#imperial light cruiser

[deoxyribovoltaic-acid]

UCS Venator-scale Minibuilds!

Left to Right:

- 6 Clear Stands

- 1 Arquitens-Class Republic Attack Cruiser

- 1 Pelta-Class Republic Medical Frigate

- 1 V-19 Torrent Starfighter

- 1 Jedi Starfighter (color of piece can be interchanged)

- 1 Republic Y-Wing Bomber

- 1 Republic Attack Shuttle

- 1 Republic Stealth Craft

- 1 Republic Consular Frigate

Foreground:

- Extra clear pieces to make stands

- 4 Bar 1L w/ Angled Hollow Stud (Trans-Clear)

- 20 Brick, Round 1x1 Open Stud (Trans-Clear)

- 4 Cone 1x1 (Trans-Clear)

Background:

- 2 stands for Republic Frigate (only 1 needed, second could be for anything)

ALL are approximately to—scale with the UCS Venator

[alphamecha-mkii]

Star Wars: Armada - Imperial Light Cruiser Expansion Pack - Arquitens-class light cruiser by Nikolaus Ingeneri

[dindjarindiaries]

Your post just reminded me… what does methink thrawn is gonna find that face scan from the believer…

I have been saying this for YEARS I know SOMEONE is gonna find it and somehow associate it with him

[lepetitfruit]

My brother and I just had a heated discussion about if this model we were looking at was an imperial light cruiser or a venator and I think that tells you a lot about both of us

[swtechspecs]

Damorian Manufacturing Corporation Carrack-Class Light Cruiser

Source: The Essential Guide to Vehicles and Vessels (Del Rey, 1996)

[saphronethaleph]

Skydancer

“Well… darn,” Leia said, with feeling.

Apparently she’d picked entirely the wrong time to look in on the rebels in the Dennogra system. The Imperials had somehow got wind of the presence of the base, a sting operation had gone into play – while she was there, no less – and a Star Destroyer and an Interdictor were hanging overhead, TIE fighters flying cover over the base while stormtroopers closed in.

Her transport was already disabled, burned out by the first wave of fighters, and the local Rebel net had gone silent thirty seconds ago with the last report being that Base Orenth and Base Trill had both been neutralized.

Leia reached for her hold-out pistol.

She had a choice coming up, soon. She’d either be surrendering herself into Imperial custody, hoping for the means to make an escape attempt, or she’d be selling her life dearly.

And…

...she couldn’t see herself surrendering to Imperial custody. They knew she was a Rebel, now. Tarkin might be dead, but she had no reason to expect that any Imperial captors would be even as merciful as him.

Her fingers slid over the grip of the blaster as she moved from cover to cover, ears alert for any sign of the Stormtroopers closing the net, then paused as she spotted something.

There was an A-Wing fighter left in the hanger.

Leia frowned, trying to remember what she knew about the A-Wing.

It was… shielded, she knew that much, and it was fast and agile. And it didn’t rely on an Astromech droid to make hyperspace jumps.

That was it, then. That was how she could get out of this.

She just needed to handle enough fighters to get clear, and then the Interdictor – either escaping it by flying out of its range, or disabling it.

The A-Wing had concussion missile launchers, didn’t it? And the shields on an Imperial cruiser or destroyer were…

Leia thought about that a moment longer, checking in all directions, then made up her mind and ran for the fighter.

“Hey – stop!” a voice shouted, and Leia whirled. Without stopping, she snapped off two blasts, and one stormtrooper fell with a smoking hole in his breastplate.

The other ducked into cover, then returned fire, and Leia paused by the front leg of the A-Wing before firing twice more. That left her only two shots left in the small energy cell, but the shot did down the other stormtrooper, and she hurried up the ladder into the cockpit before sealing the canopy and hitting the self-start button.

The fighter’s computer flashed an unhappy pattern of lights at her, and Leia bared her teeth.

“Come on, you bucket of bolts,” she muttered, stabbing at a few controls, then the status screen came up. She flicked the repulsors online, then the shields, and a moment later a blaster bolt peened off the shield and into the corner of the hangar.

Blasters came up next, and Leia twisted the yoke. It was intuitive and responsive, a sign of good design, and she walked her fire across a whole squad of stormtroopers.

Then she keyed the main engines, and the whole hangar behind her was fried as the powerful engines boosted her upwards.

Two patrolling TIEs immediately began closing in on her, the sensor screen pinging a warning, and Leia muttered a curse.

She wasn’t a pilot… but this was a very fast and very agile fighter.

And it wasn’t like anyone else was showing up to save her skin.

A twitch of the yoke, and she snap-rolled ninety degrees to starboard before spinning halfway around. The twin cannon spat fire, blowing one TIE to pieces and clipping the wing of the other, and the second one wobbled in an uncontrollable roll before managing to get some control of itself and come back around.

Another element of two TIEs was vectoring in, and Leia finished her spin before diving towards the ground. There were Imperial ground elements down there, still visible, and if the fighters were going to shoot at her she could at least decoy them to try and hit the ground forces – then a large Imperial walker was looming up before her, and Leia adjusted her angle a little to aim between the front and back legs.

Pulling back out again as soon as she shot between them, Leia glanced around to get a good handle on the situation, then yanked the yoke back and switched from engines to repulsors. That meant the big engines weren’t pushing her forwards any more, letting her make a tight turn, and she pulled the trigger twice about when she’d be lined up with the pursuing fighters.

Three more explosions lit the sky, followed by drifting clouds of smoke as bits of TIE fighter rained down, then Leia switched back to main engines and turned towards her next targets.

Even a novice like her could tell that she didn’t want to be surrounded by enemy fighters. So the only way out of this was going to be to make sure they didn’t – or couldn’t.

“We feared we’d lost you, Princess,” General Rieekan said, as Leia clambered down the side of the A-Wing she’d appropriated. “When we heard about the attack on the Dennogra base, we feared the worst.”

“I was all right,” Leia replied. “Fortunately I had an A-Wing.”

“You’re not wrong,” Wedge agreed, inspecting it. “That’s definitely an A-Wing.”

He frowned. “What actually happened, Princess? The report was that there was an Interdictor overhead… was that incorrect?”

“No, there was,” Leia agreed. “Along with a Star Destroyer. Like I said, I had an A-Wing. Whoever designed that fighter is a real expert, it can be flown as well as you please by even a novice.”

Wedge, Carlist Rieekan, and everyone else present not named Leia Organa exchanged confused looks.

“...no, it can’t,” Wedge said, slowly. “It’s a good bird, a bit lighter than I prefer, but it’s extremely temperamental… who else was flying with you? Did anyone else get out?”

“All the other fighters were taken out on the ground by the initial bombardment and fighter strike,” Leia replied. “The one I used happened to be deeper into the hanger and it survived.”

“You escaped by yourself?” Rieekan asked. “Princess, I’m… sorry for my tone of voice, but that’s impossible. Or it shouldn’t be possible. Those two capital ships carry nearly a hundred TIEs between them, and while some of those squadrons are bombers or boarding elements that’s still-”

He broke off, because Leia was counting under her breath.

“...that sounds about right,” she said. “Well, I counted about sixty, anyway, and maybe a dozen bombers.”

“I think we need to check the gun camera footage,” Wedge decided. “I want to see this.”

About an hour later, Leia was in the middle of catching up on important messages when Rieekan came into the meeting room she was using.

So did Wedge, and most of the other pilots on the cruiser.

“We’re not worthy,” Derek Klivian declared. “We’re not worthy! We’re not worthy!”

“Hobbie,” Wedge said, shaking his head. “Are you ever going to stop that?”

“Nope, sir!” Klivian replied.

“He’s got a point,” Rieekan said. “Princess, we’ve reviewed the gun camera footage. And then taken some anti-nausea medication.”

“Is there something wrong?” Leia asked.

“Well, you’re one of the best pilots in history,” Wedge replied. “None of my best pilots could do that. I’d have said even Luke couldn’t do that, but then Hobbie told a joke and we decided to actually do it.”

“Princess,” Rieekan went on. “I regret to inform you that a genetic test has revealed that you’re Luke Skywalker’s sister. We think you’re both the children of Anakin Skywalker, who went down in galactic history as the single most capable natural pilot ever recorded.”

“...though you might just earn the top spot, now,” Tycho added. “Seriously, that was at least fourteen consecutive chakra manoeuvres and you shot down at least two fighters per chakra manoeuvre. And I never knew the A-Wing could do half of the other things you made it do.”

Leia was still wrapping her head around Luke Skywalker’s sister.

“Ever considered being a pilot?” Wedge added. “I’d say we can give you lessons but that might not even be necessary…”

[toto-the-cactus]

Ayo! Finished this damn thing. Hope this is still good. Tell me who we should go find next <333

Tagging some people that have been waiting for this update:

@danart501 @ilikemytittieswithwarmmilk

Summary: As a perpetual, you have been by the Emperor's side for most of your immortality. There's no name for what strange dynamic you both share, but you do trust him and your loyalty eventually pays off over millennia once he fulfills an old promise he made during your first ever encounter.

Pairing: Emperor of Mankind x Perpetual!Reader (Female)

CW: None

Part 1 - Part 2 - ?

The Mother (2)

The pregnancy had been a success and the development was nothing short of fast and strenuous. You should have expected Him to mold your body in a manner that would serve Him better for his wishes and plans to be fulfilled.

His Great Crusade needed to be accomplished and you suddenly became part of the means to that end.

What a dreadful fate. To be nothing but his petri dish.

And so, Horus was born. His little form being held against your chest like the precious treasure that he was, making the sorrow of not having the rest of your children there too be momentarily forgotten by his awaited arrival, cooing and grunting in delight at the warmness of your encompassing heartbeat once he settled at your bosom.

A memory you cherished to the end of time while it had burned itself on your soul to leave a lasting mark. You had cried in joy, hunched over yourself to blanket your newborn with your whole begin and feel him real, psychical, between your arms.

His accelerated growth didn’t deter you enough from enjoying any time with your baby boy, from supporting him during his unforgiving training to reading with each other's company at the main library of the Imperial Palace. All for the sake of letting him be loved by you.

It was a matter that (while not ideal) didn't interest the Emperor much, for his plans were already taking proper form and the ‘gift’ of not taking away your son from you was enough of a blessing that didn’t need to be addressed again.

Even if that notion tasted like ash on your mouth.

Your little boy wasn’t so little anymore and that sometimes worried you, as you knew very well the kind of expectations the Emperor held for Horus; the true born Primarch, a warrior to serve under his Father’s light as a tool despite his own Mother’s unyielding love. You couldn’t help but feel like this was a prelude of some sort of omen.

Most of the days eventually became grey on its core, for your son was now in charge of his Legion, the Luna Wolves, marking his very first start as an official Primarch under the service of his Father… laying you to the sides like you have always been when regarding the Emperor.

Did Horus know how much it hurt his distance? How much it hurt to witness his crave for the approval of a man made god… when you simply wished to read a book of old literature in his company?

You hated being made again this tragic effigy of the woman with the eyes of a dying lamb. You felt forgotten… a ghost from these golden walls.

But the eventual call of Erda served to stray you away from such gloom thoughts. Her psyker powers a breach through your mind’s wall but clear enough for a single sentence to make your heart take a leap out close to your throat.

“I found one of them”

You couldn’t have been faster in your life to get a lunar cruiser ready to reach the needed destination; not even willingly to explain yourself when the Emperor saw you boarding the vessel. But as always, He went and proved to still be an enigma to you thanks to his ever unnatural actions.

“Go along with her… and make sure to protect her and obey her during the travel only” his command was absolute when he addressed four of his Custodes, their impassive disposition only showing the barest of emotion when fulfilling their Emperor’s orders like a gospel, but the specifics of his directive weren’t lost to you: to obey you just this single time. Nothing more, nothing less.

Of course, you weren't ungrateful to his gesture and thanked him deeply for it with a kiss to the palm of his armored hand when he caressed your cheek, but He quickly dismissed the matter. He knew what you were about to do and it wasn't like he Himself hadn’t been picking any possible clues to find the other Primarchs out there that you two wholeheartedly believed to still be alive.

Sometimes you wondered if the Emperor had managed to have a tiny, small part of instinctual fatherhood to be awakened within him after all the time he had spent with Horus. It was a nice thought. A hopeful one, but you knew better than to get your expectations up.

Once settled inside the cruiser, the coordinates were introduced to start the travel to retrieve one of your children.

Erda’s voice still echoing inside your mind when she told you the planet that you needed to search for: Nuceria.

-°-

The sight had been painful.

The worst nightmare a mother could ever expect.

Your arrival had been anything but discret at the revolting planet of Nuceria, having been informed of the life that the elites carried at the expense of the blood and flesh of slaves forced to fight for any resemblance of survival by their supposed masters. The irony wasn’t lost on you, but millenia of serving the Emperor had made you receptive to his ideals and methods. Justifying your own purpose by standing on his side could derive a vulnerability that you weren’t ready to confront. You needed to believe in the Emperor even if he took too far the phrase “Any means justify the end”.

After all, immortality has only made it easier for your troubling love to persevere longer in your stubborn heart and for fickle human lives to become an afterthought. You were well aware that you weren’t any better than Him in the ever present inhumanity you carried. 

When your child had looked at your direction, imposing form towering over your smaller frame and covered in so many slashes and blood, your heart had seized in a painful knot. Those scars were injuries you hadn’t been able to sooth with compassion. You had failed your son and that was something you’ll never forgive yourself.

The only mercy you could offer was to take him away from this wretched place.

Just when you were ready to take a step towards him, you saw his eyes harden and his posture change in defense with squared up shoulders. A warning if you decided to go against him and the thorn inside your chest only bled even more.

The Custodes that had escorted you as per their orders maintained a cold and terrifying disposition, deterring any of the guards surrounding you and your son’s tribe to take a last step. The commotion at the fighting pit had been great but you cared little for these people and their sick sense of entertainment. Fighting was an art of the honorable and the strong; to be used in epic battles to build history and civilizations. Using it as a careless trick was absolutely insulting.

It was beyond you to do this. Against any of the natural ingrained fighting instinct that had saved you for years, but the desperation of a mother overrode any of that to mere dust and motivated you to do the one thing you wished to believe will make your son realize who you were.

“I’ve been dreaming of finding you… for so long. I’m here now, my son”

And you saw it behind his hardened eyes, and you rejoiced in the recesses of your mind. There was a semblance of recognition shining through his stare at the timbre of your voice.

A far away lullaby that accompanied him in his lowest moments.

An step became two, then three and so on until you found yourself right at your child’s side after a few strides, hand gently touching his roughed one until the grip over his twin axe became slack, allowing you to take a better hold in an attempt to convey all the encapsulated emotions that stormed within your soul.

Grief, sadness, frustration, longing, relief… love.

You’ve been waiting for so long.

No one moved beyond you, tugging his huge arm towards you while softly telling him “It’s time to go home”, but those words instead of making him relax in your presence, had the opposite as his stance became once again defensive. At least this time he genuinely looked conflicted on the matter, glancing back at the other slaves that simply stayed behind as mere spectators of the whole encounter, unable to properly react when not just a few moments ago they were ready to lose their lives in the pits.

Ah, you understood.

“I can’t… not without my people…” he seemed to want add more into that sentence, his eyes straying just a little towards a man that looked to be quite tall by mortal standards, covered in too many scars that told stories of his battles in this wretched place but carrying himself with enough dignity to be respected.

This is where you must make a decision that will carry quite the weight. You knew that there was space enough to carry the slaves, not comfortably, but it could be arranged to be a thigh fit. You knew He wouldn’t even have hesitated at the idea of just forcibly taking your son and leaving all these humans to die with their fate already chosen. The Emperor had no time to dwell in the aspects of mercy and compassion, you could acknowledge that very well and that had been the main reason he had kept you long enough around. To remind him about the nostalgia of the humanity he once possessed. He couldn’t provide the proper love Horus and these children dreamed of… so you would carry that responsibility and dry your heart to make sure your precious sons knew they were loved no matter what.

Your loyalty will always belong to the Emperor, just as much as your body, soul and mind… but you didn’t belong to yourself too anymore… the pittance of individuality you were sure to hold crumbled into dust once you had wished to be the mother of these children and that was something you would proudly carry.

And so, your decision was made.

“Custodes!” you call them, their attention fully on you now and waiting for your command. The grasp over your son’s hand became tighter in an attempt to reassure him once you felt him go tense at your stern tone. He had probably expected the worst and that notion only made something vile twist inside your stomach. “We will be taking the slaves with us too”

There was a beat of uncertainty and you could already guess that this choice would not be well received by the Emperor… but that was something you were willingly to bear over your shoulders like many times you have done in the past.

Things will work out. You can only trust blind hope, but that is enough for now.

You stretch your arm towards his face with some effort, for he is still taller than you, but he lets his head tilt towards you to help a bit and gives you the chance to offer a sweet caress over his cheek. You can feel the rough texture of his messy shave, of the scars, and your heart throbs painfully when you think about all the hardships he had to face.

You couldn’t assure him a better life away from battle, but you could at least give him the solace of a greater future along for his people.

“I’m here now… and I will not abandon you… ever” there had been an edge of something feral in your tone. The side you rarely showed but a reminder of why you had been beside the Emperor this long.

You hoped Horus would be open at the idea of some siblings.

Just messing around with this idea, don't get ya hopes up pls.

Love ya, fellas!

[mylordshesacactus]

God though there's something CHILLING about the Eye of Sion.

Like--the realization of what an ISD-sized hyperspace ring means, the inherent propaganda coup of bringing back the fucking Chimera is a bad thing, yeah, but I'm talking immediate emotional impact.

Because the thing, is, right--there's a Trope at play here.

And the Trope is that...this is a top-secret evil space project, you know? This is Morgan Elsbeth's Evil Masterpiece, her refuge-in-audacity strike at the heart of the New Republic, operating in the open under their very noses, etc. This is the 'Eye of Sion', the dark weapon that will restore Thrawn to the galaxy.

So it's just sort of...expected, with the way this kind of story goes, that the Eye of Sion would be a WARSHIP.

That's just the trope, you know? All this time, all thes resources--it's supposed to have impenetrable armor and some kind of fucked-up new atomization weapon and maybe some murderous AI, it's supposed to have bristling firepower and impossible maneuverability and a massive swinging dick--it's supposed to be Thrawn's Newer And Badder Flagship TM, the terror of the galaxy.

It's not.

It's a hyperspace ring.

That's all. It's just a hyperspace ring.

All that time, all those resources, all this secrecy, the death, the sacrifice...And the Eye of Sion is a hyperspace ring. It has token point defense, and they've had nothing but time in which to do some very nice interior decorating (which is, compared to the cost of the ring itself, a nonexistent price tag) but. It's not a battle station. It's not a flagship. It's not even a light cruiser. It's a piece of tech that was already old-fashioned during the Clone Wars.

All those resources went toward a single, solitary purpose. One journey. Two hyperspace jumps. There, and back again.

That's how difficult it is, this thing they're attempting. Those are the stakes. All of the Imperial Remnant's remaining resources went toward this project--and the result is nothing more or less than a single, massive, unprecedented hyperspace ring.

That's all they think they'll need.

It would have been so much less intimidating if she was a warship.

[charlott2n]

what are some of your favorite lego sets you have?

thanks for asking ^-^ im a big fan of the 75337 AT-TE Walker, 75315 Imperial Light Cruiser, 75394 Imperial Star Destroyer, and 10327 Atreides Royal Ornithopter!

notably i have to say the 75192 Ultimate Collector Series Millenium Falcon is NOT worth 800 dollars, at least to me, because A Lot of the construction is just surface details versus like Body Construction if that makes sense and its just really boring lol. but ya😁👍

[rotworld]

11: Last One Standing

art by @exorbitantsqueakingnoises

a talented and fiercely loyal assassin, you serve as the living weapon of a daring pirate captain operating in the koronus expanse. when your skills catch the attention of his most dangerous ally, you're forced to make a seemingly unthinkable choice.

->warhammer 40k. original drukhari/reader. contains graphic descriptions of violence, gore, sadism, murder and implied torture.

.

.

.

First maxim of the Vazra: I am the blade that hungers. Captain Strenger points you at prey, and you feed.

He wants an Imperial transport vessel, an unwieldy behemoth trundling slothlike and vulnerable through the black of space, so you will lay it at his feet. This isn’t something you do alone. It has naval escorts, artillery-studded and knife-prowed. Attack cruisers chase and harry while ponderous battleships obliterate anything that streaks across their path.  This is a fight for Captain Strenger’s fleet and its fearsome accomplices, thorny hunting ships that slip from their cloaking along the steel underbellies of their prey like knives in the dark. Precise sniping shots unravel voidshields and disembowel engines. Heavy artillery bursts into slow-spinning clouds of debri before they fully emerge from their ports.

Only then does Captain Strenger order all ships into the fray to pick off lingering resistance. Only then does he dart for the prize. His personal craft, the Vicious Dancer, was once an Imperial interceptor. It can mimic the signal needed to pry open the transport vessel’s hangar bay and slot itself inside, followed by its stealthy siblings and the sleek, sickle-winged predator craft of your allies. Alarms blare and emergency lights flash as heavy metal doors and barriers seal shut and the chamber pressurizes.

“I didn’t realize they’d be joining us,” Reyna mutters, watching cockpit hatches open and armored xenos slide out with unnatural grace. They are beautiful in an eerie, severe way, their features sharp and their ears pointed. Proportions stretched to lithe and willowy extremes, the drukhari never fail to unsettle Captain Strenger’s crew in their manner of fighting, moving, or simply existing. You’re not completely unfamiliar with them. They were a common sight on your homeworld of Qepek, frequent visitors and tenuous allies against the Imperium’s encroachment into the Koronus Expanse. They remind you of jungle cats; slinking lethality combined with a cruel, playful nature. You see them checking their weapons, testing the sharpness of poison-tipped daggers and calibrating splinter rifles. One catches Reyna staring and smirks, waving a claw-tipped glove.

“They have their needs and we have ours,” Captain Strenger says. He unfastens himself from the pilot’s seat, the first one out with his boots on the metal walkway of the hangar bay. You’re quick to follow, assessing your surroundings for threats. Nobody’s come to greet you yet. This strikes you as odd. No Imperial vessel would give up without a fight, however hopeless. “You know the drill. Stay behind them, let them soak up the lasfire. We need a cargo manifest and access codes.” 

“I don’t like this,” Syd hisses. He’s clutching his plasma rifle in a shaky grip. “What are they getting out of this partnership? They obviously don’t need us, so there must be something else. Just because they haven’t stabbed us in the back yet���”

“Now’s not the time,” the captain says.

Syd doesn’t take the hint. He turns on you, gesturing wildly. “You’re fine with this? They don’t look like a threat to you? You’re supposed to protect us!”

You spare him just enough attention to ensure he isn’t going to do something impulsive and foolish. “I’m supposed to protect the captain,” you say. Second maxim of the Vazra: Loyalty first to the hand that wields me.

“Don’t bother,” Reyna grumbles. “Let’s just get this over with. I hate when we have to look at them.” 

“Believe me, the feeling is mutual.” A familiar drawl commands the attention of the entire hangar bay. Captain Strenger’s crew assemble as the drukhari step aside to allow a towering figure to the front. Like the others, he wears form-fitting armor that seems to bristle with spikes from head to toe, but his attire is more elaborate than the rest. An enormous crescent blade juts from one pauldron, the cape at his back lined with spotted fur that drapes over his shoulders. A red warrior’s loincloth is tied around his waist concealing the codpiece of his armor. A collection of heavy pendants dangle at his waist, each gemstone dull and cracked. You don’t have to understand the complex hierarchies of drukhari society to recognize he’s in charge here—the archon who leads this raiding force.

“Archon Erzhylak,” Captain Strenger says. 

“Strenger,” the archon coos, as though speaking to a child. “Your continued survival never ceases to amaze me. So few of you out here, so far from the charnel fetishists of your corpse king.” His gaze wanders like he’s already bored, scrutinizing your crewmates who try to avoid his gaze. He wears his hair down, one side shaved, the other long and limp over his shoulder. You can tell this is unusual just by looking at the others. High, tight ponytails that make your scalp ache to look at are the norm for those with hair long enough. You know from those tense negotiations in the courts of Qepek that Erzhylak’s appearance is casual to the point of disrespect. The long, unruly bangs hanging half in his face imply he feels unthreatened and unwilling to impress Captain Strenger’s crew.

Inevitably, his eyes find yours; deep violet and adorned with dragging black lines like a spider’s legs stretches across his skin. “He has you to thank for that, doesn’t he? It seems like a terrible waste to me. Such a precious, faithful blade in the hands of a clumsy little boy.” Erzhylak’s gaze falls to the dagger sheathed at your thigh. He clicks his tongue and shakes his head in disapproval. With the snap of his fingers, one of his subordinates rushes to his side and presents a bundle wrapped with luxurious red fabric. He unwraps it with a flourish, revealing a short blade with a slight, talon-like curve. “A wych knife,” he muses. “A simple but elegant weapon, favored by the traditionalists of the arena. I had this one commissioned to better suit the hands of a human. The proportions of the blade and grip have been altered, but it should be no less deadly. I can think of no one better to have this than a Vazra assassin.”  

You avert your eyes. Erzhylak’s interest in you has been unnervingly persistent ever since Captain Strenger first struck a deal of mutual benefit. “I can’t accept it,” you say.

“Truly?” Erzhylak asks, feigning great disappointment. He picks up the knife, almost comically small in his long-fingered hands, stroking his thumb against the curve of the blade. “Ah, you mean your wielder would not allow it. What a shame. You’re more puritanical than I realized, Strenger, denying yourself the advantages of superior weaponry simply because your stagnant empire did not create it.” He pauses and you can feel his eyes burning into you. “If you served me,” he purrs, “you could have anything your heart desires. Only the best for my faithful blades.” 

Captain Strenger steps forward, putting himself between you and Erzhylak. It makes the archon smile, sharp and cold. “We’d better get on with it,” he says brusquely. “The longer we wait, the more time we give the transport crew to build barricades. I don’t think either of us wants this to take longer than it has to.” 

“You’re not particularly good at reading the room, are you?” Erzhylak drawls. He tucks the wych knife back into its velvet wrapping and hands it off to someone else. “Very well. As you say—let’s get on with it.” He waves his hand dismissively and his forces begin filing out into the corridor leading further into the transport vessel. “The agreement is the same as always. Everything alive on this ship belongs to me. I care not what happens to the rest.” 

“Fine with me,” the captain says tersely. 

Erzhylak glances at you again, his expression deceptively calm. You’ve learned to be wary when the drukhari look at ease—it simply means they’re considering how best to catch you off guard. “I’ve been to Qepek, you know. A refreshingly sensible place, for a mon-keigh world. The strong rule and the weak are trampled underfoot.” He saunters closer. 

Captain Strenger is tense beside you, hand resting on the holster of his laspistol. “That’s close enough,” he says.

Erzhylak calls his bluff. He looms over both of you but he pays no attention to the captain, his attention solely on you. “Remind me,” he murmurs. “What is the sixth maxim of the Vazra?” 

A jungle cat isn’t the only apt comparison. He’s like the titanic serpents of your homeworld’s forests—the venomous, lunging sort, and also the slower, more sinister constrictors. It’s said they mesmerize their prey, swaying in a hypnotic dance that leaves small mammals entranced until the moment they’re devoured whole. 

You swallow hard. “Should the hand that wields me tremble, it is my right to seek another,” you recite. 

“That’s right.” The archon affords Captain Strenger a moment of attention, a smug glance in the corner of his eye. “Does he tremble, faithful blade? Do you feel dulled and wasted in his hand?” 

“Do you have something to say to me?” Captain Strenger asks. 

Erzhylak laughs. He raises his hands in a pacifying gesture and backs away one slow, deliberate step at a time. “No, no. I think I’ve said everything I care to say. Except, maybe, to tell you that you should have listened to your men.” 

The moment he takes one last step and joins his soldiers in the corridor, a metal grate drops in the open doorway, cutting you off from the rest of the ship. The lights in the hangar bay flicker, dim and finally die with a burst of glass, leaving only the menacing red of the emergency lights. Someone opens fire on the drukhari and manages to aim through the bars, but their shots fizzle out on the translucent, shimmering walls of a forcefield. You stay close to Captain Strenger, guarding his back, but nothing comes for you. The drukhari locked themselves on the other side. They watch your crew descend into fear and panic with satisfied expressions.

“Wow, what a surprise! They double-crossed us,” Syd hisses. “None of us expected that to happen.”

“What’s this about, Erzhylak?” the captain says. 

The archon shrugs. “I’m bored of you, Strenger. This arrangement has been an amusing diversion but you’ve wrung all the fun out of it with your baffling and unearned overconfidence. You didn’t find it suspicious to have such exact coordinates for when and where this vessel would appear? It didn’t strike you as strange that they were subdued so easily?”

The captain frowns tightly. He hadn’t found it suspicious, but the others had. They’d confronted in him in the days leading up to this raid, begged him to listen to reason, and he’d ignored them. It was good intel, he’d insisted. More importantly, the potential haul—a shipment of luxuries bound for a newly established pleasure world—was too good to pass up.

You’d said nothing. It wasn’t your place to question your wielder.

“You’ve had a mutiny brewing for a little while now, did you know that?” Erzhylak presses. “Of course you didn’t. Too busy believing you’re indestructible. I set this stage with help from one of your own.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Captain Strenger isn’t paying attention. He doesn’t see how tense Reyna just became, the wide eyes and hard swallow as she slowly, subtly reaches for the weapon at her hip. 

But you do, and you don’t hesitate. 

It’s a single stroke. The crew probably doesn’t even see it as anything more than a blur. You unsheathe your dagger and slit her throat in the same lightning quick motion. She pitches forward, both hands clutching at the gaping red maw in her neck, gushing blood slicking her fingers. The others scatter with startled shouts but Captain Strenger simply looks back and nods appreciatively. 

“Marvelous,” Erzhylak sighs. The look he’s giving you, the desire, the hunger, makes a shiver run down your spine. “This is what I want. Perhaps you can still entertain me after all.” He spreads his arms in a grand gesture, smiling broadly. “I have a proposition for you,” he declares. “Kill each other. Whoever is left gets to leave here alive.” 

Stunned silence fills the hangar bay. Someone starts to hyperventilate. Reyna shudders and chokes on her own blood with arrhythmic wet wheezes. “You’re not serious,” Captain Strenger says. 

Erzhylak regards him with exasperated impatience. “Do you need encouragement? I suppose we could kill you ourselves. But if I’m being honest, Strenger, this isn’t just about you. It takes more than one person to stage a mutiny.”

They go for you first. They have to. The first is nervous, too slow lining up his aim. You’re on him long before he knows what’s happened. One stroke and his fingers are gone, plopping uselessly to the ground like pebbles. You don’t have time to close the distance before the rest throw themselves at you, brass knuckles and knives and firing wildly with no care for whoever else they might hit. It’s not even close. They’re stressed, exhausted, overworked and underfed. At best, they’re deserters, ex-Imperial Guard who vaguely recall their close quarters training. 

You were born and raised for this. Your dagger paints a scarlet streak through flesh and air. You dance and leap and stay in the thick of them so they do half of the work for you, stray shots and clumsy strikes dislocating limbs and splattering skulls. Bodies unravel and entrails spill in your wake. You feel eyes on you. Captain Strenger watches with cool confidence, knowing this isn’t a fight you can lose.

The archon is watching, too. You can feel him all the way across the room, the weight and the heat of his eyes drinking in the sight of your artistry. It should only be your wielder whose attention emboldens you. It should only be your wielder who guides your steps. That doesn’t make you any less aware of his presence. 

What’s left of the crew realizes the tide has shifted. They run, or at least they try. One sprints for the Vicious Dancer but he never makes it. You tug his head back by the hair and don’t waste more than a moment opening his throat, but a moment is all the other one needs. She’s steadier, a much better shot, but nothing moves as fast as a Vazra assassin when their wielder is watching. You spin with the choking man in your grasp and he takes the brunt of every shot, riddled with smoking, cauterized wounds by the time you reach her. “Fucking knew you were trouble,” she spits, the last thing she ever says. You have time and the prickling thrill of your wielder’s eyes on your back so you are thorough, meticulous, sawing and hacking through old scar tissue, shredding flesh until the last slash severs head from body. 

You grasp it by the hair. The ragged neck wound oozes and drips across the floor. You turn to present it to your wielder and find him much closer now.

The muzzle of his laspistol is cold against your forehead. You drop the head and it splats wetly, rolls onto its side. 

“It’s you,” he says, quiet horror dawning on him. “You’re what he wants.” 

You stare back at him, uncomprehending. Behind him, the barrier lifts with a clatter of steel. 

“All those raids he helped us with. All the intel he gave us. All this time, stirring up discontent behind my back.” Captain Strenger’s voice quivers with fear and rage. His finger curls around the trigger but his hand is shaking, his aim jittering around in the air. He doesn’t want to shoot you but he’s afraid of what might happen if he doesn’t. “Just so we’d tear each other apart and he could take you from me.”

“So he does have a brain,” Erzhylak muses. “What else could I have possibly wanted from you? You didn’t think we really needed the help, did we? I’ve been raiding since long before you were born.” His footsteps grow slowly closer. “What I want,” he says, “is loyalty. Nothing is harder to come by in Commorragh. Nothing is more priceless. And here you are, squandering it.” 

“They won’t go with you.” The captain tries to steady himself. He takes deep breaths. You clutch your dagger, your heart aching. This isn’t how it’s supposed to be. You did everything he wanted. You went where he pointed you, fed on the prey laid in your path. “They won’t abandon me. I won’t let them.” 

Erzhylak is right behind him now. His shadow falls over both of you. His smile is wide and his gaze is expectant. Waiting. Wanting. He’s wanted you from the start. “The sixth maxim,” he reminds you. You look at him. You look at Captain Strenger. You know the captain sees the answer in your eyes because he lets out a frightened sound and pulls the trigger. 

Too late. Nothing is faster than a Vazra assassin in the gaze of their wielder, even if that gaze is fearful and betrayed. You slap his wrist and the shot goes wide, and then you’re on him, knocking him to the ground and straddling his waist. You freeze, realizing where you are and what you’re about to do. He looks at you with tears in his eyes. This is your wielder. You clutch your dagger harder. Erzhylak’s spiked boots step into view and he kneels beside you, an eerie, spider-like hand settling on your shoulder. He leans in, his breath warming the shell of your ear. 

“Does he tremble?” he whispers. 

He does more than tremble. Captain Strenger sobs and thrashes and begs for his life. More than pity, you feel revulsion. 

Erzhylak wraps you in his arms. His armor is sharp, the edges and spines painful where they dig into your body. His hands, clad in black, claw-tipped gauntlets, slide down your arms in a sensual caress. He plucks the dagger from your hands. In its place, he sets the wych knife, closing your fingers around it in soft reverence. “Then it is your right. Isn’t it?” 

“Yes,” you say. You test the weight of the knife in your hand. The feel of the metal, the curve of it against your palm. 

“Don’t be afraid,” he murmurs, pressed against your side. “I’m here. I will sharpen you to the most perfect edge and I will wield you as he never could.” He wraps a hand around yours, easily engulfing it. He moves your aim higher, the tip of the knife poised right above one of Captain Strenger’s wide, watery eyes. He inhales deeply and sighs with a delighted shudder, feeding on the endless waves of despair pouring from the man beneath you both. “Slowly,” he urges. “Carefully. Take your time. Leave him alive as long as possible.” It goes against your instincts to avoid a killing strike but you’ll try. You’ll learn. It’s what your wielder desires. 

Captain Strenger begs, and then he weeps, and then he begins to scream. Erzhylak laughs and you feel his joy as your own.

You are the blade that hungers.

[simonbreeze]

Sea of Souls by Chris Wraight, is book 7 in the Warhammer 40,000 Dawn of Fire series.

Here is the 'back of the book':

'The mighty fleets of the Indomitus Crusade face terrors and dangers beyond imagining. As Guilliman’s crusade marches forth, bringing the Emperor’s light to thousands of worlds, Fleet Secundus is headed for the darkest dark: the Eye of Terror itself, where Secundus will execute a major offensive deep into the heart of the Archenemy.

Along with warriors of the Adepta Sororitas and the Adeptus Astartes, the Imperial Navy battle cruiser Judgement of the Void pushes deeper and deeper into contested space. But as their journey unfolds, the greater schemes of the Indomitus Crusade begin to descend into treachery and intrigue. And as the forces of Chaos close in, a battle for survival is about to unfold, one which has ramifications not just for Fleet Secundus, but for the future of the galaxy itself'.

Is it any good through? A big hell yes!

I really enjoyed reading Sea of Souls, at first I wasn't sure, but very quickly I found this is a brilliant story and addition to the Dawn of Fire series.

The story is set entirely on-board the Imperial ship, Judgement of the Void, and as with a few of the previous books in the Dawn of Fire series, doesn't continue the story with the main characters, there is a name drop or two, but that aside, this is very much its own thing. This was part of my apprehension at the start of the book, not advancing the main story and story arcs of the core characters of the series. However, this is a really good book, and as it turns out, unlike one or two of the other side step books in the series, (Wolftime for example) actually has an impact on the core story and characters.

Sea of Souls is generally a mix of big void battles, boarding actions and great action set pieces before slowly turning into a claustrophobic thriller and horror that gave me flashes of the movie, Event Horizon. This, with some compelling and endearing characters, and some solid writing by Chris Wraight delivers one of my favourite books in the Dawn of Fire series.

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

[ak-vintage]

Quarry - Chapter 17

Pairing: Din Djarin (The Mandalorian) x f!reader

Summary: Din Djarin is on what he expects to be his last bounty hunt for Greef Karga. After all, Nevarro is swiftly moving away from its previous reputation as a Guild member’s paradise, and Din has more important concerns now, like finding a Jedi to train his mysterious foundling. However, after capturing a wanted starship engineer who would rather go anywhere other than “home,” the Mandalorian is forced to reassess his priorities.

Your taste of freedom had been brief but glorious. Now you are a prisoner of the most infamous bounty hunter in the Outer Rim – it’s only a matter of time before he turns you in. There isn’t much you would not do to keep from being sent home, but as you find yourself growing closer to your captor and his strange little companion, you start to wonder whether escape is really what you want.

Set after Chapter 13: The Jedi but before Chapter 14: The Tragedy.

Chapter Tags & Warnings: 18+ MDNI! Reader is Mando's live-in starship engineer, second-person POV, no use of Y/N, minimal descriptors of reader character, canon-typical violence, descriptions of injuries, angst

Series Masterlist | Read on AO3

Disclaimer: This chapter marks the point at which this story starts to overlap with canon events. I have heavily referenced events from Chapter 14: The Tragedy. You will find some additions and revisions to allow the reader character to fit into the story, but a lot of the dialogue is the same as in the original episode.

---

In the far reaches of the Outer Rim, an Imperial cruiser drifted between star systems.

To some, it appeared as a relic of a bygone era – a time of darkness and turmoil that few remembered fondly. To others, it was a cautionary tale – a warning of what might again come to pass if the forces of greed and a hunger for power were to grip the galaxy once again.

But to Lieutenant Elia Kane, and to thousands of other young hopefuls roaming the corridors of that cruiser, it was a symbol of the glory that awaited them on the other side of this long dormancy. If, of course, they had the discipline, the fortitude, the loyalty to seek it.

Lieutenant Kane was determined to find that glory, and with the message she was about to deliver, she felt herself grow one step closer to achieving it. With a self-assured nod at the trooper guarding the door, she thumbed her access code into the control panel and crossed the threshold into one of the most exclusive sections of the cruiser.  

“Moff Gideon. The tracking beacon has been installed on the Razor Crest.”

Turning on his heel to face her, the older man offered her a small, pleased smile and inclined his head in acknowledgement. “Does he still have the asset?” Gideon asked, dark eyes flashing.

“Yes.” Kane felt a swell of pride rise in her chest, drawing herself up a little straighter. “Our source confirmed it.”

He nodded to himself then, and Kane thought he looked confident, resolved, like one who had spent months setting up his pawns one by one, in a perfect line, and was finally settling in to play the game. To the death, if needed.

“And we will be ready,” he said, and the lieutenant permitted herself the faintest smile.

Yes. They would be ready. She would make sure of it.

---

“Dank farrik!”

You looked up from your datapad at the sound of Din’s cursing echoing from the cockpit and down into the cargo hold.

After the last week in hyperspace, the anticipation of waiting for the silhouette of Tython to appear in the viewport had been too much for you. From the moment the Razor Crest had dropped to sub-light speeds earlier this morning, the tension and the uncertainty had been palpable, close and unavoidable like the stale, recycled air. Din was always a bit stoic, a bit difficult to read, but if nothing else, you knew that Grogu could sense something was amiss. No matter how hard you attempted to engage the boy in a game or a song or a story, he had been completely uninterested, seemingly absorbed in playing with that little silver ball he loved so much and intent on avoiding eye contact with both you and his guardian. Feeling a bit useless, you had retreated into the hold nearly an hour ago, desperate to distract yourself.

Now, it seemed as though you were missing something important happening on the second level. Abandoning your datapad in the bunk, you crossed to the ladder and gripped the rungs, ready to climb up and see what all the fuss was about.

“ – did good!” Din’s voice reached you at the foot of the ladder, only slightly muffled by the closed blast doors at the entrance to the cockpit. “I just…when the nice lady said you had training, I just… You’re very special, kid. We’re going to find that place where you belong, and they’re going to take real good care of you.” You felt your heart seize in your chest when you realized what you were hearing, what you had inadvertently eavesdropped on. He sounded so hopeful, so positive, and you couldn’t help but wonder whether that emotion was genuine or if it was an act, something he was putting on in an attempt to ease Grogu’s worries. Or perhaps to ease his own.

“This is Tython,” he explained, continuing in that bright, energetic voice, one he only ever used when speaking to the boy. “That’s where we’re going to try and find you a Jedi. But you have to agree to go with them if they want you to, understand?”

Silence greeted his question, and you leaned your forehead against the ladder’s rungs, afraid to move, afraid to breathe should you accidentally interrupt this tender, significant moment between the Mandalorian and the child who had been like a son to him for so long.

When he spoke again, the bounty hunter had sobered somewhat, his words more wistful, more somber. “Plus, I can’t train you. You’re too…powerful. Don’t you want to learn more of that Jedi stuff?” Again, you heard no reply – no giggle or squeal or even whine from the little boy, and instead Din sighed, and you felt the Razor Crest dip beneath you. He had begun your descent through the atmosphere. You would be landing soon.

“I agreed to take you back to your own kind, so that’s what I need to do. You understand, right?” he asked after a moment. He sounded resolute to your ears, committed to his cause, and again you wondered who he was trying to convince – Grogu or himself. Either way, it made your chest ache.

A handful of minutes later, and you felt the telltale jolt of the reverse thrusters engaging. A groan from the ship’s underbelly told you landing gear had been extended, and then the deck plating beneath you vibrated with a heavy thump. As the hum of the twin engines wound down into silence, a pair of dusty brown leather boots appeared at the top of the ladder.

“Time to go?” you asked as Din descended into the cargo hold, Grogu clutched close to his chest.

The Mandalorian nodded once. “I ended up having to set us down a ways out – the peak where the temple ruins are is too small for the Crest. We’ll have to travel the last stretch with the windows down.”

You frowned, puzzled by the turn of phrase. “Meaning?”

However, rather than responding, Din instead proceeded to rummage through one of the smaller cargo bins, one you knew held tactical gear that was too bulky to fit in his beloved weapons locker. Shifting aside what looked like an ancient, weather-worn breastplate that appeared to have been painted green at one time in its storied history, he withdrew something that gleamed silver in the dim light of the cargo hold, something heavy and solid and unmistakably featuring twin rockets at its base.

His jetpack.

With a practiced, steady motion, the bounty hunter slung the jetpack over his shoulder and mounted it to his backplate, the hulking thing snapping into place as though tailor-made to do so.

“We’re…flying?” You cursed the tremble in your voice, the way your nerves were immediately apparent in the stammer of your question.

Something like a chuckle filtered its way through his vocoder. “Unless you’d rather walk, cyar’ika.”

You ended up making the journey to the peak cradled in Din’s arms like a damsel, tucked close to his chest with your braid whipping in the wind and Grogu strapped securely to your torso in his leather carrier. For the first time since you had woken than morning, you saw the brightness return to the boy’s eyes as he soared through the open air, and although your stomach was full to bursting with butterflies and enough adrenaline coursed through your veins to make your hands shake, you thought you might just understand. Nothing had ever felt so freeing – nothing but the beating sun, the arid breeze, and the strong, competent arms of the bounty hunter you both loved keeping you safe.

---

When Din had told you that you were taking Grogu to the ruins of an ancient Jedi temple, you had pictured something grand. Old, certainly, weathered and worn with time and the elements, of course, but in your mind, the structure had been stately; it had possessed a certain gravitas that would make its link to the legendary order clear to the naked eye. And at the very least, in your mind, it had been enclosed.

What you found as the Mandalorian landed the three of you gracefully on the leveled peak of the mountain was…rather simple in comparison. Instead of a temple, you found a stone henge – edged in giant, jagged rocks that seemingly sprouted directly from the mountain itself and tilted slightly inward to create an open-air, dome-like effect. At the center of the henge, in a shallow, sunken circle, sat another rock, this one much smaller, perhaps half your height. It was rounded, as smooth as the others were coarse, and situated as though a perfectly spherical stone had been buried half in the ground, leaving only one hemisphere exposed to the elements.

The only ornamentation to be found in the entire space was a ring of glyphs you didn’t recognize carved shallowly into the surface of the center stone. A humbler “temple” you could not have imagined.

“Well, I guess this is it,” Din said tentatively, setting you on your feet at the edge of the henge. You watched as he scanned the area, his steps cautious as he approached the stone in the center of the circle. “Does this look…Jedi to you?”

Almost unconscious of the gesture, you ran your hand over Grogu’s back, pressing him closer to you in the carrier that you had strapped to your front today. Your other hand rested warily on the hilt of your blaster, a concession that your bounty hunter companion had only agreed to when you reminded him of how close you had come to putting a shot right through Kevok Teklolq’s head.

“It looks ancient,” you quipped.

He nodded slowly in agreement then beckoned you forward, urging you deeper into the circle. Slipping Grogu from his carrier, he bundled the boy close to his chest then brought him over to the rounded stone.

“I guess you sit right here.” Din settled Grogu on top of that stone, right in the center, then took a step back, leaving him a wide berth. With a deep exhale and one final scan of the surrounding area, he added, “Okay. Here we go.”

For a moment, both of you stood there watching the kid look around aimlessly, babbling and cooing to himself as he watched the shrubs wave in the wind. He followed a little butterfly with his eyes, completely content to just sit and watch the world go by, and you and Din looked at each other dubiously.

“What’s…supposed to happen?” you asked after a beat, voice almost a whisper, as though afraid to disturb whatever supernatural forces might be at work in this place that you couldn’t see.

The Mandalorian shrugged, letting out a sigh as he took a step closer to Grogu again, trying to get his attention. “This is the ‘seeing stone.’ Are you seeing anything? Or are they supposed to see you?” He brought a hand up to the side of his helmet, flipping on his thermal scanners as he paced around the stone. “Maybe there’s some kind of control or something.”

He examined the base of the stone and ran his fingers over the shallow ring of glyphs that spanned the circumference but to no avail. For his part, Grogu simply reached out a little three-clawed hand to grasp at a butterfly that had fluttered too close to his face, completely unaware of the apprehension of both you and his guardian.

“Oh, come on, kid,” Din groaned, a mild annoyance creeping into his modulated voice after another unproductive moment of silence. “Ahsoka told me all I had to do was get you here, and you’d do the rest.”

Before you could offer any of your own encouragement, a rumbling sounded in the distance. Deep and loud, the sound echoed through the mountains and valleys, bouncing off of the massive rocks surrounding the henge. Your gaze instantly jumped to the bounty hunter, who already had his blaster out of its holster and his visor tilted up to the sky. You did the same, pulling your own blaster from where it hung from your boilersuit pocket, heart in your throat as the rumbling grew ever closer, ever louder.

It was definitely a ship – something with three engines but not a model you immediately recognized by sound alone. All you knew for certain was that it sounded old, and it seemed to be heading straight toward you.

You did not have to wonder for long, however, for just as you were about suggest to Din that perhaps you should come back to the peak later, when you were certain you were alone, a distinctive silhouette dropped through the atmosphere and arced toward the mountain where you stood. Painted in worn patches of tan, sage green, and red, with a wide, round base reminiscent of a deep space scanner dish, two small wings, and a long, narrow body, the ship flew in a way that made it look like it was standing upright. You felt your jaw drop at the sight, your unease suddenly tempered by fascination and something like awe.

“No way,” you breathed, watching the ship round the mountain peak and begin a landing pattern in the distance, just over the nearest hill. “Is that a kriffing Firespray?”

Thankfully, Din didn’t appear to be the least bit distracted by what kind of ship had just landed. Instead, you watched as he darted over to the edge of the stone henge, adjusting his helmet scanners in an attempt to spot exactly where among the hills and brush the ship had touched down. You couldn’t see a thing from where you were, but when you heard him curse under his breath, too low for his vocal modulator to pick up, your unease returned with a vengeance, causing your hand to flex over the grip of your blaster.

“Well?”

With a kind of tight, emphatic urgency you had rarely seen in him, the Mandalorian spun around, ignoring your question completely and going straight for where Grogu sat on the seeing stone.

“Time’s up, kid – we’ve got to get out of here.”

However, just as Din stretched out his hands to pluck the boy from the center of the stone, his wide, beetle-like eyes slipped shut, a calm, pensive expression washed over his little wrinkly face, and those mysterious glyphs ringing around the surface of the stone began to glow. Watery, blue-white light poured into the henge, shooting up from the ground in a narrow circle around the seeing stone, streaming into the air in a hollow column with Grogu in the center. Even from your position several meters away, you could feel the energy radiating from that light as though it were a physical thing. You felt it pressing against your skin, tugging your hair out of your braid, plastering your boilersuit to your skin. There was no wind, not really, and yet you squinted against it instinctually as though staring into a gale-force.

Grogu was doing it. He was actually doing it.

But you were no longer alone, and suddenly everything Din had told you about his and Grogu’s past – how he had been wanted by ex-Imperials, how he had been tracked and chased across the galaxy a dozen times over, how his life was in danger every time they got close – came crashing back into your memory, and you knew. The kid couldn’t stay here.

Din, it seemed, had come to the same conclusion. Eating up the distance between himself and the seeing stone in a handful of long, reckless strides, he snapped, “We don’t have time for this! We’ve got to get – ”

As though he had run headfirst into a wall made of rubber, the moment the Mandalorian made contact with that shimmering blue-white column of light, he seemed to bounce off of it, the energy field sending him flying backward almost to the edge of the henge in a crumpled beskar heap.

“Din!” You darted to his side immediately, horrified, but before you could lay a hand on him in concern, he was already staggering to his feet breathlessly.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” he panted, waving your concern away as he limped back toward the seeing stone, back toward Grogu. “Hey, snap out of it, kid! We’ve got to get out of here!”

If the little boy could hear him, he gave no indication. He had settled into a peaceful, meditative posture, his arms loose at his side, his fingertips pressed together, and his face serene. Whatever was happening to him, whatever he was doing in there, it didn’t seem to be hurting him.

“I think we have to let him finish,” you said, glancing between the child and the tense, battle-ready bounty hunter now pacing the circle of the henge like a caged animal.

He shook his head at that immediately, the noon sun glinting off of the beskar dome of his helmet. “It’s too dangerous. We’re too exposed here.” He crossed to the edge of the henge once again, staring down between the massive rocks, zooming in with his helmet scanners with his shoulders on edge. After a moment, he said, “Yep, we’ve got company. At least one humanoid heading this way.”

You swore colorfully. “You go, head them off. I’ll stay here with Grogu.”

Meeting your gaze with his for the first time since the ship was spotted, you watched as he silently debated with himself. The hand around his blaster hilt twitched, his other hand balled in a tight fist, and he seemed to take you in – from the top of your head to the toes of your dusty boots, and you thought you might have heard him sigh. “I don’t like the idea of leaving you two up here on your own.”

“I don’t think you have much of a choice.” You drew yourself up to your full height, hoping that perhaps if you carried yourself like you were confident in this, like you were certain you would be safe, it would somehow become true. “Go. We’ll be fine.”

Din hesitated for only another moment before his shoulders softened somewhat. Nodding once at you, he leaned around you to shout in Grogu’s direction. “I’ll see if I can buy you some time, kid. Can you please hurry up?”

With one final glance in your direction, Din took off down the side of the mountain, blaster at the ready.

---

As you stood in the silence of the mountain peak, nothing but the breeze and the thrum of the energy field to break it, you were reminded of that first night on Maramere. Hovering at the mouth of the Razor Crest, damp in the salty night air, a blaster you were only barely familiar with heavy in your palm, eyes always scanning, searching the horizon. Waiting. You were always fucking waiting.

There had been a handful of blaster rounds exchanged soon after the Mandalorian had disappeared into the brush along the side of the mountain. Far away and faint, you hadn’t been able to identify anything further about them – like who might have shot them or at whom – but minutes had passed since then, quiet minutes with nothing but you, the meditating child, and the Force that did nothing to assuage your anxiety.

Taking a deep breath, you steeled yourself against the pull of your own thoughts, your own fears, steadying your hands, slowing your heartrate. You could not allow yourself to succumb to the sickening dread at the idea that those shots you heard might have met their mark on Din. Grogu was vulnerable, alone, and inaccessible. Your boy needed you clear-headed. Your boy needed you strong. You could not, would not fail him.

But then a military transport shuttle dropped from the sky, and its familiar shape had horror sinking like lead in your stomach, bleeding through your limbs, robbing the calm, collected breath from your lungs.

It was Imperial. An Imperial military transport shuttle. Which could only mean…

You rushed to the edge of the henge, shielding your eyes against the glare of the sun as you watched the shuttle land mere feet from the Razor Crest. The rear of the ship dropped open, extending a wide durasteel ramp, and a glint of white armor flashed in the noon light.

Storm Troopers. A whole platoon of Storm Troopers.

You lurched back toward the center of the circle, inching as close as you dared to the repellent energy field, putting your back against the radiating force of it as you positioned your body between the child and the direction of the shuttle. Blaster drawn, you brought it up to the ready, both sweaty hands wrapped around the hilt. You kept your eyes on the space between the rocks where you thought they might appear, and you sent up a silent prayer to every deity you had ever heard of that it would be enough – that Din was alive and well, that he had seen the Troopers descend through the atmosphere and would be ready for them, that he could handle that many. If he could not, it would all be down to you.

Tell-tale, high-pitched shrieks of blaster fire erupted outside of your line of sight – dozens of rounds, more than your ears could track, accompanied by the sound of shattering rock and incoherent shouting that echoed through the mountain range. The sound gave you hope at first, told you that at least someone was putting up a fight, but the longer it continued, the more uncertain you became of who exactly was doing the fighting. Was it really just your bounty hunter? It sounded like more than just him. Who had he found, emerging from that Firespray? Was it possible that they were an ally?

The fighting seemed to stretch on and on, and just as you were beginning to wonder whether you might be better served descending the mountain to help, a flash of beskar caught your eye just over the ridge, and your knees nearly gave out beneath you in relief as Din Djarin came barreling into the circle of the henge.

“Time to go, kid!” He was winded from the climb, his chest heaving beneath his breastplate, and his jetpack had seemingly gone missing, leaving his tattered black cape to flutter unencumbered in the breeze.

“Honey, breathe,” you coaxed, meeting him halfway to the seeing stone with a steadying hand on his pauldron. Your palm rested over the outline of his Mudhorn signet, its familiar shape soothing you. “What did you find?”

But he simply shook his head, brushing your touch aside, visor singularly focused on the boy behind you. “No time to explain. We can’t stay here, there are too many of them.”

Slipping around you, and without another word, the Mandalorian angled his broad, armored shoulders into the force of the energy field and began fighting his way forward, once again trying to breach its borders and snatch the child from its center. His progress was impossibly slow, as though he were attempting to push the seeing stone up the side of the mountain, and he grunted and groaned with similar effort. Hands outstretched before him, arms trembling with the strain, you watched in horror as the tips of his fingers just barely brushed the inner layer of the energy field before the blue-white light seemed to pulse, and the bounty hunter was flung back through the air with a cry. Mere inches from the edge of the stone henge, his body crumpled to the ground in a pile of dark fabric and beskar, face down in the dirt, limp and unmoving.

“Din!” You sprinted to his side, tucking your blaster into your pocket as you went. Collapsing to your knees beside his prone form, you heaved him over onto his back, the bulk of him plus his full suit of armor almost more than you could budge on your own. “Come on, Din, wake up. Wake up!” You shook him by the shoulders, loose hair and panicked sweat falling into your eyes as you stared down at him. You met your own reflection’s gaze in the ink-black surface of his visor, but you didn’t need to examine your face to know that you looked as distraught as you felt as the Mandalorian remained motionless beneath you.

You tried in vain for a few more moments to rouse him, but it was no use. He was out cold, and the fighting down the side of the mountain had only gotten louder, which you presumed meant it had gotten closer. Crawling over to the edge of the henge, careful to stay low enough to the ground to be hidden by the brush, you risked a peak down the slope and into the valley below.

There, far enough in the distance to keep you safe from blaster bolts but still far closer than you were comfortable with, you could see two foreign figures picking off the wave of Storm Troopers one by one, and you realized then that these must have been the people that had arrived in the Firespray. One appeared to be a woman dressed in orange and black tactical gear, a sleek helmet on her head blocking most of her face from view. Even from a distance, you could tell she was a wicked shot, taking out trooper after trooper even in the short amount of time you had been watching. The other figure was far more mysterious – a bald man with deeply tanned skin clad in flowing black robes, carrying a long, thin blaster rifle and some kind of curved polearm strapped across his broad back. He, too, was an excellent shot, though his blaster seemed to pack less of a punch than the one wielded by his companion.

Crouched there in the brush, you watched as the Storm Troopers advanced relentlessly even as their numbers dwindled, driving the other two combatants to retreat further back, taking shelter as they could behind the rocky terrain. It was clear from where you stood that although the troopers far outnumbered your mysterious allies, the skill advantage clearly went to the two figures in black.

However, just as you were beginning to feel confident that they might be capable of defeating this insurgency on their own, without Din’s help, the Storm Troopers produced a small, freestanding artillery, and your stomach dropped to your feet as they began to loose volleys of explosive rounds along the side of the mountain. The ground shook beneath you, and you bit back a startled scream as the impact sent chunks of rock and clouds of dust pouring from the cliffside where your two allies hid. They wouldn’t be able to withstand that kind of firepower, and neither would you, should they get make their way much closer. You needed Din.

Scurrying back over to his side, you redoubled your attempts to wake him. Saying his name, shaking his shoulders, running your hands across his body, focusing on the parts you could touch without beskar getting in the way. Tucking your fingers under the folds of his cape, you managed to find a scrap of skin just on the edge of his cowl, and you dug your fingernails into that flesh, catching on his collar bone, hoping the sting would be enough to bring him back to himself.

And then a second Imperial transport shuttle dropped through the sky, the sound of its engines joining the commotion of the firefight, and as though that was the cue that he had been waiting for, the Mandalorian startled awake with a groan.

“Oh, thank the Maker,” you sighed, falling back onto your haunches where you knelt beside his body. You wiped sweat and dust from your brow with the back of your sleeve, praying that the tears of frustration and fear that had been prickling the backs of your eyes stayed put in your tear ducts. “Are you all right?”

“Fine.” The bounty hunter sounded dazed, exhausted. “The kid – ”

You held up hand, interjecting immediately. “He’s still in a trance. I can’t get through to him. And more troopers just landed at the base of the mountain.”

“I have to try again.” He staggered to his feet then, immediately lurching in the direction of the seeing stone where Grogu still sat, unmoved and unaware of all that was happening around him. “That’s it, kid! We’ve got to get out of here!”

“Din, don’t – ” You jumped to your feet, fingers scrabbling at the back of his cape as though to hold him back, but the man was insistent and would not be deterred.

Extending his gloved hands once more into the corona of the energy field, he was once again repelled backward, this time somehow managing to keep his feet.

“It’s no use,” you snapped, frustration rising in your chest. Clearly flinging himself at that ray shield-like force wasn’t helping. The man was getting frantic, and it scared you. If he would just slow down and think for a second��� “We’re going to have to wait it out!”

“We don’t have time for that!”

You paused for a moment, forcing back your short-tempered retort. You had one idea – just one, and you didn’t like it. But up here, you were useless, and if you tried to meet the Storm Troopers head-on, like Din would, like the two mysterious figures at the base of the mountain would, you would get yourself killed, and then you would less than useless. There was only one thing you could think of that you could do in this situation that would actually help. If you were brave enough to do it.

“What if…what if I went and got the Crest?”

The Mandalorian came up short at that, turning to face you head on with a cocked helmet, silent incredulity rolling off of his posture.

“Grogu isn’t coming out of that energy field until he’s done with whatever he’s doing. We’re just going to have to keep him safe until he quits on his own. I’m a decent shot in a starship, and we’re going to need more than blasters if we want to fight off that many troopers.”

He appeared to consider the idea, looking like he wanted to protest but unable to come up with a reason why, or better yet, a different idea all together. Another explosion rocked the mountainside, blaster fire continuing to sing in the distance, and after a beat, he nodded once.

“Okay. Yeah, okay. I’ll cover you.”

Drawing your blaster once more, you spared a quick glance at Grogu’s sweet, serene face, and then both you and Din crossed to the edge of the henge one final time.

“Okay, we’re going to protect you. Just stay there,” you called back to the child. Imbuing every ounce of confidence you could muster in your words, you added, “We’ll be back soon.”

The bounty hunter wrapped one of his hands around your elbow then, urging you to meet his gaze. As gently as he could manage in a rush, he ducked down and butted the forehead of his helmet against yours. “Be careful, cyare,” he rasped, and you felt yourself smiling in spite of the circumstances. There he was. That was your Din.

“You, too,” you whispered. You allowed yourself a singular moment to breathe in the scent of him – beskar and blaster residue, sweat and spice – and then you ducked into the brush and began your descent down the mountain.

One hand wrapped around your blaster hilt, the other held out to your side for balance, you kept as low to the ground as you could manage, your boots slipping and sliding through the dirt and gravel on the steep slope down. You kept your eyes on the conflict as much as you could, taking shelter behind rocks or flattening yourself against the ground when blaster rounds strayed too close to where you crept. Everything was so loud – the incessant blaster fire, the intermittent explosions from the artillery, the shouting of the troopers. It all had your heart hammering in your ears, your stomach tight and leaden with anxiety, and you knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that if you were to come upon a trooper now and be forced to defend yourself, your hands would be shaking too badly to level your blaster. Instead, you prayed that Din’s return to the battle would be enough of a distraction to keep you from their notice.

Once you got to the Razor Crest, you would be safe.

Once you got to the Razor Crest, you would keep your boy safe.

Those thoughts, those promises you made to yourself, were the only things that kept you from curling into the smallest ball you could manage and wedging yourself behind a rock to wait out the conflict.

Your prayers were answered the moment Din made it back to the fray. Back-to-back with the strange woman in black, you watched in awe as he activated the battery of small guided missiles built into the back of one of his vambraces – whistling birds, he called them – and launched them all at once. A dozen tiny rockets streaked through the air, leaving smoke trails in their wake, and ripped through the flimsy plastisteel armor of as many Storm Troopers, crumpling their bodies to the ground.

That was your chance – your window of opportunity. You took off at a sprint, arms and legs pumping, fighting to keep yourself upright on the incline of the ridge, forgoing the shelter of the rocks and the brush in favor of speed. All of the efforts, all of the attention of the troopers were now squarely focused on Din. You had to make it as far as you could before they realized you were there. The Razor Crest was so far away, but you could make it. You just needed enough time…

You made it almost all the way to the flat, barren clearing where you had landed, a mere 150 meters from the bottom of the Razor Crest’s familiar ramp, before the telltale sound of jetpack engines filled your ears. You had just enough time to drop to the dirt before a dark form came arcing through the air around the side of the ridge, sailing directly into the center of the conflict.

An explosion greater than any you had seen thus far heralded his landing, and your palms flew to your ears instinctively against the thundering blast. You felt the detonation in your bones, your eardrums ringing, your skull feeling a bit rattled, and you watched with nothing short of awe as from the smoke, a man clad in a familiar set of weathered, green-painted beskar rose unscathed.

It was the man from earlier, you realized – the strange man in the robes with the alien-looking polearm strapped to his back. Except now, in addition to the polearm, he was wielding a blaster, multiple rocket launchers, and a full complement of Mandalorian armor, and he moved with the confidence and the ferocity of a man who was quite accustomed to doing so.

You had watched Din fight. You had seen the way he transformed under the pressure of battle – the way he slipped into this other identity, this other state of being with his blaster in his hand. He was focused, fierce, competent – fluid and yet sharp simultaneously, unrelenting in his assault, unforgiving in his intensity. This man fought like Din but with the addition of all the blunt savagery of a bull determined to break out of its pen, and you couldn’t help but hesitate in the face of it.

You couldn’t help but stop to watch.

With a heavy swing of his vambrace, the mysterious man backhanded the nearest trooper across his helmet, shattering the thing upon impact and sending the infantryman toppling to the ground. He took out three more with his blaster in quick succession, felling them where they stood, then took aim at the portable generator powering the artillery. The generator exploded in a burst of flame, sending several nearby troopers into the air with the force of it, and then he was eating up the ground in long strides, alternating between his blaster and some kind of projectile weapon built into his vambrace. Everywhere he went, Storm Troopers littered the ground, falling in the face of his violent strength.

This man was magnificent and utterly terrifying.

The Storm Troopers seemed to agree. Once it became clear that there was no victory to be found for them now that this newcomer had joined the fray, their commanders gave the order to fall back. A thrill shot through you at the sight of their gleaming white armor retreating under a rain of blaster bolts, and before you knew it, both of the transport shuttles were in the air and rapidly ascending back into orbit.

They didn’t make it far, however. Taking aim with the oversized artillery shell mounted to the side of his jetpack, the man in the green armor launched the rocket in the direction of the retreating vessels. You followed the arc of the round through the air and watched as it collided with its mark in a burst of flame. Black smoke belched from the hull of the hit shuttle, pouring into the afternoon air, and with an echoing groan, it fell from the sky, taking the other shuttle down, too, in its descent.

You couldn’t seem to tear your gaze away from the wreckage. So dumbstruck and impressed by the raucous display of power were you that you nearly missed the single, red laser cannon burst that streaked through the atmosphere.

In the same way that it had in the forests on Maramere, when you had leveled your blaster at another being for the first time and pulled the trigger, time seemed to slow to a crawl as you watched that laser burst part the clouds on its way down from orbit. Ripping its way through the air, it zipped unerringly toward its target in one clean, continuous line. Your eyes widened with horror as you tracked its path, and you thought you might have loosed a shout of warning, but it hardly mattered. There was nothing you could do to stop it.

The laser burst tore through the Razor Crest like it was no more substantial than a brittle, fallen leaf, and you watched, helpless, as the ship burst apart at the seams in a ball of flames and shrapnel.

You were so close to the impact that you didn’t even have enough time to dive for cover. The force of the blast hit you like a wall of bricks, lifting you from the ground, throwing you back several feet, limp as a rag doll. All of the air evacuated your lungs as you collapsed onto the hardpacked dirt, and white-hot agony seared through you as the roiling wave of fire that exploded from the ruined ship licked at your exposed skin, singing your hands, your neck, your face.

The Razor Crest. They had destroyed the Razor Crest.

You tried to suck in a breath, but the air was so hot, scorching your lungs, coating your throat with ash and dirt. Coughing and sputtering, you lurched to your feet, needing to get away from the epicenter of the flames, but Maker, your ears hurt – they were ringing in your head, drowning out the roar of the fire, the labored sounds of your own breathing, even the thunder of your own heartbeat. It was making you dizzy. You could barely keep your feet under your body.

The world was spinning.

The Razor Crest was gone.

You could feel astringent tears leaking from the corners of your eyes, streaking through the dirt and the soot and the raw skin on your cheeks. Were they from the smoke, or from the grief in your chest?

Din’s ship. Your ship.

Your home, the only real home you had known since you were a child. Gone.

You dug your blunt nails into the nearest rock, scrabbling along its jagged surface, feeling the inflamed skin of your fingertips catch on the ridges to keep you upright. You had to get to Din, to Grogu. They would be coming for him now.

Now that you couldn’t run away.

With every wavering step you took out of the blast radius, you could feel your vision clearing, could feel your breath coming a bit easier in your lungs. Your body still ached everywhere, and your skin felt like you had been laying out under Tatooine’s twin suns with cooking oil slathered across your body for several hours, but you could move again, and the more time you spent on your feet, the more your equilibrium began to restore itself. It was a level of pain that you could push through, and in that moment, you were determined to push through it.

As the mountain peak with the stone henge began to take shape in your field of vision once again, you noticed several things at once. First, you could see both Din and the strange woman in black and orange tactical gear racing up the side of the mountain, weapons drawn, scaling the steep incline at a shocking pace. Second, you noticed that the blue-white column of light that had surrounded Grogu had disappeared. Finally, peeking through the craggy rocks along the circumference of the henge, you could see the glint of metal. A lot of it, like whatever had joined Grogu in the center of the circle was absurdly large.

Or like there were many of them.

Packing away the pain in your muscles and the agony in your lungs, refusing to acknowledge either of them, you broke into a run.

---

“Abort pursuit! Disengage! Do not harm the child!”

You were dead on your feet as you staggered into the circle of the henge. Utterly winded, gasping for breath, muscles seizing and shaking with overuse, eyes watering, burning your tender skin as tears spilled over. Neither Din nor the woman acknowledged your arrival at first, both of them staring into the clear, blue sky, their bodies bent over the comm link in the woman’s hand. Stomach sinking in your abdomen, you glanced around them both toward the center of the circle.

The seeing stone was empty, dormant once more, and Grogu was gone.

A gruff male voice echoed from the strange woman’s comm link, one you had never heard before. “Copy. I’ll do a loose follow, see where they’re headed.”

You leaned heavily back against the closest stone, woozy and wrung out. You had failed. You had promised to keep him safe, and you had failed.

Half a breath later, and the comm link crackled to life once more. “They’re back,” the voice on the other end said.

The woman was quick to reply, curt and direct. “Who?”

“The Empire. They’re back.”

“That can’t be.” The words were out of your mouth before you could stop them, and both Din and the woman whirled around to face you, the latter’s hand flying to the grip of her weapon.

“Cyare,” the Mandalorian breathed, taking an uneasy step toward you, hand outstretched. You couldn’t imagine how you looked to him then. Limp and listless against the rock, barely standing, dotted with burns, covered in dirt and soot, steeped in heartache.

For her part, the woman glanced back and forth between you and Din for a moment, dropping her hold on the blaster rifle strapped to her body only after she had determined that the two of you knew each other. Speaking into her comm link again, she snapped, “The Outer Rim is under the jurisdiction of the New Republic.”

The reply back was just as quick. “This isn’t a spice dream. I can see the Imperial cruiser with my own eyes.” A brief pause, and then, “Heading down.”

For the first time since you had spotted the Firespray descend through the atmosphere, silence fell over the mountain peak. Din couldn’t seem to look away from you, nor you from him, though neither of you moved to be closer to the other. The woman in black stood by and said nothing, clearly an outsider in the grief that was beginning to settle over the two of you. Feeling a fresh wave of tears welling behind your eyes, you whispered, voice breaking halfway through, “Grogu?”

Your bounty hunter shook his head once and broke your gaze, turning instead to stare at the column of smoke rising from the remains of the Razor Crest. “He’s gone.”

You swore you could feel your heart crack inside your chest, and those tears spilled unchecked and silent. He sounded hollow, empty and lifeless inside, and you wanted so badly to go to him, to say his name, to comfort him somehow. Perhaps also to seek comfort from him, if you were being honest. But as you pulled yourself away from the support of the rock behind you, he held up a hand, the same hand that had been reaching for you a few moments ago, and stopped you in your tracks.

“I’m going to survey the wreckage,” he announced, visor pointed toward the ground, away from you, away from the other woman. Before you could say another word, he disappeared over the edge of the peak, descending the mountainside once more.

You took a single, feeble step after him before your thigh muscles gave out beneath you, send you toppling toward the ground. But the woman in black got there first, catching you beneath your armpits, hauling you back onto your feet.

“Whoa, easy there,” she said. “And who might you be?”

You sniffed heavily, dragging your sleeves across your tear-stained face. You winced at the feel of the abrasive fabric against your burns, but you gave her your name all the same. Your voice sounded small, wrecked even to your own ears, but you couldn’t bring yourself to feel embarrassed. Your ship was nothing but a smoking crater in the ground. The Empire had kidnapped your little boy. Your entire body ached. You couldn’t be bothered with trying to put on a brave face for this stranger.

“I’m…I’m his…” You struggled to put your relationship with Din into words, to phrase it in a way that could be understood by someone else, particularly when you weren’t even certain you understood it yourself. You were his crew member. His engineer. His nanny. His friend. His lover. You were just…

“I’m his.”

The woman offered you a puzzled look, but the corner of her mouth quirked up in something like a smile. “I’m Fennec Shand. Mando and I are old…acquaintances. What happened to you? You look like you’ve seen better days.”

“I was going after our ship, the Razor Crest, while you guys were fighting those troopers,” you replied, finally starting to feel a bit steadier on your feet with Fennec’s support. “I was going to offer air support. I was nearby when it blew up.”

“Dank farrik.” She looked you up and down, dark eyes shrewd. “We have some medical supplies in our ship. It’s not much, but it’ll stop these burns from getting infected, and it should help keep you from scarring.”

You shook your head immediately at that. “No, I have to go, I have to be with him – ”

“Okay, okay, one step at a time. You’ll never make it back down the mountain on your own.” Fennec looped one of your arms over her shoulder, anchoring you to her body with a strength that surprised you. “Come on, I’ll help you.”

---

As Din Djarin picked through the paltry remains where the Razor Crest once stood, Fennec Shand and a man you had learned was named Boba Fett looked on with somber expressions.

The former had calmly, patiently, tirelessly helped your battered and bruised body down the side of the mountain, supporting your weight when your legs threatened to give you beneath you and catching you up as best as she could on what you had missed while you stood guard over Grogu. When you reached the scorched patch of earth, still trailing whisps of smoke into the air, she had found you a relatively flat rock to rest on. Now, you joined the bleak, silent vigil, allowing your Mandalorian to scavenge through what was left of his home in relative privacy.

Maker. How could any of this be real?

“May I offer you a handkerchief, little one?” You startled at the question, glancing up over your shoulder at the solemn face of the man in the weathered green armor. This was the man you had watched so effortlessly eliminate so many troopers from your hiding spot in the brush, but in contrast to when he was in battle, he had removed his helmet, choosing to carry it in the crook of his arm instead. He had a worn scrap of black cloth in his hand, and it fluttered in the faint breeze in a way that reminded you of Din’s cape. “It looks as though you might need it more than I.”

You studied the man, Boba Fett, for a moment before nodding and accepting his offering. Passing the handkerchief over your face, you sighed softly in relief. The fabric was so much softer than your boilersuit, so much gentler on your injuries. “Thank you,” you murmured.

Out of the corner of your eye, you caught a glimpse of Din bending down to uncover something from the ash. Grogu’s favorite little silver ball, crusted in dirt but miraculously intact.

More tears streamed down your face at the sight, and you quickly wiped them away. If Boba spotted the furtive gesture, he had the good grace to not say anything about it.

Clearing your throat, you opened your mouth to ask him about the armor he wore, to confirm that it was, in fact, what you thought it was, and that it had come from the Razor Crest before its destruction, but before you could form the words, Din had clambered his way out of the shallow crater left by the detonation, a long, metal spear in his hands.

“This is all that survived,” he said, showing Boba the weapon.

The older man quirked an eyebrow knowingly. “Beskar.”

Din nodded.

“I want you to take a look at something.” Thumbing a quick combination into his vambrace, a holographic projection appeared in midair between the two armored men. “My chain code has been encoded in this armor for 25 years. See, this is me, Boba Fett.” He pointed at the section of the code that indicated his name, his planet of origin, and some biometric data. “This is my father, Jango Fett.” He pointed again, this time at another section of text further down on the display.

Din drew back somewhat in surprise. “Your father was a foundling,” he said, recognition in his voice.

“Yes. He even fought in the Mandalorian Civil Wars.”

You felt your own eyebrows raise at that. Whether Boba himself was Mandalorian remained unclear, but from what you knew of the Creed, it hardly mattered. If his father was Mandalorian, Boba was owed the same inheritance.

Like Grogu.

“Then that armor belongs to you,” Din agreed.

Boba offered him a serious half-bow, the gesture almost courtly. “I appreciate its return.” His gruff voice took on a note of sincerity then, a note of warmth, and you felt the corner of your mouth quirk up at the sound.  

“Then our deal is complete.”

Boba hesitated at that, holding up a hand to pause. “Not quite.”

“How so?”

Din was done with this conversation, you could tell. He wanted to leave, to be done with this place and leave the smoking pit where his ship used to be behind, where he didn’t have to look at it anymore.

But the other man appeared undeterred by his surliness. “We agreed, in exchange for the return of my armor, we would guarantee the safety of the child.”

“The child’s gone.” You felt your heart stutter at his words, the matter-of-fact way he said them, the hollowness in his voice. It made your lower lip tremble, and again, you wished you could reach out and pull him to you, hold him. But he couldn’t have made it any clearer that he didn’t want that right now, and you certainly weren’t about to force the issue. Not in front of two strangers, anyway.

“Until he is returned to you safely, we are in your debt.”

Din was silent for a moment, glancing between Boba and Fennec for confirmation. The latter nodded once, deadly serious, and a surge of hope welled up in your chest at their clear, steadfast commitment. Both of them were skilled fighters. The countless, white-armored bodies that littered the valley and mountainside were testament enough to that. Would they be willing to put themselves at risk for the sake of the child? It certainly seemed so.

“If you truly mean that,” Din began, hesitant but considering, “I have some thoughts on how you might pay back that debt.”

The other man inclined his head him, quick to retort, “My word is my bond, Mandalorian. We had an accord, so shall it be done.”

“Good. Then we need transport to the Outer Rim.”

You frowned slightly at that. Back to the Outer Rim? Even the closest planets in that region were several days away at light speed. What was Din after?

 Boba seemed to have no compunctions with this plan, however. “Of course. Where are you heading?”

“Nevarro,” he replied. “If we’re going to find the cruiser that took him, we’re going to need help. I have a contact on Nevarro with New Republic law enforcement rights. She might be able to pull some strings for us.”

“Are you sure that’s wise? I would bet that most of us don’t exactly have the best history with…agents of the law,” Fennec quipped wryly.

“I understand. But I trust her. She was a gun for hire for years before she went straight. Even if she can’t help us, she’ll be discrete.”

The other woman exchanged a significant look with Boba, the two of them seemingly having a discussion without words. After a beat, he nodded and said, “Very well. The journey to Nevarro is a long one from here. Come, we leave immediately.”

Fennec was at your side almost instantly, pulling you to your feet from the rock on which you perched. You winced as you settled onto your legs, having gotten stiff while you waited, but she was patient as you found your footing. You offered her a soft smile of thanks, but before you could take your first step, another set of gloves appeared in your peripheral vision.

“It’s all right, I’ll get her there,” Din said, extending a hand to you in offering. Your eyes snapped up to his face, meeting his gaze through his impenetrable visor. It was the first time he had looked you in the eye since the two of you had left that mountain peak, since he had pressed his forehead to yours and asked you to be careful. You couldn’t help but feel as though the man staring back at you had been fundamentally changed in the intervening hours. This man was colder, more distant, cloaked in grief and vengeance.

He was right there, with his hand outstretched, and yet, he had never felt so out of reach.

But you could not bring yourself to say no to the chance to be close to him. And so, swallowing thickly, you nodded in agreement and allowed him to sweep you up into his arms.

Din was silent as he carried you to where Boba Fett’s Firespray had landed, and if he noticed the fresh tear tracks you hid against the folds of his cape, he did not acknowledge them.

[spectralsleuth]

I see you're a Temeraire fan! Any fics you'd want to rec to someone new to the fandom? thanks!

WHO SENT YOU?? It's so funny because I JUST got one of my best friends reading this series (SLAM IS THIS YOU??? MO???), and have been meaning to reread. I wonder how you clocked I was a fan?? I don't think I've reblogged anything recently lol.

REGARDLESS;

Resurgence by ladyshadowdrake

One of the few ABO fics I will admit to having read, because it is such an interesting regency era Pride and Prejudice premise, with one of my all time favorite characters. (Laurence- it's Laurence.) Not that there is anything wrong with ABO, but I try not to bring up mpreg in casual conversation.

The Diplomats Dragon by indecisive_lotus

HAMMOND!!! I love this fic, because I have a deep unwavering love for characters perceived as unlikeable, who are revealed to be given depth. This is such an interesting perspective to the entire Temeraire series, with SUCH a different dragon character from any in the actual series. Churki is such an interesting, stubborn, grandmotherly character who has taken Hammond upon herself like a plague. Fantastic fic, fantastic family dynamics, fantastic outside perspective to the series.

Mutiny on the Reliant by WerewolvesAreReal

PIRATE KING LAURENCE. This reads as all the potential the original Laurence have, just if circumstances were slightly different. Fantastic look into the mechanics of having and loving a dragon, and a high seas adventure to boot.

If you have time, absolutely peruse the authors other fics, because they are FANTASTIC and one of my favorite authors, and have a very extensive list of works that probably have SOMETHING for you.

Okay I can't think of any more right now- but I do have I think a snippet of a Star Wars/Temeraire crossover somewhere lol. Hold on let me look...

OKAY I FOUND IT! This is from 2018. It was a little snippet I scribbled down to possibly expand later, of how dragons would work in space lol. BB-8 is Poe's sweet little combat dragon, Finn steals an imperial dragon- I don't remember the rest, but I had a whole AU planned for it lmao.

(TW gore, burning, implications of slavery)

Dragons came in all sorts of shapes, after millenia of evolution.

Some were wingless, serpentine, and inhabiting aquatic planets where they filtered chlorine based bacteria through sturdy steel-like gills. There were dragons that hibernated in geothermal vents, emerging only with great cataclysm to breed and nest and kill, and sleep again. Like natural disasters. Once the ancestors of dragons long ago gained the ability of cosmic travel, wings scudding through light and solar radiation as easily as birds through air, they spread their seed across the universe and grew roots more varied and colorful than any other species.

The only dragons Rey had seen before had been the vast, cruiser sized things that traversed the deserts of Jakku.

Untamable by either the Resistance or the First Order; implacable, and crossing the stretching desert on clawed feet that shook the ground and made the sand jump for miles around. They survived almost entirely on starlight, with their vast wings built for the absorption of endless desert sunlight, like their star crossing ancestors, reluctant to fly. From a distance they looked almost like cruisers, with solar sails fluttering gently in the desert breeze, and the shimmering haze of the desert obscuring their tree-trunk like legs and low slung heads.

Some enterprising settlers had tried to harness them, in the fashion of colonized planets everywhere, who took advantage of whatever draconic species inhabited the area. Occasionally you’d still find remnants of the taming coalitions who’d made any kind of progress, their shattered bones sucked dry by the thirsty desert, and buildings smashed into shards of durasteel and permacrete.

The herds were unforgiving, and the ruins had been left to their sand and sun and gravel pits.

One taking rare flight was enough wind force to cause storms miles away, heaving the heavy, hot Jakku air like someone stirring soup. They could be seen as a shape in the sky even bigger than that of the two moons, wings that covered the stars and uncovered wrecks that were long since buried with the force of their winds. Scavengers scrambled desperately in their wake, risking the wrath of the herd for undiscovered wreckage.

Rey had seen one fly once when she’d been little and thirsty, dragging a load of fuses as long as her arm on a sled, and sweat sticking her hair to her eyes and face. She’d been covered in dust for days, caked so thick two rains hadn’t washed it away and she’d cracked at her elbows and knees where it had baked hard and red.

But the sight of those massive wings, and the dull mottled brown hide creaking into the cold air like an impossible thing had stayed in her dreams for weeks.

This one struggling in the Teedo’s net  was much smaller.

The fading sunlight made it hard to see, the shapes simply an outline of a struggle against the golden sand. But Rey had sharp eyes, and she hadn’t strained or exhausted herself nearly as much as she’d expected to today searching the remains of an Imperial series 5 cruiser. Made it easy to get involved.

“Hey!” There was no response from the Teedo at her irritated cry, only an angry shrill screeching that sounded almost mechanical, the dragon’s elegantly frilled head pinned against its side and claws tangled in the shredded net.

There were two Teedo, both lashing the net to their respective luggabeasts and chattering excitedly. Rey uncertainly thought she caught a few words about coin, and immediately felt a hot rage grip her throat, flipping from mildly irritated to furious. Enslavement wasn’t uncommon on Jakku, but it didn’t change the fact that she personally found it distasteful. She’d been saved from the fate multiple times only by the good will of Jabu, something in the disgusting man's morals holding to whatever contract had inclined him to hire Rey in the first place.

This was someone’s beast, judging by the Alliance-issue harness on it, and they were going to sell it as meat.

“I said HEY,” Rey skidded to a halt as she reached the bottom of the dune, and the little ragged figures jerked back, hissing and chittering angrily at her.

The dragon struggled anew at the interruption, shrieking in fury and kicking up enough dust with its free tail that Rey had to squint behind her own head covering. “That’s a Rebel dragon you’re taking to the slaughter,” She informed them coldly, raising her voice only slightly to be heard over the racket, and the chittering slowed to a sullen muttering.

“Yes! Yes, yes, home, Poe home gone other man take-” The dragon seemed overcome by this, and squalled in fury, jerking towards one of the Teedo, and almost shutting its teeth (net and all) over its extended arm, which was grasping the net. Its words were oddly stilted, short- although whether it was with stress or some impediment wasn’t very clear.

The Teedos shrieked in their own alarm, and in the brief moment they backed away from snapping jaws, Rey leapt over the wildly swinging tail and past their reach. She took her knife to the netting, glancing off of the hard sunset and steel-colored scales running from the dragons brow, to the tip of its tail. She sawed through the netting with no small amount of effort, arms burning and fingers slipping from sweat. The heat coming off of the dragon was incredible in the dry, brisk Jakku evening, and she thought surely it couldn’t be natural. It frizzled the hair on her arms, and rippled the air touching it’s scaly soft hide like an oven heating.

One of the little thieves realized what she was doing and crackled an angry warning, grabbing her roughly by the back of her tunic and throwing her onto the sand- but she was back up in a flash, yelling angrily and swinging the knife still in her hand in a short sharp arc that missed the Teedo by a bare inch. She bared her teeth, furious enough that the way the scavengers gripped their staffs and moved carefully forward didn’t scare her nearly as much as it should have.

But she’d done her damage. With a horrendous series of ripping pops, the net came away completely, and the dragon unfurled its wings and thrashed its way free of the net, knocking one of the luggabeasts over onto its side with a sad groan of metal and a weakly kicking leg. The net trailed sadly from its saddle as the dragon disentangled itself, almost frantic with its movements and chittering too fast for Rey to understand.

It let out a triumphant squall, and drew in an incredibly large breath, chest expanding unnaturally, and throat pouching now that it was freed- and with a clicking rattle like a ripper raptor-

It spewed a hot and dusty flame the color of the blue sands at night across the two who had trapped it. Indigo and glittering, the flame charred the sand enough that Rey thought she caught glittering hints of glass, throwing an arm across her eyes to fight the glare.

It was rife with a chemical fume that sent her staggering back, retching faintly and dizzy with the sudden smell of burning meat and the shrieking of the Teedo, whose arms waved frantically in an attempt to shuck the burning rags off of itself. The second was already prone on the ground and crackling like a merry blaze, the fire turning bright red and greasy as it ate away at its new fuel. The smell was horrendous, as if someone had lit a pile of sodden trash.

Suddenly there was a jerking around her waist that almost made her vomit, sharp and sudden, her breath leaving in a whoosh- and the two burning red dots were growing further and further away on the blueing sands as she was dragged into the sky.

Above her, the dragon shrieked victoriously and chittered and Rey cheerlessly wished that it had at least let her grab her pack half-depleted of ion batteries and broken medical scanners before flying them away.

[pumpkakin]

Random snippit of a gtws starwars au because he deserves it!

~*~

You can’t hear gunshots in space, but that doesn’t stop them from blowing holes in your ship. 

In fact, that’s where the sound comes from: all of the important systems and wiring and fuel lines erupting in a blaze of glory. It’s the same sound as thunder rolling overhead, loud and roaring, and it shakes the very ground under your feet. It’s kind of like a roller coaster. A very deadly roller coaster.

Scar, personally, would like to get off of this ride, thank you very much.

The alarms in the cockpit are shrieking, shrill and deafening, and emergency lights strobe red overhead. Scar sits in the middle of the chaos, in the pilot’s seat, hands white-nuckled on the controls, while Jellie shrieks from somewhere behind him.

“Jellie!” Scar cries, worried. He dodges another volley of laser fire, stretching across the control panel to the weapon controls in order to fire back. “Are you okay?”

Another series of beeps respond, annoyed and shrill where the little robot is no doubt busy shutting bulkheads and turning off systems. Scar huffs.

“Don’t use that tone with me, young lady!” He shouts back. A lucky shot grazes their wing and Scar is slammed into the armrest of his chair. He hisses at the ache. Jellie makes another few rounds of whistles and beeps. “I know you said we needed a second pilot, but Cub’s only a few lightyears away! How was I supposed to know we would run into an Imperial cruiser?”

Jellie whistles loudly at him as Scar rolls the ship in a near dodge of another volley. “We didn’t have the money to hire someone! I told you that!” Another stretch to the weapons controls, and another explosion of light behind them. “Yes, even for the short trip! This ship was expensive!”

Said ship rumbles again, and the metal creaks in a very concerning way. Behind them, the Imperial TIE fighters are zipping after them like a swarm of angry hornets while the cruiser looms dark against the stars.

Scar flips a few more switches and refocuses on the controls. “We don’t have time to argue,” he tells Jellie, who chirps in agreement. “Our cloakers are still intact, so if we can just get into hyperspace, we could lose them. See if you can find a route out of here!”

Jellie whistles and gets to work, and Scar focuses on buying time.

[lifblogs]

We need Hunter getting mad at Crosshair for going along with Omega's plan. I beg of you.

Beg, and it shall be delivered! Look, I needed this so badly too, istg. Word Count: 870 READ ON AO3

The Empire was leaving Pabu, troopers going back to their gunships, the gunships returning to the attack cruiser.

That could only mean one thing.

Hunter’s heart leapt into his throat as he looked skyward, and he couldn’t breathe.

No, no…

Putting his helmet on, he and Batcher ran towards the village and their spiraling steps. He’d seen lights up there a moment ago, fighting. Was Crosshair okay?

Maybe everything’s fine.

In his gut he knew he was wrong.

Even though Hunter ran as fast as he could it was as if his body couldn’t move fast enough. He was in one of those nightmares where no matter how hard you tried to move, you barely could, and the pain descended upon you. Batcher raced beside him as if she knew that something was wrong, too.

Too much time passed between his crawl onto the beach and his ascent to Shep’s home.

Hunter wanted to lean against the door as he took his helmet off and caught his breath, the muscles in his legs and core burning. Batcher ran in, and nudged Wrecker, who was thankfully awake now.

Crosshair leaned against the wall, head down, body tense.

Omega was nowhere in sight.

Hunter refrained from grabbing Crosshair as he demanded, “Where’s Omega? What happened?”

Crosshair clenched his jaw, lips pulled into a thin line. It was impossible to not notice that his right hand was trembling.

Wrecker lifted his head, tears in his eyes, to tell Hunter, “She’s—she’s gone.”

Hunter’s helmet fell from his grasp, clattering against the floor.

His heart that had climbed into his throat seemed to drop into his feet, and he nearly collapsed. His world was spinning. He couldn’t breathe, didn’t even know what air was, what his lungs were for.

Batcher held him up by leaning her weight against his legs, and Crosshair had reached out a hand to grab him.

He met the sniper’s eyes, vision blurry, nose already stuffing up.

“Crosshair—“

“She decided to sacrifice herself, to be taken to save us. To save Pabu.”

If this were any other situation Hunter would be so proud of her. But this wasn’t any other situation.

The Empire had his daughter.

A tear fell and anger crowded his vision.

He shoved Crosshair, who didn’t even put up a fight. “You were supposed to protect her!” He shoved him again, Crosshair colliding with the wall, and before he knew what he was doing he threw a punch.

The pressure of his knuckles against Crosshair’s face hadn’t felt good enough, not as his vision seemed to go red, his heart pumping hard, blood rushing in his ears.

“You’re a traitor!” he cried. “You’re a filthy, stinkin’ traitor!”

Hunter tried to punch him again, and his fist was stopped by Wrecker.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, calm down.”

Hunter struggled to get his fist out of his grip.

“Calm down? You want me to calm down while Omega is currently sitting in an Imperial ship heading to Tantiss?”

“It was her decision,” Wrecker argued. “I don’t like it either, but we have to respect that decision.”

Hunter was so tired, more tired than he should be. He knew Wrecker spoke sense, yet his hurt wanted to explode, to leave his body with violence.

Yet, the longer he stood there, panting, seeing the pain on their faces, the guilt on Crosshair’s, he knew they were right.

He stumbled back as Wrecker released his fist, having sensed the fight leaving him.

Hunter fell to his knees, Batcher letting out a sound between a moan and a whine as she nuzzled his face. Lost, Hunter wrapped an arm around her, and hid his face against her hide.

“Is there any way we can track her?” he asked, after a long moment of crushing silence.

Crosshair let out a hiss through his teeth, like he was truly in deep pain. “We tried. Omega’s comm was taken, and I… tried firing a tracker on the ship.” Hunter winced, bracing himself for what came next. “I missed.”

He bit his bottom lip, body tensing and shaking, trying to hold in his pain.

This wasn’t Crosshair’s fault.

“I’m sorry, Cross,” he murmured, eventually raising his head to try and meet his eyes. “I let my anger get the better of me. You’re my brother, and… I know how much you care for Omega.”

He just gave him a nod. A nod from Crosshair was the equivalent of forgiveness.

Hunter felt the pain inside condense into a tight, dense, black ball in his chest. It sent lightning shooting out from it, but now it was in check. His anger had a real target, a purpose.

This was the Empire’s fault.

They had chosen to do this to Omega. Crosshair wasn’t to blame. Omega wasn’t to blame.

He rose, against all odds, the pain condensing even more till it was like a star that sucked in everything around it. But it left him whole enough to lead.

He put a hand on Crosshair’s shoulder, the other reaching up to Wrecker’s. Frantic determination ran through him, and as he met their gazes he saw their resolve (even with Crosshair’s trembling hand).

“We’re going to get her back. We’ll bring her home.”

[saphronethaleph]

Optimize your main batteries

Tigellinus folded his hands behind his back.

“All right, summarize the situation for me,” he said. “We’re nearly there, now tell me who we’re fighting.”

“Information is sparse, Grand Admiral,” his intelligence wonk said, apologetically. “According to the data burst we got from our informant, the shipyards on Cheres IV have been abnormally active for the last six months.”

“...and this concerns us?” the Grand Admiral asked.

“It does, Sir,” the intelligence officer replied… whatever his name was. Hernas, perhaps?

“While Cheres IV is primarily known as a freighter yard, they were involved in warship construction during the Clone Wars, and none of their manufacturing systems have been replaced. They have the smelters able to handle high powered weapons and the volume to produce capital ships.”

“A capital ship yard that we didn’t monitor?” Tignellius asked. “Who is supposed to be in charge of this Oversector, anyway? This is a clear and direct failure by someone. Make a note.”

“Yes, Admiral,” an aide said, tapping away at a datapad.

“As for this yard, hmm…” Tignellius frowned. “Why wasn’t it being monitored?”

“Every shipyard in the Empire could produce capital ships,” the intelligence officer pointed out. “Cheres IV is somewhat higher capacity than others, but it’s shown no hint of involvement until now. What actually raised my concern is not so much the report of high activity but that it’s dissonant with the other, pre-existing reports which were being sent by the management. Somebody is lying to us.”

He flicked to a new page. “According to our best estimates, the maximum possible construction volume they could have completed roughly amounts to a single Star Destroyer of the Imperial class, plus escorting cruisers in proportion. Rebel assets that could have been deployed to defend the yards might amount to as many as two of their capital ships, their Star Destroyer equivalents. Again, escorts in proportion.”

Tigellinus frowned, then nodded.

“It’s fortunate we have ten Star Destroyers in the core of our fleet, isn’t it?” he asked. “Still, we’d best not be too hasty… order to the fleet, all ships are to deploy their full complement of fighters as soon as we drop out of hyperspace. They are to form a screen; if the enemy launches a fighter strike, send out a combined interception force anchored on the Carracks to blunt it. I won’t take losses against a clearly inferior foe. We’ll offer them one chance to surrender to preserve the docks, then I’ll destroy whatever is there with turbolasers. Stormtroopers will convince the Cheresi board of directors of their folly.”

The ops personnel copied that down, converting it into orders, and Tigellinus looked up at the main viewscreen.

Not long now. And he’d show the rebel scum what the might of the Empire could do.

Starlines formed, then condensed into stars, and Tigellinus looked at the tactical display.

The whole formation was neat and ordered around his flagship, Praetor, and he allowed himself a moment of satisfaction.

“Report,” he snapped. “Get me targets!”

“Scanning now, Admiral!” someone called back. “Dropping the images on the plot!”

Markers appeared, and Tigellinus frowned – then relaxed.

A dozen fighters were out on a clear combat patrol, and even as he watched they reacted to his presence. There’d be more launching soon, but he could only see four of the Rebel light carriers – not enough to be a serious threat, not against the hundreds of TIEs his own force was sending into space, obedient to his orders and shaking out into combat formation.

But, more importantly, there were only two enemy heavy capital ships – not three. Both were consistent with Mon Cal designs, the damp aliens, though there were more light ships than he’d have expected.

“Have the Rebels really been building light ships here?” he asked, out loud. “Or have they been sending off what they build as soon as it’s complete… status on the Denier?”

“Interdiction cone coming online in sixty,” someone told him.

That, at least, was acceptable. He might lose the enemy cruisers, but the Mon Cal ships would be trapped before they could jump out and that was worth the entire trip.

“Admiral,” the intelligence officer said, appearing at his side. “I’ve been running the data streams, and there’s something wrong about the enemy combatants.”

“Then tell me what it is, Hernas,” Tigellinus said, shaking his head with a sigh. “Don’t play riddles with me. What are we facing?”

More fighters were appearing on the screen, and half his attention was on the body language of the two forces… would the Rebels try and launch a strike on Denier, hiding behind the body of his fleet? Run now with everything that could jump? Or try desperately to save the two Mon Cal Star Cruisers, opening themselves up to complete destruction?

“The cruisers don’t match anything that we recognize, but there’s at least a hundred of them,” Hernas said. “All built to the same design. And the Mon Cal cruisers have a different profile, it’s distorted along the dorsal and ventral lines.”

The big ships in question were neither turning to run nor turning to close the range, Tigellinus noted – or, at least, not by much. Instead they’d turned to fly left-to-right along his formation’s front. And the lighter cruisers were forming up into a clearly planned formation, with the Rebel fighters behind them on patrol.

What was going on?

“We’re in range of the cruisers, sir,” an ops officer said. “The Mon Cal ships are behind the enemy cruiser line, still.”

“Open fire on the cruisers,” Tigellinus replied. “Order the right wing to be ready to pursue those Star Cruisers – along with Denier. I want those prizes.”

“Yes, sir,” the ops officer replied, and the heavy turbolasers either side of his flagship’s main bridge turned, elevated – then fired. Nine other Star Destroyers fired in unison, spitting nearly a hundred and sixty coherent bolts of light out at the enemy cruiser line.

And about five hundred came back.

First Action, in the formation to the left of Praetor, staggered visibly as her shields took an intense hammer blow. Three of the enemy cruisers had taken multiple hits, one of them exploding as it was flattened in a single blow, but they were small targets and First Action was a massive target… one which had just taken so much concentrated energy that the shield systems were unable to fully contain it.

“What the kriff was that?” Tigellinus demanded.

“The cruisers!” Hernas warned. “Sir – they’re built around capital ship turrets!”

Turrets.

Turrets.

The produce of the damn shipyards hadn’t been sent away at all. It was right here. The heavy turbolaser turrets of an Imperial-class were a tiny fraction of the total volume, and the metal it took to build a single Star Destroyer could build hundreds of heavy turrets instead of the eight actually fitted to ships like his flagship.

First Action got hit by a second hammerblow of energy, crackling before a series of internal explosions began, and a moment later a priority alert came in from Interrex on the right wing of the formation.

The two Mon Cal Star Cruisers had been heavily refitted, Tigellinus realized in a sudden flash of insight. Their dorsal and ventral lines were nothing but turrets, with at least six times the heavy gun complement of a Star Destroyer – each – and that was if they hadn’t had heavy turrets added to the port and starboard sides, as well.

The Star Cruisers had his fleet outgunned. The enemy light cruisers, separately, had his fleet outgunned.

“Get us out of here!” he snapped. “Tell Denier to shut down her gravity well projectors!”

“They’ve only just come up, sir!” Hernas pointed out. “It’s going to take several minutes to-”

The entire ship rocked, as Rebel heavy turret fire marched down the formation, and Tignellius regretted his life choices.

Briefly.