Chapter Text
No ship. No assignment.
No Grogu.
Countless stars rush past him, a sight that used to fill him with something close to ecstasy. Today, his head simply feels empty. Inside the Slave, it is unusually quiet. The only sound is the soft rattling of the engines, familiar and yet different. The smell of motor oil rises into his nose, a strange taste settling on his tongue. He tries to focus on it instead of thinking about the Star Destroyer and Moff Gideon. And Grogu’s farewell.
Din tries to convince himself that he did the right thing. That Grogu is better off with a Jedi Knight than with him. Even though he does not even know the Jedi’s name. But with the Jedi, he would have a future. A proper education. He would be safe. Or at least far safer than Grogu could ever be with him.
Taking a deep breath, he turns his gaze back toward the stars, arms crossed over his chest. It can't be much farther to Nevarro now. Hopefully by then he will have sorted out his thoughts.
Cara Dune, however, does not seem inclined to let him be alone. She is the only one who dares step into the weapon-filled cargo hold with him. Carefully, she places a hand on his shoulder. In an almost imperceptible movement, he turns his head toward her. But apparently, that is enough for her.
“Don’t you think he’ll make a good Jedi?”
Good thing she cannot see how his hands curl into fists. “Of course,” he manages, without his voice shaking.
Cara hums and removes her hand from his shoulder. “Do you already know where you’ll go next?”
How would I, without a ship? he wants to reply, but stops himself in time. What kind of question is that? Before Grogu, he had always only seen the Guild and the next assignment that needed to be completed. A goal. Some potential idiot who would dare not take him seriously and try to run.
They never wanted to admit that he would get them in the end anyway.
Din suppresses the urge to sigh. He knows Cara would be the last person to judge him for that. In this short amount of time, they had become something like friends. Something he had never allowed himself before. And something he isn't sure he won't regret.
To avoid continuing to ignore her, and hoping she would leave afterward, he says, “Something will turn up.”
He turns fully toward her. And he is glad she can't see his expression behind the visor, otherwise she would see his lips pressed tightly together. This way, however, he can pretend to have everything under control and to at least vaguely know what his next step will be. That it consists of endless visits to cantinas is unimportant.
“Sure.” Cara gives him a tired grin. He can tell from her eyes that she doesn't believe a word of it. At least she is kind enough not to press further and instead heads back toward the cockpit. Maybe she, too, needs time to think about what comes next for her once they return to Nevarro. She has duties to fulfill, and Din intends to stay out of her way. At least until the pity disappears from her eyes.
Once alone again, his thoughts begin to drift.
Going with Bo-Katan had never been an option for him. Maybe it should have been, now that he possesses the damned Darksaber. But it would have helped neither her nor him. The fight for the throne of Mandalore is not his, and he has no intention of becoming part of it.
Though he has already failed at that.
Obtaining the Darksaber… had been an accident. And it would be better for everyone involved if no one found out about it. Would Bo-Katan still ascend the throne anyway? Din has always tried to remain neutral. Neither working for the Empire nor for the former Rebel Alliance and the current New Republic. Grogu had been the only exception.
Maybe… at some point, he’ll join Bo-Katan. Once she had claimed the throne and he was no longer a potential claimant. He ignores the nasty little voice in his head laughing at his naïveté. As long as he possesses that sword, he will always be a claimant.
Her enemy.
Maybe it would be better if he simply threw the sword into the next lava river. Even if that might cause Bo-Katan to declare him an enemy regardless.
“We’re approaching Nevarro.” Boba Fett’s voice reaches him over the comm system, pulling him from his thoughts. “Prepare for landing.”
The Slave lands gently on the bleak gray stone that passes for Nevarro’s landscape. The ramp opens almost soundlessly in front of him. Beside him, Cara takes position, Moff Gideon floating imprisoned in carbonite at her side, while he turns toward his temporary companions. He looks first at Fennec, then over to Fett. Their debt to him has now officially been repaid.
“Thank you for your help. And the ride back.”
Boba Fett nods once. “I keep my word.”
“Hopefully we won’t see each other again anytime soon,” Fennec remarks, something dangerous gleaming in her eyes.
“I hope so too.”
Together with Cara, they step down the ramp and turn their backs on the Slave. He hears the ramp close again with a quiet hiss, feels the recoil as the Slave lifts into the sky and disappears once more among the stars.
From the side, Cara looks at him. “What do you think those two are going to do now?”
Does everyone always need a plan? Din wonders, and keeps that comment to himself as well. “Probably nothing good.”
Cara laughs. “Probably not.” Then she grows serious again. “Well, as long as I don’t catch them…”
For a while, silence wins, until Cara breaks it again. “I’m heading to the cantina later. You can join if you want.”
“Thanks for the offer,” is all he says in response. It is neither a yes nor a no, but enough for Cara to know he will not come.
Once they reach the city arch and the first almost familiar market noises drift toward them, their paths separate. Moff Gideon continues floating obediently behind Cara while she heads toward the marshal’s office. Din himself disappears into one of the many side alleys to avoid the crowds. There is no need for them to say goodbye. Why would they? The city is small enough that they are bound to run into each other again.
Quietly and secretly, Din hopes that somewhere along the way, wherever that may be, an idea will strike him. Some sort of revelation about what his next step should be.
But it never comes.
⭐︎
A few days later, he is sitting at one of the back tables in the cantina. Because of the hour, it has already become noticeably fuller, and by now Din knows the rush hours and the regulars. The first wave comes after the night shift, the biggest wave right around the evening, lasting deep into the night. With his back to the wall, he can keep a good eye on the place. He catches fragments of conversations being held in secret. Deals are made and plans are forged. In the other corner, people are gambling. And apparently losing, judging by the way the Rodian curses and, in the next moment, flips the table over. So one could assume it must have been a considerable sum.
Without feeling the urge to interfere, Din watches as the barkeeper loudly complains and threatens them with bans.
Calm quickly returns. The table is set upright again.
The conversations resume.
Din feels as though he exists on some kind of in-between sphere. In his hand lies a piece of metal. He can't take his eyes off it, but he can't put it away either. It is a remnant of the Razor Crest. Pretty emotional, which is not only untypical for a Mandalorian, but especially for him. Usually, he doesn't keep souvenirs, but when he recently stood in the rubble of his former home (because that is what it had been to him), he could not resist.
It is a small ball that once belonged to his cockpit.
And that reminds him of more than just the Crest.
Only with difficulty can he suppress an annoyed huff. Damn, had he gone soft. He isn't sure whether he should pity himself — or be ashamed.
A new guest, wrapped in gray fabric, enters the cantina. Not one of the regular guests, but also not someone who should demand his attention. The figure walks confidently to the counter, but unlike before, it avoids the many empty tables. No, to Din’s growing horror, he realizes that the newcomer is heading directly toward him.
Din doesn't move. His arm remains draped over the backrest of his bench, his legs stretched far out in front of him to appear as uninviting as possible. Only the little metal ball disappears in a flash. If he could have, he would have glared at the newcomer defiantly. After all, he isn't here because he wants company.
It isn't a human, as becomes clear the moment the being removes its hood and remains standing expectantly in front of his table. Two large black eyes without irises stare at him, reminding him of a Kaminoan. Instead of a nose, it has two snake-like slits and a pointed mouth that reminds him more of a beak. Instead of hair, the being has feathers of varying lengths, though none extend past their shoulders. He can't quite determine the colors because of the poor lighting.
He has never seen a species like this before.
“What do you want?” is his heartless greeting.
The being tilts its head slightly to the side. Even standing still, it would probably tower over Din. “A seat would be nice,” replies a light and pleasant voice. Probably female. The wide poncho conceals most of their body. And possibly weapons hidden underneath.
“There are enough free tables. Find yourself one.” Din crosses his arms and doesn't take his eyes off them. As far as he's concerned, the conversation is over. The other guests have already started looking over and are whispering to each other.
The being blinks once, as though that invalidates his answer. “I would like to discuss business with you.”
Just perfect. “I’m not taking jobs right now.” Even if he wanted to… without a ship, his hands are tied. And at the moment, he doesn't particularly feel like it either.
“Well,” says the being, “but aren’t you a Mandalorian?”
“That has nothing to do with it.” Din places one hand on the table and the other on his blaster. Which should make his meaning clear enough.
“I see.” Disapprovingly — or nervously — it clicks its beak twice. “Then let me phrase it this way; I am offering you my help.”
Din must have misheard. “Excuse me?”
Reluctantly, he pulls his legs back as the being takes a seat in front of him. Their back straight, their hands (also covered in small feathers and equipped with sharp claws instead of fingers) carefully resting on the table, so Din can see them.
Wise decision.
Very strange, shoots through his mind. Did Cara send them to me?
“I am the Archivist.” Expectant silence falls between them. As though the title alone should explain everything to him. It doesn't. Since the pause continues to drag on, the being continues: “I will keep this brief, as this conversation is unsuitable for a place like this. I only just arrived on Nevarro and require logistical assistance… therefore I would like to hire you for my archive.”
This is a bad joke. Din can't help but laugh shortly. “And how exactly is that supposed to help me? I certainly don't belong in an archive.”
The being seems to have expected that. Without hesitation, they say, “I am prepared to compensate your work generously. In addition to the logistical work, my shuttle requires several upgrades, which I—”
“There’s a shipyard outside the city,” Din interrupts them, “where shuttles are generally repaired. I am not responsible for tasks like that.”
Another quiet clicking of the beak. For a moment, the feathers at her temples seem to fluff up before settling flat again.
“My shuttle is part of the payment,” they say insistently.
Din sits up straighter. Why, in the name of the galaxy, would someone want to get rid of their shuttle like this? What is the catch? Something is wrong. Something can't be right. It is… too easy!
Finally, Din asks quietly, “Why?”
“Why? Oh, I no longer require it, and before it rusts and falls apart—”
“No,” Din interrupts her again. “Why me?”
The Archivist seems to smile, even though that should not be possible without lips. “Since when do Mandalorians ask so many questions?” The amused glimmer in their eyes disappears. “You need work, as well as a ship. You seemed to be the perfect contact for this matter.”
Din takes his time looking them over more carefully. Now he can tell that their feathers are shades of brown and gray, the fabric immaculate, without tears or stains. Their answers don't convince him. What do they gain from this? Certainly more than an overqualified worker in her strange archive.
“I’ll take the job,” he finally says. “But not the ship.” If they really wanted to pay him as well as they claimed, he would be able to afford a ship himself.
“Even if you earned it through honest work?” They sound genuinely surprised.
“I stand by my decision.”
They nod hesitantly. “Very well. Shall we begin immediately?”
Din should have refused.
Instead, he gets up.