Chapter Text
There are too many Syndicate henchmen. Far too many.
For each one that Boba and Din manage to take down, two or three more appear, their numbers easily making up for their mediocre aim and haphazard strategy.
Boba knew going in that this isn't a fight they can win. Everyone who's on his side is either gone or too far to help. With the loss of Freetown's Marshall, no reinforcements are coming. Still, surrendering is not in his character. He's already escaped death many times, and this will be an ending more noble than any of those he has avoided: he'll give his life to protect this city and its people. The only regret he has is that he might not be the only one to sacrifice his life today.
He was not expecting Din Djarin to choose to remain by his side in this desperate last stand, but the Mandalorian did not hesitate at all as he swore to stay until they both fell. That moment is getting closer with each blaster bolt flying their way from the alleys and rooftops around them, deflected off their armor. Each hit, while not doing serious damage, is a distraction that makes them miss when returning fire, the impact reverberating through already tired limbs.
Boba expects himself to be the first one to go down. Din is younger and noticeably swifter in his moves, dodging enemy fire more gracefully than Boba—but all it takes is one mistake or one bout of bad luck.
At first, it doesn't seem different from a dozen other blows they've taken: from the corner of his eye, Boba sees Din jerk and stumble, landing on one knee. Only this time, he doesn't get up. Instead, he slumps forwards, one hand against the ground, the other held over his left side, where the beskar doesn't reach.
"Djarin?" Boba calls out. He can't afford to take his eyes off their enemies, but he desperately needs to know how bad the wound is. He shifts position to better shield his brother-in-arms from additional hits.
Din doesn't answer. He tries to stand up, without success. It looks like his legs won't hold his weight; he straightens up on his knees, then falls forwards again, harsh coughs audible through his vocoder.
It's still possible that Din just had the wind knocked out of him, Boba tries to tell himself, but that's definitely not what this looks like. It might be that they're reaching the end of this valiant but hopeless battle.
Boba crouches next to Din. He gets there just as Din lands face-down on the ground, braced on his elbows. There's nothing Boba can do to help him—it's getting almost impossible for him to fend off the attackers. He knows that it's only delaying the inevitable, but he nevertheless holds his position in front of Din, shielding him with his body.
He's really just waiting for that final blow that will have him joining his fallen comrade when he sees a Pyke sniper unexpectedly fall off his perch, gunned down by some new party joining the fray. Soon, they emerge around a corner: a troop transport carrying a group of people wearing desert-suited clothing, sun hats and goggles. Boba doesn't recognize any of them, but he can guess this must be the garrison from Freetown, joining the fray after all.
With the reinforcements rapidly taking control of the situation and drawing the enemy fire away from his position, Boba can focus on Din. He helps the Mandalorian roll over, jetpack supported against his lap. Finally getting a good look at the wound, he can see that a high-energy bolt, probably from a sniper, has pierced all protective layers, burning its way into Din's left side. Boba is no medic, but in his line of work, he's learned plenty about anatomy, and he can tell that this is a bad hit, probably fatal; lung damage is a certainty, heart damage very likely. There's no way to tell for sure without a mediscanner. The only ray of hope comes from the fact that Din is still breathing, as strained as it sounds. Boba brings his hands to the sides of Din's helmet to take it off, to at least help him get a little more air.
Din grabs his wrists tightly to stop him. "No," he insists. "Help me up. I'll go down fighting."
"No one is going down except those Pykes," Boba says. He knows he really should remove the helmet, but Din has made it very clear how strongly he feels about his Creed. Boba decides to leave it in place, and puts his hands over the wound instead, applying pressure. Din shudders and grunts in pain.
The troop transport has come to a halt next to them, shielding them from enemy fire. Boba sees the Freetowners climb off of it to take cover behind it. They're better armed than he would've expected. Of course, a small desert town far from anything will have to be able to deal with all kinds of bandits and intruders. Boba hopes they're also used to dealing with injuries.
"Is there a medic among you?" he shouts at them over the noise of the battle. "He needs help."
One of the group, a young human woman, hurries to him. "Not really a medic, but I've got a medpac and I know how to use it. What've we got?"
Boba nods at where his hands rest. "Sniper bolt, left side."
"Oh, no—not Mando, too!" the not-medic exclaims, only now seeming to realize who the wounded person is. She crouches on the ground next to Boba and Din, opening the medpac to pull out a scanner.
"If there's anything you can do for him…" Boba begins.
"I'll do whatever I can. Lift your hands for a bit," the Freetowner instructs Boba. She points the scanner at the wound, and her already serious expression turns even more grim. "...whatever I can do will probably not be enough. I can put on a bacta patch and give him some drugs that will help a little, but there's a lot of damage. He needs more advanced care."
As bad as it is, Boba thinks, that still doesn't sound completely hopeless. "There's a bacta tank at the Palace. Would that be advanced enough?" he asks.
"How far is the Palace? That could fix him, for sure, but he needs to get there right away or it'll be too late," the Freetowner says.
"Not too far. He'll make it," Boba says.
He considers his options. He could take Din himself—while carrying another person when flying with a jetpack is tricky, it can be done—but that would mean leaving the battle. As much as he values his friend, he can't do that, and he knows Din wouldn't want him to, either. The troop transport would definitely be too slow, not to mention that it's currently the one thing protecting them from their enemies. Finding anything else would take time, which they don't have, and would also require him to abandon his post.
The solution to this conundrum appears at the exact right moment, just as well-timed as the Freetowners were. The hum of approaching speeder bikes and more blaster fire signals the arrival of the young Mods.
"We will fix this," Boba tells Din, placing a hand on his pauldron. "As I said, the only ones going down today are those Pykes."
Din wakes up partly submerged, liquid lapping at his bare skin. He's not wearing his helmet, and there is something in his mouth. He quickly removes whatever it is, blinking moisture out of his eyes. As he waits for his sight to clear, he struggles to figure out what's going on. The last thing he remembers is getting shot when trying to fight off the Pyke Syndicate with Boba in Mos Espa.
He's aware of someone approaching, and hurries to sit up, but it brings up a wave of dizziness which leaves him leaning on one elbow instead.
"Easy, easy, stay put, Djarin," the person says, revealing herself as Fennec Shand.
"My helmet?" Din asks. He may no longer be a Mandalorian in the eyes of his tribe, but he does not intend to abandon his Creed.
Fennec holds out a towel, instead. "You'll probably want this, first."
Din accepts it and sits up slowly, more cautiously, glancing down at himself as he does. He's shirtless, but thankfully still has underwear. The only trace of the hit that took him down—the hit that he had thought would be lethal—is a small bruise over his lower ribs. It feels slightly tender when he takes a deep breath. Considering what happened, it seems he got incredibly lucky. He can't help but feel guilty that he fell before anyone else, and failed to defend others.
"What happened?" he asks Fennec, quickly drying his hair and face with the towel. It brings him a smidge of comfort to be able to hide his face from plain sight with it.
"A Pyke sniper caught you. Bolt tore through the inferior lobe of your left lung. One of the Mods brought you here at the last minute," she recaps, and hands him his helmet. "Without the bacta tank, you would be dead."
None of that was surprising, and also not really what Din wanted to know. He drops the towel and gratefully accepts the helmet, pulling it over towel-dry hair. "I meant in the battle," he clarifies.
"Ah," she says, her usually calculating expression giving way to genuine sadness. "It wasn't good. I took out the Mayor and the Pyke leaders in Mos Eisley, but that didn't make much of a difference. When I got back here, it was too late. The fight was over. We lost. Almost everyone who helped us is gone."
It had been a desperate and unfair situation to start with, but Din had still carried some hope. Knowing that it was all for nothing makes the already gnawing guilt even worse. Is all this on him? If he hadn't taken that hit, how different would things look now?
"And Boba Fett? Did he make it?" Din asks, fearing the worst.
"He did," the answer comes from the doorway in Boba's deep voice. Stepping into the room, he looks much worse than Din feels: his armor is covered in scorch marks and scratches, his bare head in cuts and bruises. "But only because Cad Bane wanted me to live, so that I could see everything I tried to build fall apart."
"The town?" Din asks.
"Much property damage and far too many civilian casualties. The Pykes brought in battle droids, and we were not numerous enough nor heavily armed enough to fight them off," Boba explains.
"Bane is currently in charge, probably waiting for new instructions from the Syndicate's higher-ups," Fennec adds.
"We have to make this right," Din says. He shifts his legs over the edge of the tank and tries to get on his feet, but it's clearly too soon: dizziness overwhelms him again, and the only thing that stops him from ending up on the floor is Fennec stepping in to put an arm around his shoulders.
"Not quite so fast, champ," she tells him as she guides him to sit back down. "You need to get better, first."
"Rest assured, we will make this right, and avenge everyone we lost," Boba says, a ruthless look taking over his battered face. "Krrsantan, the Mods, the Gamorreans, Freetown. Garsa and the Sanctuary. The Tuskens. Everyone. Whatever it takes."
Before the battle, Din had been prepared to give his life for Boba's cause, for Mos Espa. He imagines many people might change their minds about such a conviction after looking death in the face like he has today, but not him—especially since he doesn't have much left to live for, without his tribe and his foundling.
He promised to stay by Boba's side before, and he will keep his word.
"Whatever it takes," Din repeats.