not, will not go crawling back to anyone. 

 

She pushes open the door and drops the note. Armand is standing with his back to her, applying some kind of paste to his montrals. The woman next to him applying a tikka to her forehead must be Dascha. 

 

“What is it?” Armand asks. His voice is a warm baritone, but it’s a fake warmth, a politician’s voice. Not at all like the Mandalorian’s. Of course she had wanted to hear his true voice, but that had been hidden below layers and layers of respect for the Creed. Ocha now longs to push Armand’s voice out of her head. 

 

“Armand,” Ocha says. “Maker. You’re…” she trails off, because whatever quippy line she was going to say melts right out of her head. Her father is before her and Ocha is consumed with the darkest, most potent hate she’s ever felt. She wants Mama. She wants Mama back but there’s no way in hell that can happen so there’s not a thing in the galaxy that can save Armand from his fate. 

 

He turns to see her and his eyes widen. Ocha knows, knows Armand recognizes her. She drops the cloak and reveals the gun, lifting it to point at Armand’s chest. “Don’t make a fucking sound,” she says, as Dascha takes a step back, trying to get to the door. 

 

“Who are you?” Dascha says instead, hands up, voice calm and steely. Then she glances back to her husband. “I didn’t think Elara had it in her. She works fast.” 

 

“Ocha,” Ocha says. “I’m Anpao’s daughter.” 

 

“I know,” Armand says. “You look just like her… you look like me. How is she?”

 

“Dead,” Ocha offers plainly. “For five years now. There was a fire. She saved me.” 

 

“I’m sorry,” Armand says. Ocha doesn’t know if he means it and that means he needs to die twice over. 

 

“Did you love her?” Ocha asks, turning her head side to side to calm herself. This would be easier with that Beskar giant behind her. “You knew about me when you sent her away. How could you do that to me?” 

 

“I’m sorry,” he says again. Ocha wants him to break and bend and bow and apologize. “I… I cared for her, of course I did. But she knew it wasn’t going to last, of course she did.” 

 

“Who is Anpao?” Dascha asks, and Ocha cocks her head, keeping the gun on Armand.

 

“My mother,” Ocha says. “Your fiance had an affair with her.”

 

“I have five daughters,” Dascha says. She’s trying to make Ocha empathize with her, she guesses, but it won’t work. “Uno, Padmei, Shiera, then I have twins, Ateyo and Antu—” 

 

“Is everyone on this planet fucking stupid, or is it just you two?” Ocha demands, stepping closer. They don’t cry, she’ll give them that. This must be routine for them, being held up by fourteen-year-olds. Her voice gets squeaky and her sinuses sting, she’s embarrassed about both. She’s supposed to be scary, why isn’t she scary? “It’s not about you!” 

 

“Then what do you want?” Dascha asks. “We can make it happen.” 

 

Ocha is quiet for “I want my mother back,” Ocha chokes, but as her finger stutters on the trigger, something hard and sharp gets her in the ankle. Instinctually she fires down, and then at the next greyish wormlike centipede. Ocha sobs, terrified, not that she’ll die, but that she won’t get her chance to kill Armand. 

 

It works fast, faster than anything Ocha’s ever experienced; her vision goes fuzzy, her tongue swells, her hands weaken. She cannot breathe. She cannot scream. Before she goes out, before she dies, she aims her gun at Armand and fires. When the shot leaves the gun, it buzzes, and falls out of her hand. Ocha hits the ground, hard, gasping for breath. She doesn’t want Armand to save her. She doesn’t want to be saved.

 

When everything goes black Ocha is livid that she can’t see where she’s shot Armand. 

---

Everything is blurry and calm and a little bit cold. Ocha opens her gritty eyes and finds herself in her mother’s embrace, leaning in before she even knows who it is. She can’t talk, she doesn’t have the control. 

 

They’re sitting together on the front porch and Mama is peeling a fruit for her, but Ocha doesn’t want to eat. She just wants to stay like this, leaning into Mama’s arms, calm, content. Is this heaven? Ocha wonders. Can I stay?

 

Her stomach curdles and she grabs it, turning to the side. She heaves but nothing comes out, even with Mama’s gentle encouragement. “It’s okay,” Mama says. “It’s okay, just get it out, baby.” 

 

When Ocha can’t vomit Mama lets her lay down, head in her lap. “I know you’re feeling bad right now,” Mama says. “It’s okay, it’ll pass. I’m so proud of you.” Mama’s smile is so warm, so comforting. “But I don’t want you to do that ever again.”  

 

Ocha’s face twists into confusion. I had to, she thinks. 

 

“He doesn’t get to be more important than you,” Mama says. “Your friend was right. Never give your life up for something like this. There will always, always be more.” 

 

Ocha opens her mouth, inhaling, and for the first time, the air hits her lungs. She knows she only gets one question, but she knows what she wants to ask. 

 

“Are you real?” 

 

Mama smiles again and puts her hand over Ocha’s eyes, closing them. 

---

Ocha snaps back into her own body and it feels like a thousand pounds of weight is crushing her, keeping her locked there. 

 

She’s propped up against a pillow, not laying totally flat. She can’t move her head, or her arms, or her feet, but she can move her eyes. She isn’t handcuffed, so it must be weakness from the poison. She has a couple cords hanging from each arm and an impressive tube protruding from her mouth.

 

She looks around, finding the room to be quaint. White walls, white bedspread, even her gown is white with polka dots. 

 

She’s alone in this room. There is nobody here to hold her hand or ask if she’s alright. 

 

She waits five minutes. Maybe he’s getting food. Maybe they both are and that’s why she’s all by herself. 

 

She waits fifteen. Maybe they got food and sat down to have it instead of bringing it back here, that’s fine, Ocha doesn’t want to stay in this room either. 

 

She waits forty-five minutes and knows nobody is coming for her. She’s all alone and it’s all her fault. 

Notes:

PLEASE read everything to win by TheSparklingDiamond, it's where Elara Beren is from, she's cerria's mother. Danaë thank you so much for letting me use your beautiful character !!

Chapter 8: The Mandalorian

CORUSCANT, 9 ABY 

 

Djarin crushes the note into his palm and stuffs it in his pocket, turning so fast on his heel that he feels dizzy. 

 

He can barely see. A dark vignette clouds the edges of his vision and he storms back to the ship, still enraged, still doing what Ocha suggests. 

 

Fourteen days is not long enough to build a stable relationship. But it’s enough to build allegiance, alliance, adhesion… affection. 

 

His chest hurts. Something inside him is pressing to get out, and it doesn’t care if it hurts him in the process. There is something terrible inside him, but something terrible that matched the terrible that Ocha had. 

 

He stops to look at her stuff gathered in the cargo bay. He’d kept it unreasonably warm down there so that she wouldn’t freeze when she slept. He supposes he can turn it back down now. 

 

Djarin wants to step closer, he thinks he can see something tangled in her blankets. She’ll want it untouched when she comes back, he thinks, painfully. 

 

He climbs up to the cockpit, and, hands trembling, and takes several minutes to plan the course back to Nevarro. He doesn’t need to stop, he doesn’t need to pick up bounties. He doesn’t need to leave hyperspace. 

 

He lifts the ship into the atmosphere and watches as the stars bleed into spikes, heart thump-thump-thumping its way out of his chest. He clenches his jaw, he unclenches his jaw. He wipes his gloved hand over his helmet and suddenly, frighteningly lightning-fast, he rips off his helmet and hurls it as hard as he can into the closed doors behind him, leaving a helmet-shaped dent where the doors open. He’ll probably have to squeeze through since they won’t close properly now.  

 

He regrets it immediately but doesn’t go to check if that part of him is okay, he knows it is. It’s beskar. Nothing can ever penetrate beskar. If Djarin could coat his heart in it he would. But he can’t. 

 

His sinuses have graduated from a sting to a burn. He carefully takes the note from his pocket and smooths it out, reading it over again. 

 

Mandalorian,

 

Djarin stops and coasts his thumb over the ink. It’s dry, it’s been written for hours. He sets it down and skims over it quickly, and then reads over it again with more intention. He tries to imagine her, writing this in her bunk, already content with what she has to do. 

 

He hates it, hates imagining it, hates that he let her go. If Djarin ever got anyone to stay with him he’d die of shock. Maybe being a Mandalorian means being alone. 

 

He takes off his glove and his fingerpad brushes against the ink as if that will make them closer. It won’t, but at least it stops Djarin from turning his helmet into the finest battering rams the galaxy’s ever seen. 

 

Djarin hangs his head and presses the note close to his chest, as though mourning her now will save him from knowing that he didn’t have to mourn her at all, that he shouldn’t have let her go. He had been so good about it in Cloud City, he’d strayed hardly a foot from her, only to go and mess it all up on an exponentially more dangerous planet. 

 

He overthinks himself into a numb stupor, eventually working up the courage to stand. He picks up his helmet and inspects it for damage that isn’t there, deciding that he’ll polish his brand-new armor to give him something to do. 

 

Or maybe it’s that he wants to feel like something can kill him. Or just that he’s not impervious to harm. He removes his chestplate, his thigh guards, his pauldrons. 

 

He ignores the can of polish tucked away under the console and sits back in the Captain’s chair. He begins to sob into his hands. 

---

The second day is harder. He isn’t connected to the Net in hyperspace, that means no news, and since he’s heading straight back to Nevarro to pick up the Child, he’ll receive news of her death when he’s holding his son. 

 

Maybe it’s better that way. He’s doing what she wants— wanted. His priority now is the Child. 

 

He can’t help but stew in it. He rummages around in one of his secret cabinets and finds the same clear bottle from a week or so ago and rolls it behind him, intending to dispose of it later. He isn’t selective, he just picks whatever’s fullest, and that ends up being a bright teal (denotating slightly stale) spotchka. 

 

He hasn’t put the armor back on yet, but his brown jumpsuit covers all his skin anyway. Djarin sits back against the wall of the cockpit with a grunt, rubbing the scruff of his mouth and jaw. He takes a deep, slow sip of the spotchka, holding the thin metal cup to his forehead. 

 

He used to like being alone, too. It’s just like them— both of them— to go and ruin that for him. When he’d left the covert at nineteen he’d hated it, and then by twenty would crave solitude. When he joined the guild he had expected loneliness and he had gotten it and he had been quite alright with it. It was what he had wanted. 

 

He can kind of imagine Ocha, the ghost of Ocha, opposite of him, turning her gun over in her hands. It’s only when Ocha is as good as gone that Djarin can confront the growing fondness he had for her. Like telling someone he loves them is as good as saying goodbye. 

 

He’d described her as being blue, as having a round face, as being short. He can do so much better but he can’t do it while an apparition of her is sitting across from him. Or maybe it’s not an apparition— he can’t see her in his eye but he can see her in his mind’s eye, because he wants her to be there. But that doesn’t change the fact that she isn’t. 

 

“Do you want to go over the plan again?” She asks, joking, a smile curling at the sides of her mouth. 

 

“I’m going to come find you,” Djarin promises, drinking. 

 

“Best bring a hearse.”

 

His mouth is dry so he drinks. She’d been happier after she’d decided to do what she did. “I spoke to your mother.” 

 

“No kidding? Mandalorians believe in ghosts?”

 

“Spirits. Mostly in dreams. I know this isn’t real. She, um… she really loved you so much. More than anything. You looked like you were the center of her universe.” He speaks slowly, but as he does so, he comes to a realization. He’s not happy about it so he drinks. “I understand why you wanted to do what you did.” 

 

“I knew you would.”

 

“Knowing you was a gift,” Djarin says finally. “I learned a lot from you, too. I wish I could have learned more.” He picks up the bottle from earlier and puts it in the disposal. He stands and takes another.

---

Days three, four, and five pass in a blur. Djarin drinks, Djarin showers, Djarin drinks in the shower. Somewhere along the way he sleeps, but fitfully, constantly in and out. 

 

He focuses on the kid. He does his best to flatten out the pieces of the broken pram with his tools, but he’ll need a new one anyway. There are dents and nicks that aren’t safe for the baby but it gives Djarin something to work on. If Ocha were here he’d start training her on wiring, electronics. But he doesn’t need to. 

 

When he’s done with the stroller it floats but the top doesn’t close. The fabric bed inside is soiled and torn as well. He’ll donate it to Karga, and by donate he means dump it in the bar and walk away. 

 

He’ll have to buy a new one but that’s money he knows is worth spending. With as much time as the Child spends in that thing he’d better buy a good one, too. 

 

He’ll start picking up more bounties— five a month instead of four. He’ll stop taking a week off every few weeks, he’ll just keep going. He won’t need to stop because he’ll have everything he needs right on the ship, right with him. 

 

He’ll introduce the child to his own mother, he’ll earn his own clan. Clan Din, but Buir’s fondness for animal signets dictates that surely they will be called Clan Mudhorn. 

 

Djairn remembers being tossed thirty or so feet, how the mud had caked itself into his armor, his jumpsuit. How the mudhorn had then turned its gaze upon the child and the crushing anxiety Djarin had felt, how it had even begun to charge before Djarin had pulled the pram aside with the still-working controls on his arm. 

 

After that, of course, it simply returned to pummeling him so that he still bears the bruises of such an event. But just when he had given up, just when he had thought to give his life up for the Child, that’s when it happened. When the Child lifted the mudhorn with nothing but his mind. 

 

Djarin had lifted his head to see it floating, unable to harm them. Mud-soaked, Djarin had staggered to his feet. When the Child had exhausted all his strength, Djarin had been able to kill the beast. 

 

And then when he had turned in the Child he had been able to ditch his mud-crusted armor for something more Mandalorian. But he’s rectifying that mistake now, and that includes going back to Nevarro. 

---

 

NEVARRO, 9 ABY

 

It’s frighteningly easy. 

 

Not getting him back, of course, that is difficult beyond difficult. He’s only one Mandalorian and the Imperial safehouse is fortified more than Djarin has ever imagined. 

 

But focusing on the kid is frighteningly easy. Like he was meant to do this, made to do this. 

 

He blocks it out, he blocks it all out. He doesn’t even have a plan, really. He goes in guns blazing and survives through willpower, but not without wounds. Not without wounds, of course. He may very well lose a few of his fingers or a foot but that would be okay because he would still love life if his son were in it. 

 

He knows he has to kill all of them— if he leaves even one alive that allows the Empire to come after them. He won’t make a mistake like that. 

 

So it’s not even remotely difficult when the Doctor begs. “No, no, no, no, please.” His voice is high and slightly shrill and he holds his hand out before him like he’s afraid. He should be. “Please. No. No, no.”

 

A large metal machine— medical something whirrs above the Child, a single needle pointed down. Djarin shoots at the joint and it collapses into sparks, landing hard on the bed. The Doctor flinches away but still stands in front of him. Djarin wrenches him aside and feels no small amount of satisfaction at the sound of him hitting the floor. 

 

Djarin looks over the child, fast asleep, a screen over him to read his vitals. He doesn’t look like he’s in pain. “What did you do to him?” Djarin demands to know, lowly, evenly. When the Doctor clearly isn’t comprehending his words, he repeats them louder, more agitated. 

 

“I, I protected him. I protected him! If it wasn’t for me, he would already be dead, please!” He whimpers, head pressed against the wall, and Djarin scoops up the child, a sagging relief flowing over him at the weight in his arms. 

 

“Thank you,” Djarin says, and leaves him unharmed. 

 

Sneaking out is much more difficult than blowing his way in. He leaves eyes that have seen him, but now with a tiny sleepy bundle in his arms he can’t do things the way he wishes. He has to find a compromise. 

 

That compromise includes using all of his Whistling Birds when he only meant to use a few, but he can’t complain when the job is done. Four Stormtroopers fall to the ground and Djarin lifts his son again, finally making his way into the volcanic night. 

 

He’s wrenched aside by someone and is prepared to do what he needs to do when he recognizes the figure. Greef Karga. 

 

He looks shaken, distraught. “I’ve been trying to reach you,” he says desperately, with a weakness. “I’ve—”

 

“I’m leaving,” Djarin tells him firmly. “I’m taking my son with me. I’m going to go see my leader and then I’ll leave this planet.” 

 

“What?” Karga asks, deeply confused. “No, no. Something— something terrible has happened.”

 

“What happened?” Djarin says, preparing himself for Karga to say Ocha died . He starts walking off in the direction of his ship and Karga follows. 

 

Karga looks so terrified. Djarin can’t help but empathize and it only makes him like the man more. Djarin can’t hate someone who loves Ocha. “Ocha was poisoned.” 

 

Djarin stops. “Ocha’s alive?” 

---

 

SPACE, 9 ABY

 

Karga has bought transportation for the both of them, a Class .5 Hyperdrive ship. Djarin remains quiet until he’s in the tiny quarters he’s sharing with the Child and Karga. “What happened?” 

 

“She did it,” Karga starts, sinking into his bunk. “She got all the way to him, you know. She told the people out front she was with catering and then the people inside that she was carrying a message for Armand.”

 

“They believed her?” 

 

“She was holding a scrap of his guestbook. They didn’t even check to see if there was writing on it. She held them up in a dressing room. And then a Kouhun stung her.” 

 

“Stung her? How is she alive?”

 

“The stings of those bugs are less potent than their bites. She’s still barely hanging on. She managed to kill the pair that were in the room with her before going down.” 

 

“And Armand?” 

 

“She got him in the foot. He walked down the aisle, but he didn’t dance.” 

 

“Good,” Djarin says. “She’ll be pissed when she finds out. We’ll figure something else out for her.” 

 

“She already knows,” Karga says. “She had her step-sister call me. Shiera Paashi, nice girl.” Even the levity weighs twenty pounds. “She’s been staying with Ocha to make sure she’s alright. She only woke up early this morning.” 

 

And now it’s early the next morning. Guilt crushes Djarin but he’s doing the right thing, he’s going back and getting Ocha. 

 

“This is my fault,” Djarin tells him. “She— she got away from me when we made it to Coruscant. I was upset with her. She told me to turn around to get him and I did.” 

 

Karga looks over the baby with fondness and brushes back hair that isn’t there. “They wanted me to kill you over this,” Karga says. “I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. Not after what you did for Ocha.” 

 

Djarin is silent for a long time. Long enough that Karga relaxes back into the bunk. The silence is comfortable and though Djarin knows he won’t be able to take off his armor to sleep tonight he doesn’t mind. He doesn’t trust Karga for a lot but he trusts him not to remove his helmet. “I…” Djarin starts finally when they’re both half asleep, “I wouldn’t have been able to fight you. Ocha loves you.” 

 

“Ocha’s mom was like a daughter to me,” Karga says. “She was so happy when Ocha was born. We were. My son died when he was very young, he was always sickly. It felt like I got to honor him through her.” 

 

Djarin turns his head. “I didn’t know you had a son.” 

 

“No one does, really. His father and I didn’t make it and he left. He came back for the funeral and he left again. Distance makes the heart grow fonder.” Karga sighs. “We caught it late. There wasn’t much left to do and he still hung on for so long, trying to make sure I would be alright without him. He was so brave. So brave.” 

 

Djarin looks back up at the ceiling. “I’m sorry your son died.” 

 

“Thank you,” Greef says. “Please don’t tell anyone.” 

 

“I won’t,” Djarin promises, and doesn’t speak again until morning. 

---

“We’ll need to move her as soon as we can,” Djarin tells Greef after they’ve had breakfast: Djarin through a straw, Greef with a fork and knife. The crew of the ship, two young women, have been kind enough to relegate themselves to the cockpit while their passengers eat for privacy. “You may forgive me but the Empire certainly won’t.” 

 

“She’s far too sick,” Greef says. “Did I not—? Mando, Ocha is still on the brink. We may be going to say goodbye, we may be going to keep her company while she recuperates. She can’t keep down food, or water, and she’s still wearing a tracheostomy tube to get through the night. She’ll probably need to wear an oxygen mask for the rest of her life.” 

 

That strikes Djarin poignantly. A mask like his, maybe? “She’ll make it,” Djarin says. “Of course she will.”

 

“I think so, too.” Greef’s smile doesn’t quite touch his eyes. “What does the baby eat?”

 

“Meat,” Djarin says. “Live animals if he can. He knows how to hunt, that doesn’t mean he’s any good at it.” He adjusts the baby in his lap, trying to feet him vegetable puree. It’s not going well— the baby keeps spitting it out. 

 

“Ocha eats a lot of meat too.”

 

“I’ve seen Togruta eat vegetables before.”

 

“Has she?” 

 

Djarin grunts, wiping mashed carrots off his visor. The Child looks mighty upset but he’ll just have to deal, all kids need to eat vegetables. “What was the step-sister like?” 

 

Greef shrugs, polishing off the last of his breakfast. “Calm. She got my code through her father, I used to be friends with her father. Then he was more of an associate.” 

 

“And now, what is he?”

Greef’s face sours. “He’s nothing.” But then it relaxes into something more neutral, something more Guild Master Karga. “Ocha won’t take any visitors. She’s limited her medical team to a single doctor and nurse, and a few droids.”

 

Djarin frowns: he doesn’t want droids on her medical team. “Does she have that power?”

 

“She doesn’t have parents. She can act in her own best interest.”

 

“Obviously not,” Djarin deadpans, displeased. “I’ll handcuff us together if I have to.” He’s not joking. “How are her accommodations? Do I need to speak to anyone?” 

 

“Her stepmother is paying for all of it. She feels badly about the whole thing, she almost called off the wedding. I was able to speak with her briefly once I got off the holo with Shiera. That’s how I know Ocha is doing so badly.” 

 

“The extent of her injuries?” 

 

“She almost lost her foot, they had to pack it in ice for a few days to keep the temperature down. But the real problem is that the poison is bringing down her oxygen levels. That part’s permanent. She’ll be on an oxygen concentrate for a long, long time.” 

 

Already the wheels in Djarin’s head are turning. Respirators can be modified to produce that amount of oxygen by pulling it out of the air; Djarin knows that his own mother had made one for another elderly Mandalorian. 

 

“How is the media spinning it?” 

 

“They aren’t. Nobody knows about it. Armand is old, nobody questioned his inactivity.”

 

“I really wanted her to kill him,” Djarin admits softly. “I really wanted her to have this.” 

 

“Me too,” Greef echoes. “But if she did she would never have been able to live. She would have been imprisoned or murdered by bounty hunters. Even if she went on the run, it wouldn’t have been a life. Not one worth living, anyway.” He seems to realize what he’s said, because he tacks on, “She would have been all alone, Mando. You wouldn’t have been able to go with her.” 

 

He has to go on the run after decimating an Imperial outpost, can he take Ocha with him? Does it only work if he’s the one they’re after, not the girl or the boy? Djarin looks down at the Child in his arms and squeezes him a little tighter, setting down the spoon. “It wouldn’t have been a life,” Djarin agrees. Not without either of them.

Chapter 9: Family/Fortitute/Honor

CORUSCANT, 9 ABY 

 

Shiera shouldn’t be doing this. It’s not any of her responsibility. Ocha has tried and failed to articulate it many times, but all she can rely on is making terribly sad eyes at her elder step-sister. 

 

“Just a little,” Shiera coaxes, a spoon at Ocha’s mouth. “It’s Akul stock. Akul are native to Shili.” 

 

That gets Ocha to open her mouth a little bit, just enough for Shiera to empty the spoon. It tastes meaty but not gamey, like some of the other red meats Ocha has had. Ocha can flex her fingers enough to touch Shiera’s arm, but everything is still very stiff. 

 

There are tubes coming out of just about everywhere. There are tubes going in and tubes going out. The ones attached to her lungs drain a sickly yellow gunk and the ones attached to her stomach pump in a grayish-brown food slurry. 

 

All the sisters had come by over the course of the past week, introducing themselves, spending time in the room when they didn't have to. Ocha gets the idea that the only one of them who really likes Armand is Dascha. 

 

Uno is the oldest at twenty-eight and the most independent. She doesn’t get along with her mother— they had fought in the hall before entering the room. But she had been cordial with Ocha, even if she had only spent five minutes in the room with her, exchanging pleasantries between staring off in different corners. Uno looks like a typical Togruta, orange skin and blue montrals and lekku. But she doesn’t act like one. Her independence is a flaw. Ocha doesn’t feel the same way. 

 

Padmei could not be more starkly different. She has the same skin as Uno, but Padmei’s montrals and lekku veer teal, this is where her similarities to her sister end. Padmei, Ocha reasons, is the golden child. She’s the quintessential Togruta. She’s a perfectionist dancer with bones of steel. She’s also more fragile than glass. She’s the closest with Dascha and is rarely far from her side. She was named for some Senator Amidala, a close friend of Dascha’s who passed away just after Uno was born. That’s all Shiera had shared. But Ocha predicts that Padmei will be the one to inherit Dascha’s dance company when she dies, not Uno. 

 

Then comes Shiera. Ocha likes her the best: she doesn’t ask questions and she doesn’t do anything if there’s no reason for it. So when Shiera is trying to get Ocha to eat, it’s because she knows it’s been too long since her last meal. Shiera is predominantly purple and orange with a little pink. She’s the only one of her sisters with this coloring. She talks about as much as the Mandalorian and to Ocha this is intensely charming. 

 

Ocha accepts another mouthful of stock but pushes away a third by turning her head. She doesn’t want to be ungrateful but the liquid is beginning to taste like paste, just like everything else she’s eaten. 

 

The twins are last but not least. Ateyo and Antu were born just three minutes apart— 300,000 light years away from each other. Antu is Togruta, Ateyo is Twi’lek. They like each other more than they like anyone else, they don’t hide this fact. Other than Shiera, the twins are most likely to be found in Ocha’s room, her messily-painted nails evidence of this. 

 

But all of them share some sort of connection to that Senator Amidala, as though she’s some sort of patron saint of the family. And Ocha doesn’t understand it, just another thing to make her feel alone. 

 

Ocha’s eyelashes flutter and she looks over to Shiera, then glances at the door poignantly. 

 

“I haven’t heard anything back,” Shiera says softly. “But Nevarro is a long, long way from here. They could be on their way. We don’t know.” 

 

Ocha closes her eyes and lets a single tear fall down her cheek. “I think you should rest,” Shiera agrees, misinterpreting her expression. She reaches over the side of the bed and attaches the trach tube to Ocha’s neck. 

 

Ocha stares out the window for hours. Nobody enters the room. The sun comes up. Ocha feels like a princess in an ivory tower. Nobody is coming for her. 

 

Ocha can’t think about Armand or her heart rate will spike and send a flurry of nurses she doesn’t want into the room. Ocha can’t do anything without someone knowing about it. It wasn’t always this way. 

 

But Ocha can’t say she regrets the journey. It had its moments, good and bad. It had a bad ending. It had a good middle. It had a fine beginning. 

 

So while Ocha waits for the poison to kill her, the Mandalorian and Greef Karga make their way across the galaxy at speeds faster than light. 

---

SPACE, 9 ABY

 

“We’ll land in about an hour,” the captain tells Djarin. It can’t come soon enough. 

 

“Is there any way you could go faster?” Djarin asks. 

 

“Not safely,” the captain says, bordering on terse. Djarin has been on her and her copilot’s heels the whole journey and everyone’s feeling the effects of it. The Child has been far more fussy than usual, uncomfortable flying on a ship that isn’t his, and Djarin struggles to do little other than empathize. 

 

Greef seems to be handling it the best but Djarin knows him too well to put all his confidence into such an idea. He may be able to smile but he is hurting badly, too. The guilt is killing him like it’s killing Djarin. 

 

So Greef rocks and feeds the Child and even changes his diapers without so much as a glance in Djarin’s direction. Djarin wants him to say something like I never should have let her go with you but he knows better than to expect it, because they both know it would have happened anyway. 

 

Ocha would have made it happen anyway. She had been persistent like that. 

 

“I’ll speak to Armand,” Greef says softly, “Ocha’s made it so that he can’t quite say no to what we ask. If you want her…”

 

Djarin grunts and takes the kid back from Greef. “Will you take her if I don’t?” 

 

“Yes,” Greef says simply. “But it won’t be what she wants.” 

 

“I don’t know what she wants,” Djarin tells him honestly, imploring him to help. But Djarin does know what she wants, because she told him on their third day together. Family, fortitude, honor. She had made it sound so easy.  

 

“What are you thinking?” Greef asks. Djarin looks down at the baby in his arms. 

 

“I’m going to kill him,” Djarin decides. “Finish what she started. She won’t be able to live with him around.”

 

“And when you’re killed for attempted assasination, what do you think she’ll do?” 

 

Figure it out, Djarin thinks. She’s sharper than I gave her credit for. Than any of us gave her credit for, really. But then he realizes that if he dies Ocha is all alone, barring Greef. She wanted to be a Mandalorian. 

 

At the very least it makes the difficult journey into Coruscant earned— even without heightened security, Coruscant is a zoo even on its best days; and this is not one of its best days. 

 

Djarin keeps the Child tight against his chest, the pram forgotten on the Razor Crest back home. Greef stays close at Djarin’s side, never touching Djarin but never remaining out of arm’s reach. They’re a united front, they have to look united. 

 

The walk to the hospital isn’t long but it’s busy and perhaps a little too cool for Greef to be without a coat. But their minds are on little else than Ocha, and when the massive hospital building comes into view, anxiety floods Djarin’s chest. He doesn’t want to say goodbye to Ocha. But he can’t not go see her, even if it’s just one last time. 

 

Greef hadn’t allowed him to watch the transmission from Shiera so Djarin has to rely on him to find Ocha’s room in the disgustingly ornate hospital. But the anxiety in his chest eventually cools— Ocha needs him more than he’s afraid of never seeing her again. The Child coos loudly, curious about the new sights, and Djarin is sorry he can’t let him explore more. 

 

Ocha tries and fails to sit up, turning her montrals to get the best angle to hear footsteps she recognizes. Beskar lights up on her sonar like the sun in the sky. Shiera notices her sudden activity and glances at the door, before sitting on the edge of the bed and helping Ocha to unhook her trach tube. 

 

A knock at the door. “Just a moment,” Shiera calls. She squeezes Ocha’s hand and adjusts her nose cannula, turning on the oxygen now that Ocha isn’t relying on her tube. Because she has no ears to attach a cannula to, it’s been fixed to the sides of her head with adhesive. “Are you ready?” 

 

Ocha nods, curling her inflexible fingers. Shiera takes one last look at her and curtsies. She leaves quietly and closes the door behind her. Shiera has the sort of grace Ocha covets and will no longer be able to have. 

 

Whatever composure Ocha had in the minutes prior is thoroughly destroyed when Greef Karga appears at the door. Ocha meets his eyes briefly and then looks back down at her hands. 

 

“Ocha,” Gruncle Karga admonishes, grunting when he sits down at the side of her bed. She doesn’t have hair to brush back or ears to put the hair behind so Gruncle Karga simply smooths his hand down the side of her montral. It’s the first friendly contact Ocha has had in— is it weeks now?— and she leans in to savor it. His hand is warm and alive and Ocha wets it with her tears. “You have no idea how happy I am to see you,” he tells her. Ocha tries to move closer to him but her leg is still fairly immobilized and the rest of her isn’t doing much better. 

 

He gets the message, though, wrapping her up in a solidly decent hug. He doesn’t want to hurt her, that’s why he isn’t squeezing. All Ocha can do to reciprocate is curl her hands around his elbows. 

 

“You’re going to be just fine,” Gruncle tells her. “Just fine. I’m so happy you made it.” 

 

Ocha slumps forward, chin on his shoulder. She hums, a stuttery, croaky noise. She hopes he understands what she means. He didn’t come? He didn’t come back for me?

 

And yes, Ocha had explicitly told him not to, but of course she hadn’t really thought that. She thought maybe— just maybe— he would have understood her. 

 

The nose cannula is tugging on her nostrils— it’s annoying and slightly painful and still Ocha likes it better than having the tube in her throat. Ocha sobs softly into Gruncle’s shoulder, the tube growing thick with mucus. 

 

He rubs her back and shushes her, but the sounds she makes are concerning. Her sobs are packed tightly with wet, electric rales, he can feel her lungs trying to accommodate them through her back. 

 

Eventually Ocha does calm down. Gruncle Karga helps her lay back against her thousands of pillows, so she’s still mostly upright. Everything here is too comfortable, the mattress too soft and far too large, the blankets too luxurious. She’s been receiving her food through a tube but she imagines that when she’s allowed solid food it’ll be far too flavorful and rich. When she bathes with the help of droids, the temperature of the bath is always perfect, the soap odorless and thick. Even the lotion they put on her lekku and montrals to prevent cracking has a sense of opulence to it. 

 

Ocha hates every part of it. She wants to sleep in her rough hammock on the Razor Crest and consume barely edible pieces of jerky. What she wouldn’t do for more tense silence with the Mandalorian. 

 

Gruncle tries to stand, to leave, and Ocha’s hand jumps, trying to grasp the hem of his shirt. Just a little while longer, she pleads with her eyes, I don’t want to be alone yet. 

 

“Are you feeling better?” He asks instead, intertwining their hands. He kneads his thumbs into her palms, which hurts at first— until it melts the pins and needles. 

 

She nods. Objectively, she’s feeling better than her first day awake, where she waited an hour for anyone to step into her room and then broke down into suffocating sobs. Nobody could calm her for hours. 

 

She’d alternated between a pit in her stomach and weepy tears since then. Unable to communicate, she'd been forced to rely on simple eye contact. If she were back home on Nevarro, Karga already would have organized an AAC device compatible with her. But this isn’t home. Does she need ruby shoes? Does she need a gingham dress? She’d suffer the humiliation if it meant getting off Coruscant. 

 

“Have you been sleeping?” 

 

Between eleven and sixteen hours a day, she’s told. She doesn’t like sleeping, especially here, with nobody to watch her back. Shiera had spent the first few nights reading by her side to calm her, but Ocha couldn’t keep her there forever. 

 

“For the time being we cannot return to Nevarro.”

 

Ocha’s eyes open in shock, and she makes another croaky noise. Why?

 

“The Mandalorian returned,” Karga starts, hushed. He had always been talented at telling stories, Ocha had preferred his bedtime stories to Mama’s. “He came back during the night. He was on a mission and nobody could tell him otherwise. He was looking for a little boy— his little boy. He searched and searched the land and found an old, old building, belonging to the Galactic Empire.” Karga stops and takes a breath. “He fought his way in— Stormtroopers came at him from every hallway, armed with blasters. But the Mandalorian was too fast, for he was empowered by his love for the boy.” Ocha’s hands have stilled, now engrossed in the story. “The boy was trapped with an evil man, a Moff of the Empire. He and the Mandalorian fought— the battle was deadly. Doors splintered, walls crumbled. It raged on for hours. But eventually, the Mandalorian won. And he saved the boy. But then some bounty hunters attacked, and their Guild Master defected.” 

 

For the first time in a long time, Ocha smiles, head bobbing in approval. It’s a good story— a great story. She’ll weasel three or five more out of him before she lets him go today.

“And then after that,” Gruncle continues, “They went to Coruscant.” No, Ocha thinks, searching his face. No. “To get you.”  

 

Ocha’s eyes snap to the doorway and there stands the Mandalorian. 

 

He doesn’t look as imposing as he once did. He looks tired, sort of sagging into himself. Who knew how much a man could change in a month or more? Certainly not Ocha. There are a few knicks in his beskar plating that need to be hammered out. But if they can’t go back to Nevarro, how will they do such a thing? 

 

Ocha looks away from him, still thoroughly embarrassed about failing her task. She doesn’t cry but she wants to— her sinuses sting even though the tears haven’t started. She watches out of the corner of her eye as he hands the bundle in his arms off to Karga and stands at her side. Gruncle leaves them alone in the room and Ocha really wishes that he wouldn’t. 

 

“Girl,” the Mandalorian says. But then he falters, voice growing softer. “Ocha.” Ocha is continually surprised when he knows her name. She doesn’t mind not knowing his name. It’s different for Mandalorians. 

 

He lifts his hand and hovers it over hers— but his movement stutters and he folds his arms together, stepping back. 

 

Ocha lifts her chin, working her tongue to form words. It takes a long time. 

 

“Don’t do that to me again,” he says softly. “You left me. Don’t do that— you’re not allowed to do that anymore.” He wants to hold her and doesn’t know how to go about it, so he stays still. He does nothing. “But you did it perfectly. You did it the way I would have done it.” 

 

“G—” Ocha tries, a lowing sound, as she tries to unfreeze her jaw. Her first words in weeks. They’re painful. “G— uh —” 

 

“I left too,” Djarin concedes. “I left you to die, I’m sorry. It was bad of me. I have no excuse.” He uncrosses his arms and bows, just slightly, tilting his head forward. “I will work toward your forgiveness. If you will have it.” 

 

“G—het— get —” Djarin stands straight again, stepping forward to help her sit up. Get… out? Over here? Away? “Hh— im — In…nnn— he—here.” 

 

“Get him in here?” Djarin asks, raising his voice when Ocha’s lungs are split by coughs. 

 

“I’m go—…ing… to. Fin—ish it.” 

 

Djarin’s hand doesn’t move from her back, but she can feel him tense up regardless. When he speaks, Ocha knows for sure that he’s displeased with her. He’ll have to suck it up. “No.” 

 

“Or… el—sse.” 

 

Djarin almost laughs at her, but he’s too upset to vocalize humor. “I will help you do this thing,” Djarin tells her, “On the condition that it waits until you become fully Mandalorian.” 

 

Ocha coughs. He can tell that she’s displeased with him as well. Her brow furrows, but without any hair, it looks as though her face just sort of… squashes together. She looks kind of like the kid in that regard. 

 

Djarin offers her his hand to seal the pact and Ocha only looks down at it. Djarin realizes she may not know what to do, or that her hands may be too weak to. But slowly, ever so slowly, her fingers crawl over into his hand. He shakes their hands once, gently, and releases it back to Ocha. 

 

He reaches up to correct her nose cannula, avoiding the edge of her nose that had been previously irritated by an NG tube. While he was outside with Ocha’s stepsister, she shared that Ocha is meant to start semi-solids as soon as later today. Djarin had shared that Ocha may not be safe on Coruscant and Shiera had looked at him oddly. 

 

“Ocha will never be safe again,” Shiera had said, as though it were obvious. 

 

“You’ll have to cover your face,” Djarin tells her. “Forever. No exceptions. Do you understand that?” Ocha scoffs at him and nods. He can imagine what she’d like to say: Seems like an entry-level requirement. “You’ll have to learn the language, too. You’ll have to walk the way.” 

 

Ocha meets his eyes and doesn’t drop his gaze. She’s still quite puffy, still pretty battered, but she looks like a fighter. A warrior. 

 

“Are you ready for this?” Djarin asks her. “Could you live like this?” 

 

Is she meant for this? For Ocha there really isn’t any other way but the Way. Not because there’s nothing else— she thinks that, maybe if none of this ever happened, she still would have found her way to the Mandalorians. Or just the Mandalorian. 

 

“This is the Way,” Ocha mouths. 

 

“This is the Way,” the Mandalorian repeats.

Chapter 10: One Foot / Friends Everywhere

 

CORUSCANT, 10 ABY 

 

The New Year comes and goes. When Armand returns from his honeymoon with Dascha, his first reluctant stop on the way back to the office is to see Shiera.

 

Not Ocha. Not even Karga, an old friend. Shiera.

 

It’s tense. It’s tenser than tense, actually, it’s a rubber band stretched so tightly it is now centimeter away from snapping. Shiera is on the other side of Ocha’s bed, hiding from her stepfather. The Mandalorian is a huge Beskar wall between the girls and Armand, shielding them from flat pleasantries. 

 

Djarin hadn’t expected Armand to even come near the hospital. Maybe he’d wanted to show Ocha how unafraid he was. But where someone as high profile as Armand is, the Empire will surely follow. When Armand leaves, he takes the anxiety out of the room with him. Djarin sits back down and touches Ocha’s elbow briefly, checking in. She shakes her head, so he looks to Shiera, who shrugs as casually as she can. He looks over his shoulder at Karga. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen the man truly mad. This has changed— Djarin’s visor can detect when people tense up, if they’re going to run, and Greef is highlighted entirely in red. 

 

But then comes the need to leave. The Mandalorian and Gruncle Karga have been at her side for seven days now, sleeping in an unused room opposite hers. She really should stay. But she can’t. 

 

Without the Razor Crest, they’ll have to arrange transportation home. That duty, somehow, ends up falling to Antu and Ateyo. 

 

“How?” Ocha asks. “I c—an’t sc...s—cratch my le—k—ku with—out some—one wat—ching me.” 

 

“I have friends everywhere,” Ateyo tells her, and doesn’t elaborate. 

 

Sneaking Ocha out of the hospital will be a less clean affair. Ocha suggests hiding in a body bag. Shiera reminds her kindly that on Coruscant they incinerate bodies, with few exceptions. 

 

Even though Ocha is considered an adult, she still needs to be released to someone— but there’s no one to release her to. She can’t be released to Shiera because Shiera has nowhere to take her, not with Armand moving into the house. Ateyo and Antu attend University on Corellia and had only returned for the wedding and then winter break. Greef had to abandon Nevarro to get here (with Ocha is hoping are intentions to reclaim it) and Djarin is technically on the run from the Empire. They’re safe enough on a New Republic planet, but safe enough isn’t good enough. 

 

“It will help that I will be going with you,” Shiera tells them. “I will take care of the boy. Lord Karga and the Mandalorian will be focused on you.” 

 

“You’re c—oming with us to Nev—arro?” Ocha asks, holding her throat as she speaks. She’s not yet allowed to hold the Child, but when she’s feeling strong enough she plays ‘Tickles’ with him. The game is aptly named— the boy stops giggling just in time for Shiera’s soft voice to be heard. 

 

Shiera shakes her head. “This planet isn’t safe anymore. Or maybe it never was. But when I look at him…” and they all know who she means. “...I don’t know. My skin crawls. I don’t trust him.” 

 

“He is not one of us,” agrees Ateyo. “But I’m still happy you didn’t kill him.” That last part is directed at Ocha and she uses all her might to make a rude gesture with her left hand. Antu snorts into her drink. 

 

“Where will you head?” Djarin asks Shiera, cutting through the levity. 

 

“Shili. I have friends there, a community that needs me. I hunt.” 

 

“She’s good at it,” Ateyo says with a trace of jealousy. “She usually spends her winters there.” Ocha infers that she threw a wrench into Shiera’s plans. Shiera has the grandest head decoration— teeth and quills and gemstones looped together. Every time Shiera looks at Ocha’s naked forehead, she touches the dangling gemstone hanging over her own. 

 

“Isn’t that in the opposite direction?” Karga asks. 

 

“Yes. But you will need me, so I will help.” 

 

“Maybe we,” Ocha tries, but then quiets. When everyone turns to look at her she continues, embarrassed. “C—ould we—? Fol—low?” What Ocha wouldn’t do to be on a planet filled entirely with Togruta. 

 

Both the Mandalorian and Shiera shake their heads. “The Outer Rim is where your training will start.” 

 

Shiera’s answer is a little more honest. “My community doesn’t have the technology to care for you yet. But I will make this happen, and then you can come.” 

 

Ocha tries not to look too crestfallen. Greef takes her hand, warming it, and Ocha gives him a small smile. “Wh—at are we…” Ocha tries, coughing, “W—aiting for?” 

 

“A buzz on my Commlink from Commander Bey,” Ateyo says. “She’s a good friend of mine. She’ll be bringing her son, so the ship will be pretty full. It’s all I could swing on short notice, she’s coming from Yavin 4.” 

 

“We’re grateful,” Djarin assures her, tipping his head forward. “When are we expecting it?” 

 

“In just a few hours. I was going to send for some essentials for her. Clothes, bandages, compresses. Something to honor Padmé if I can find it.” 

 

Djarin, Greef, and Ocha share a look. Ocha shrugs. “Th—ey don’t… know who th—at is,” Ocha tells the sisters. 

 

“She was the heart of the Rebellion,” Shiera starts. “And she was our mother’s friend.” 

 

“She died,” Djarin guesses. He’s correct. Ocha has seen Padmei’s pendant of Senator Amidala, a soft gold outline of her side profile. She was beautiful and now she is gone. 

 

“She was my mother’s only family for some time.” As Shiera continues, she gets a half-misty look in her eye. “She died after Uno was born. Now her daughter leads the Resistance.” 

 

“Your family has my deepest condolences,” Greef says. “I met her once when she was serving as Queen of Naboo. I think it was her last year. It was only for a few minutes, we were in an elevator together.”

 

Shiera smiles, the smallest and most genuine smile she’s ever shown. “It might not have been her.” Like Ateyo, she doesn’t elaborate. Hopefully an affliction Ocha will not inherit. 

 

“How long will this journey take?”

 

“Six days, give or take. You’ll spend the whole thing in hyperspace, except for when you drop Shiera off on day four. She’ll get a ride to Shili from Polaar.” 

 

“I would like to extend an invitation to you, Lord Karga. I’m aware of your predicament in Nevarro. I’m also aware of your skills in keeping a large group alive. While Shili isn’t volcanic like your planet, it is plenty dangerous. I could use your expertise.” 

 

Ocha frowns, but she understands. Being with Shiera is safe. Being surrounded by a group as tightly knit as Togruta is even safer. She’s not surprised when Karga accepts. “You honor me,” he says. 

 

“Thank you,” Djarin says similarly. He thinks about reaching forward to touch Ateyo’s hand in gratitude, the way he’s seen Shiera do, he refrains. “Thank you.” 

 

Ateyo shrugs, smiling. “One day, you’ll pay it back.” Then she leans back and folds her arms, turning her gaze upon Ocha. “So you’re gonna be a Mandalorian?” 

 

Ocha doesn’t need to look at the Mandalorian before answering. “Thi—ss is the ho—pe.” 

 

“You won’t be able to show your face anymore?” Ateyo asks. She’s filing her nails on the edge of Ocha’s bed, but still firmly within the conversation. Between the three girls and her own people, this is the most populated Ocha’s room has ever been. Ocha’s bed is massive and she truly doesn’t need all the room, but she has her legs curled as much as she can stand to put a buffer between her and the girls. 

 

And maybe pushing herself to reside more with Mandalorians than with Togruta won’t help. They’re supposed to be her family, but they’re not. They didn’t save her, they didn’t let her save them. What she has with the Mandalorian is cyclical, unending. “I w—on’t want to—show my f—ace.” Djarin’s silence indicates that her answer was correct. She sighs softly in relief. 

 

Ateyo glances to the door. “Well, alright. I need some time to grab your things, then Shiera is going to help you change into street clothes.”

 

“You should rest,” Shiera says, running her hand across Ocha’s naked forehead. She glances quickly at Djarin and Greef: she means them as well but doesn’t want to express concern for them in front of her sisters. What if they accidentally let it slip to Mother? 

 

Shiera walks behind her sisters to ensure that they’re actually leaving and closes the door behind her. The walk back to the elevator isn’t tense, but the twins are already having a silent conversation between them. 

 

Shiera hits the button for the ground floor and the doors close. 

 

“How doped up is she?” Antu asks, attempting to be casual. 

 

“They just pulled her off two medications today, so she’s on one sedative and two painkillers, plus antibiotics.” 

 

“She’s gonna have to be okay with swallowing those pills. Shara’s ship isn’t clean enough and doesn’t have the equipment to keep her on a drip.” 

 

“I thought they would just keep her sedated the whole time,” Antu confesses after a moment. “We know what she can do. She’s smart and she’s in pain. I can’t think of a worse combination.” 

 

“If they sedate her she might just stay down,” Ateyo counters. “If she’s screaming, she’s breathing. That poor Mandalorian. Hey, was I the only one who thought they were avoiding Nevarro?” 

 

“The Mandalorian says that another Mandalorian can make her a mask that’ll keep her alive. But I think you were in the bathroom, maybe.” 

 

“Lord Karga is her uncle,” Shiera says, deftly fixing a stray pendant on her headdress. “Giving up Armand’s business means giving up a lot more than money. He loves her. She’ll get through it if she has someone who loves her.” That’s how Shiera had gotten through most of life, she’d had her father. When he died it destroyed her— she’s rebuilt her outsides, a fragile crust sustained mostly by removing herself from everything that could ever hurt her. So just… everything. 

 

The elevator is silent. Coming down from the two-hundredth floor takes a while. The twins busy themselves by looking out the window while Shiera watches the numbers count down. “The baby was pretty cute,” Shiera admits. “I love those big eyes he has.” 

 

“Tell me about it,” coos Ateyo. “I wanted to squeeze him so bad. That Mandalorian would have flattened me if I asked though.” 

 

“He wouldn’t have,” Shiera disagrees softly. “I think he was just scared for Ocha.” 

 

“What’s their deal, anyway?” Ateyo turns back to Shiera, bouncing on her heels impatiently. “Is she safe with him?”

 

“Do you think she’s any safer here? Do you think Armand isn’t planning against her right now?” And to be honest, Shiera doesn’t think he is. Armand couldn’t look Ocha in the eye. She must share her appearance with her mother enough to make him uncomfortable. 

 

“I’m being realistic,” Ateyo reminds her gently. “I’m not picking a fight.” 

 

“They’re friends,” Shiera guesses. “I don’t know much about Mandalorians. I’ll do some research and see what I can find out.” Shiera’s lie calms the twins enough for them to stop asking questions. 

 

But research sticks in her mind. She hadn’t really thought about it— the best lies come seamlessly. But Armand would go straight to the house after coming there, and he’ll be commuting for the next hour in this rush traffic. Armand’s office will be deserted, and she can lie her way in. She’s the stepdaughter of one of the most powerful men on the planet. 

 

She can find out everything she needs to know about Armand. With that, comes anything he may know about Ocha or her mother. 

 

When sisters go their separate ways, Shiera’s first stop is Armand’s office. 

---

It starts the moment they take Ocha off the Bacta drip. She doesn’t really even need it anymore, the pain is manageable with the other medications and the kouhun antidote isn’t even making her that sick anymore. 

 

But Ocha hasn’t walked in about four weeks. She doesn’t know for sure— time doesn’t exist anymore for her. There’s conscious and unconscious, nothing more, nothing less. She can feel her feet, mostly, on the side she was bit it’s still mostly (totally) numb. 

 

If Ocha doesn’t walk she’s going to kill someone. She needs to stretch her legs. She needs to do something other than wallow. Every bone and joint she has protests as she lifts herself up, sitting unassisted for the third time since nearly dying. 

 

“Girl,” the Mandalorian warns. 

 

“M—anda—lorian,” Ocha warns right back. She stops for a moment to straighten her rounded back, scooting forward inch by inch until her toes brush the ground. Pins and needles set into her feet near-immediately, and Ocha flinches away like the floor is hot. 

 

“You can do it,” Gruncle says. “Come on, you’ve got this.” He comes around to the other side of the bed to hover beside her, guiding her up. When Ocha finally stands, it’s the most painful thing she’s done in a long time. The pins shoot up her legs and soon the needles follow. She is able to stand alone for just a few seconds before her knees buckle, and Greef is right there to catch her. 

 

Ocha doesn’t scream, but she groans, long and low, vocal cords shuddering as they’re forced into movement. Everything remains sticky, as it’s always felt sticky, like her larynx has been coated in tack. 

 

Gruncle lifts her up but makes sure she remains on her feet, makes sure that she’s still holding some of her own weight. He holds her there as she begins to sob, begins to beg, begins to recover her own strength. 

 

The sounds she makes, the audible pain Djarin can hear makes him want to drink, to forget. But they’re imprinted on his brain. 

 

“Put me ba—ck,” Ocha chokes, voice thick. But still, she shuffles her foot forward, just a few inches. “Put me ba—ck!” 

 

“No,” Greef tells her sternly. Djarin stands behind them but makes no move to help Ocha. Instead he holds onto the Child tightly, the way he would like to hold onto them both. “When Octavian was sick, after every surgery, we did this. Did I ever tell you?” And Karga is getting older, and supporting all of Ocha’s weight is taxing on him, but he keeps pushing forward. “Even those last days, when he was too weak to move or eat, I carried him to the balcony. Just so he could feel the wind on his face.” Greef’s voice strains a bit, and he loops Ocha’s arm around his shoulder, holding her by the waist. She’s a little too small for him to be doing this comfortably, but he stoops and doesn’t complain. 

 

Ocha takes a step, and another. She tamps down her screams into pained grunts. She can’t take real steps, just pushing one foot forward and then the other. Ocha clutches each of his shoulders, finally lifting her foot and setting it down ahead of her. Then she does it again. 

 

Karga never lets go of her. He never says anything above quiet encouragement. He never looks away from her, either. 

 

Djarin stills. Is being Mandalorian her true path? Can he remove Ocha from the family she has left? By the time Djarin is finished pondering this thought, Ocha is nearing the plush chair by the door. 

 

“Let g—o of me,” Ocha grunts. “I c—an do this— myself.” 

 

Carefully, Karga unfurls her, stepping away from her. Ocha slumps but doesn’t fall, taking those last two steps to fall onto the chair. Karga helps her turn over and sit upright, but nothing else. 

 

“You did it,” Karga tells her, kneeling to look up at her. “Tomorrow, we start training for Coruscant’s annual double-marathon.” 

 

Ocha stares at him, dead-faced, before her nose scrunches up, and her mouth twists into a smile. She starts slow, laughing in deep, panting huh-huh-huhs.  

 

Djarin has not heard a sweeter noise in all his life. 

---

Shara Bey pulls into Coruscant’s docking bay with help from her co-pilot, Poe Dameron. She hasn’t been to Coruscant in a long time, nearly ten years, and this is her son’s first time. She’s only sorry he’s not getting off the ship.

 

“Stay here,” Shara tells him, getting out of her seat. “Watch for anything suspicious, okay?” 

 

“Okay,” Poe agrees easily. At eight years old, he’s still at the stage where he’s willing to listen to his mother. Shara ruffles his hair and climbs out of the cockpit, glancing back over her shoulder when she’s about to leave.

 

“I love you,” Shara says. 

 

“I love you too,” Poe replies brightly, scooting into her spot to play with the controls. Shara smiles at the back of his head softly and shuts the door behind him. The shuttle she’d taken was tiny, meant to hold about fifty people. It was the kind of craft meant for carrying important people, and Ateyo hadn’t been especially forthcoming about their circumstances. She hits a button on her wrist and the door opens, folding out into a ramp. 

 

Ateyo is waiting twenty yards away, lekku fluttering in the wind. She has a serious look on her face— she always has a serious look on her face. But then Shara reminds herself that she’s just nineteen. Everything had been so serious at that age. 

 

“Lady Paashi,” Shara greets professionally, settling in front of her. Ateyo’s face mellows into something calmer, and then eventually splits into a smile as Shara gets closer. “How have you been?” 

 

Ateyo shrugs, bouncing on the heels of her feet. She feels as though her shoulders may be on strings. “Thanks for doing this,” she says softly. “I know I pulled you away from some important stuff. I’ll make up for it later.” 

 

“You said you thought this could help the Rebels,” Shara reminds her. “That’s enough for me.” 

 

Ateyo’s face brightens. “Yeah, I can finally tell you about that now, ‘cause they can’t back out. I think I have an in with some Mandalorians.” It’s not an alliance, yet. But it could be a bridge. 

 

“What, actually?” It’s clear that Shara doesn’t believe her, so Ateyo simply turns around and whistles. High note, higher note, low note. It’s safe. The lot is already fairly secluded so Shara doesn’t know why anyone would be hiding, but when she sees the group, she understands why. 

 

They’re pitiful. They approach like a funeral procession: first Antu, making a beeline for her twin, then Shiera, pulling a floating luggage container behind her. Then three (four) people she’s never met. 

 

She sees the girl first. She’s tiny compared to her statuesque sisters, but the way she curls into herself makes her just seem weak. She has a mask over her nose and mouth, tubes running down and out of it, connecting to a massive oxygen tank. She’s being carried by a handsome older man, a human. The way she clings onto him implies fondness. 

 

Last and least is a Mandalorian. His beskar armor is dull and listless and he’s carrying a bundle in his arms. Shara can’t see what’s in it. He radiates nervous energy and doesn’t seem to be aware of it. 

 

“Is this everyone?” Shara asks politely. No names, no identification. If she does this Mandalorian a favor she’ll be doing all of them a favor. 

 

Ateyo nods. “Seriously, thank you again. I don’t know what I would have done without you.” 

 

“You would have figured it out,” Shara tells her. “You’re a smart kid. I’ll see if I can swing you another… summer job.” Naturally, these summer jobs are never anything other than Rebel work. Mostly grunt work, but still Rebel work. 

 

Ateyo’s smile breaks into a grin. “Say hi to Poe-Poe for me.” 

 

Boarding the ship is quick: Shara points down the hall to their lodgings and then turns swiftly to rejoin her son in the cockpit. He scrambles out of her seat when he hears the door open and is only halfway buckled into his own when she sees him. She ruffles his hair again and he fixes it, combing it back with his fingers. 

 

“Are we going now?” Finally, they are. More than anything, Shara just wants to get back home to Yavin 4. She’s not active in the military, but she’s still called out for Rebel business more than she’d like. 

 

“Yes, we’re going. Do you want to pick out some music?” 

 

Poe doesn’t answer, but hits a few different buttons until something he likes comes on. It ends up being a song heavy on brass, the same kind his father enjoys. 

 

“When do I get to meet them?”

 

“I don’t know,” Shara tells them. “They’re not really our friends.” 

 

“It’s fun to make new friends,” Poe tells her, setting the volume way up. 

Notes:

i packed lots of fun trivia stuff into this fic i dearly love comments & questions!

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 1 of we light the way