#in all its chonky glory

[pokemonkidsdaily]

day 10

braviary #628

[theetherealbloom]

THE SILVER LINING - CH. 4

Chapter Four: What It Means To Be Saved

Summary: After aiding the Republic and the fall of the Empire, you left the Jedi Training Clan on Bogden 3 to help families needing medical care with the call of the Force. You are a kind, warm-hearted healer on Nevarro, treating the citizens and the bounty hunters. Imperial remnants still linger in the shadows, waiting to strike at the perfect moment. Leading you to assist the Mandalorian with rescuing the Child has led you to your biggest adventure yet.

Paring: Din Djarin x Empath!FemReader

Warnings: Violence, Age–Gap Romance, Angst, FLUFF, Eventual SMUT, Swearing, PTSD, Depression, Anxiety, Crying, Suggestive content, Flirting, People pleasing, Flattery, Blood, Blasters, War, Religion References, Aliens, Sith, Character Deaths, One Bed Trope, Awkward

Word Count: 16.7k

A/N: This chapter is hella chonky and you'll probably need to sit down and have a glass of water beside you! All the likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated <3

Song: Glory And Gore by Lorde

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A FEW DAYS LATER…

INSIDE THE RAZOR CREST

OUTER RIM TERRITORIES, 9ABY – SPACE

You and Din share an unspoken understanding about the quiet moments you've spent waking up nestled in each other's warmth. His solid form, a reassuring presence, cradles you as his chest rises and falls beneath your head. In these stolen fragments of time, the world outside the Razor Crest seems distant, the chaos silenced by the serenity you've found in each other's company.

By some miracle of the Force – or perhaps Din's own vigilance – you always manage to stir awake before him, despite your suspicion that he might be granting you that courtesy to spare your blushes. The realization dawns on you that it has been quite a while since you've experienced such close human contact, let alone the comforting embrace of a shared cuddle. It's a sensation you hadn't realized you'd missed until it became a cherished part of your routine.

But reality, as it often does, inches its way back into your consciousness. The little haven you've carved out within the Razor Crest's confines can't shield you from the practicalities of life. Supplies are dwindling, and the pressing need for credits looms over your small makeshift family.

The days begin to pass with a sense of urgency, the atmosphere tinged with an unspoken agreement that the days of sanctuary within the ship's walls are numbered. Conversations drift towards the necessities – plotting courses for potential bounties, discussing potential jobs that would replenish your dwindling resources. Once forged in quiet companionship, your bond with Din evolves to encompass a shared goal.

In the dim light of the Razor Crest, the two of you exchange looks that speak volumes. Beyond ordinary friendship, your connection is proof of your shared will and fortitude. As the spacecraft hurtles towards space, the ship's limitations seem a little tighter, but the sense of togetherness grows.

THE ROOST, SPACE STATION, 9ABY – SPACE

The Razor Crest settles with a gentle hum as it lands within the confines of a space station's hangar bay. The resounding silence is broken by Din's voice, a mixture of vulnerability and the weight of his past. His words carry a gravity that hangs in the air, tinged with regret and the specter of mistakes long gone but never forgotten.

"I… My past isn't something to be proud of," he confesses, his tone heavy with the burden of memories he's carried. His gaze, obscured by the visor of his helmet, nonetheless holds an intensity that demands your attention. The confession hangs between you, a shared secret that bridges the gap between your lives.

Leaving the pilot's chair, Din moves purposefully to stand before you. You tilt your head slightly upward, your eyes meeting his visor, searching for the unspoken emotions that swirl within. At this moment, he bares a part of himself that he's kept hidden beneath the armor, his honesty a raw testament to the trust that's grown between you.

His voice steadies as he continues, determination blending with vulnerability, "We just need to do this job, get the credits, and then we'll leave." The gravity of his words carries a twofold promise – one of opportunity and a chance for redemption.

The backdrop of the space station hangar seems to amplify the intensity of the moment. The interplay of light and shadow casts intricate patterns across the Mandalorian's beskar-clad figure, lending an air of mystery to his confession.

Before your own apprehensions can hold you back, you act on an instinct, a desire to bridge the gap between your worlds. With a gentle determination, you reach out and take his gloved hand into yours. The sensation of his gauntleted fingers against your skin is a paradox of softness and strength, a representation of the layers that encompass him.

Words escape your lips, each syllable carrying a weight that matches his own confession. "I… I've done some things in my past that I wasn't proud of too," you admit, your voice a mixture of vulnerability and quiet strength. Your grip on his hand tightens, a silent promise that you're willing to share your own truths.

A pause lingers, a space where understanding blossoms between you. The dim light within the ship's interior paints your forms in subtle shadows and highlights, lending intimacy to the moment. As his visor-clad gaze meets yours, you see a flicker of surprise and gratitude, emotions that can only be glimpsed in the subtle tilt of his helmet.

"But…" The word slips from your lips, gentle yet resolute as if carrying the weight of your understanding. Your voice, steady and filled with empathy, paints a portrait of shared experiences and a bond forged by the paths you've both walked. "I believe you did what you had to do to survive and for the rest of the remaining Mandalorians to survive."

In that brief moment, the space between you becomes a bridge, built upon the foundation of mutual comprehension. Din's nod is a silent acknowledgment, a testament to the connection that has grown between you, despite the vastness of your differences.

A small, rueful smile tugs at the corner of your lips. His quiet nature has never diminished the strength of his words. "So… any final warnings about Ran and his crew?" you inquire, breaking the tension with a touch of humor.

Din's answer arrives with a cadence of sincerity. "They can be… nosy." A soft snort escapes you, an amused reaction to his mild description. You can't help but remark, "That's extremely polite coming from you."

His response is punctuated by a characteristic nod, a gesture that's become familiar between you two. "Ran thinks he’s untouchable, so he’s an asshole," he elaborates, and you find yourself nodding in agreement. "Go figures," you quip, giving the words a deeper layer of meaning.

The hum of the Razor Crest's engine provides a constant backdrop as you and Din navigate the weight of the situation that lies ahead. The air seems heavier, fraught with unspoken thoughts and concerns. It's in this charged atmosphere that your voice cuts through the tension.

"What are we gonna do with the kid?" you inquire, your words soft but bearing the weight of the uncertainties that loom. Your hands grip the rungs of the ladder as you descend, your gaze never leaving Din's form.

He carries the child in his arms, cradling the little being with a tenderness that belies his formidable armor. There's a certain grace in his movements, a silent understanding of the fragility of the life he now holds. He approaches the small hammock bunk, a designated safe haven within the Razor Crest. Carefully, he places the child inside and gently shuts the door, his actions a silent promise of protection.

"For now, he can stay in there," Din's voice is measured, and thoughtful, as he addresses your query. "But I don't think they'd hurt him if they see him."

The weight of his words settles in the air, a bittersweet reassurance in the face of the unknown. You lick your lips, a nervous tic, your eyes fixed on the little hammock bunk that now cradles the child. The responsibility feels heavy, a burden shared between you and Din.

"Okay," you say, your tone a mix of resignation and resolve. It's a term that encapsulates your awareness of the problems that lie ahead, as well as the sacrifices you're both ready to make to protect the safety of the innocent life that has been entwined with your path.

As you stand in the silent nooks of the Razor Crest, the link you have with Din is strengthened by the unseen pledges you've made to protect, lead, and persist in the face of hardship.

Stepping off the Razor Crest, you find yourself walking in tandem with Din, your steps synchronized as you take in the bustling surroundings of the space hub. The air hums with activity and curious gazes follow the two of you as you navigate through the crowd, a sense of purpose guiding your path.

The voice of an old man cuts through the ambient noise, drawing your attention. His grey beard gives him a distinguished air as he addresses Din, his nickname "Mando" echoing in the air. You remain silent, remembering the need for discretion in front of outsiders. Din acknowledges the man's greeting with a nod, "Ran."

There is a lingering sense of familiarity between them, the type that comes from having experienced the same things in a world full of unknowns. Unspoken bonds that go beyond words are formed when they shake hands. However, Ran notices your presence and turns to face you, a look of interest on his face. You catch his eyes and, in an act of politeness, you coolly and detachedly say your initial name. His handshake is stiff and courteous, masking his acute eye for detail.

With a knowing twinkle in his eyes, Din starts to lead the way through the busy space station, and Ran's focus returns to him. Your path is accompanied by the steady clatter of footfall, which blends with the distant hum of equipment.

His comments are infused with a curious familiarity that reflects the web of relationships that ties people together in this uncertain world.

"You know, to be honest, I was a little surprised when you reached out to me. You know, 'cause I... I hear things. Like, maybe things between you and the Guild aren't workin' out," Ran remarks, his voice a mixture of inquiry and understanding. Din's response is succinct, a testament to his resilience, "I'll be fine."

Ran's nonchalant shrug and raised hands speak of a tacit acceptance of the enigmatic Mandalorian way. The undercurrent of trust that exists between them is palpable, encapsulated in a simple phrase: "Okay. Well, you know the policy. No questions." As the trio continues to navigate the space hub, Ran extends his hospitality, a gesture that holds a promise beyond words. "And you, you're welcome back here anytime," he adds, the sentiment echoing in the air like a secret promise of mutual respect.

In the midst of the space hub's bustling activity, Ran's voice cuts through the ambient noise, his words directed at both you and Din. The undertone of urgency and intrigue colors his speech, a blend of desperation and determination. "Yeah, one of our associates ran afoul of some competitors and got himself caught. So, I'm puttin' together a crew to spring him," Ran's words hold a weight that hangs in the air, thick with unspoken implications. His gaze shifts between you and Din, assessing your potential contribution. "It's a six-person job. I got four."

As his smug gaze rests upon you and Din, the corners of his mouth curl with self-satisfied confidence. The challenge is clear in his expression, "All I need is the ride, and you brought it."

Din's response filters through his helmet's modulator, his words tinged with a hardness that echoes his internal conflict, "The ship wasn't part of the deal."

Ran's sneer is unwavering, and he fixes a cold determination in Din's vizor. He responds, "Well, the Crest is the only reason I let you back in here," and the tension between them is evident. Din's head tilts slightly, his silence revealing a boiling intensity beneath the cool exterior. A tempest brews within him, the turmoil and frustration reflected in the vibrant aura swirling around him. Deep maroon intermingles with silver, a dance of emotions that transcends words.

Your gaze shifts between Din and Ran, capturing the clash of energies that defines this moment. Ran's aura shimmers in shades of yellow and black, a discordant mixture that carries the essence of deceit, betrayal, and a lingering hint of cowardice. The tension escalates, your own emotions echoing Din's as you grit your teeth in the face of Ran's audacity.

The conversation continues, with Ran's laughter tinged with mockery as he reads Din's expression: "What's the look? Is that gratitude? Uh-huh. I think it is." As he walks away down the metal bridge, you and Din are left with no choice but to continue along the path of necessity, which is paved with the ethical complexities of a universe that necessitates compromise.

Resigned to the circumstances, Ran orchestrates the introduction, pulling you both deeper into the enigmatic weave of this operation. His words take on a certain gravity, introducing you to a bald human male associated with a sharp, unyielding gaze. "Hey, Mayfeld."

The man, Mayfeld, turns his gaze toward Ran's voice, his features displaying a sense of readiness. "Yeah?" he responds, a note of curiosity tinging his tone. His attention shifts to you and Din as Ran's hand gestures towards you both, drawing you into the center of this web of intrigue. "This is Mando," Ran introduces with a significant pause, a pause heavy with the weight of their shared history. "The guy I was tellin' you about, and his girl. We used to do jobs way back when."

The heat creeps into your cheeks as Ran's words hit the mark, your instincts urging you to clarify the situation. But before you can interject, Din's touch on your wrist reassures you, his grip light yet firm. It's a subtle reminder to keep your emotions in check, to let the past remain shrouded in enigmatic ambiguity. His unspoken guidance encourages silence, a lesson you've learned to read between the lines. You nod and Din releases your wrist gently.

As the three of you stand in the midst of this orchestrated reunion, Mayfeld's entrance into the scene carries an aura of skepticism. His deliberate and measured steps lead him towards you and Din, his gaze sharp and analytical. The hint of doubt lingers in his tone as he questions, "This is the guy?"

Ran, the orchestrator of this nostalgic rendezvous, affirms Mayfeld's query with a nod, a nostalgic grin touching his lips. "Yeah, we were all young, tryin' to make a name for ourselves." A chuckle dances in his voice, the echo of bygone days resonating in the present. The story he spins is one of camaraderie and shared ventures, anchored in a memory-rich past. "Yeah, but runnin' with a Mandalorian, that was… That brought us some reputation."

Mayfeld's curiosity takes a turn, his gaze settling on Din as if assessing the truth behind the legend. A subtle inclination of his chin signals his unvoiced inquiry about Din's stake in this shared history. Ran, ever the raconteur, takes the cue and indulges Mayfeld's curiosity, his laughter weaving through the words. "Oh, yeah? What did he get out of it?"

Ran's gaze shifts towards Din, a glint of amusement lighting his eyes as he recalls a past conversation. The air remains still, Din holding his ground, refusing to be drawn into the narrative. Yet, Ran plays his part with gleeful abandon, delivering Din's retort as if it were a punchline to a cosmic joke. "Target practice. Target practice! We did some crazy stuff, didn't we?" The laughter that follows carries a tinge of nostalgia, a reflection of a past that shaped the present.

In the midst of this conversation, your gaze shifts to Din's helmeted face in a quiet effort to uncover any unsaid feelings hiding under the stern demeanor. The dialogue is punctuated by Din's voice, which is unperturbed and devoid of humor, lending the remembrance a somber tone. His words carry weight, a witness to the passage of time and the change it brings, "That was a long time ago."

In the air heavy with the weight of shared history and unspoken truths, Ran's words hang like a pivotal decision. His gaze shifts between you, Din, and Mayfeld, each word laced with implications of past and present. "Well… Well, I don't go out anymore. You understand?" His tone carries the weight of a life chosen, of paths diverging. The mantle of leadership, however temporary, shifts to Mayfeld as Ran continues, "So, uh, Mayfeld, he's gonna run point on this job. If he says it, it's like it's comin' from me. You good with that?"

Din's response is a hushed symphony of assertiveness. His gaze, unwavering and unyielding, locks onto Mayfeld. The unspoken challenge is palpable as he states, "You tell me." The encounter holds an undertone of energy, a battle of wits that crosses words.

Ran's laughter cuts through the tension, a wistful echo of times long gone. "You haven't changed one bit." The shared history he refers to is as much a testament to continuity as it is to change. Mayfeld's reaction, however, is one of stark contrast. "Yeah, well, things have changed around here."

The spotlight shifts to Mayfeld, his role in this unfolding narrative becoming clearer. Ran's affirmation of his prowess echoes through the space. "Yeah, well, Mayfeld, he's… He's one of the best triggermen I've ever seen." But the sentiment is punctuated with an air of irony, as Din interjects, "That's not saying much." Their talk has a hint of rapport to it, a familiarity formed from past experiences.

However, Mayfeld's response is swift, his tone sharp and defensive. "I wasn't a stormtrooper, wiseass." Din's silence in the face of this retort speaks volumes, while you, raising an eyebrow in response, silently acknowledge the rebuff. Mayfeld's footsteps carry him away, his demeanor a blend of defiance and self-assuredness.

“Don't take long, does it?” Ran says while chuckling, walking towards Mayfeld with you and Din having no choice but to follow. As Mayfeld and the rest of you walk towards the Crest, Mayfeld comments, “Razor Crest? I can't believe that thing can fly. Looks like a Canto Bight slot machine.”

The air becomes thick with unspoken tensions, like an electric charge pulsating just beneath the surface. Your breaths come quicker, shallower, and your throat feels like it's constricting with every beat of your heart. The anger that simmers within you threatens to erupt, a caustic mix of frustration and indignation. Your fingers clench around the fabric of your clothes as if holding onto that tangible thread of restraint is the only thing preventing the floodgates from opening. The darkness gathers at the edges of your consciousness, the urge to react in kind to their dismissive attitude and pointed jabs a fierce battle against your self-control. It's a storm brewing, fierce and furious.

In the midst of this internal tempest, Mayfeld's words resonate like distant echoes, his casual explanations drifting in as if from another world. “The good-lookin' fellow there with the horns, that's Burg.” His gesture towards the red-skinned Devaronian, whose presence seems almost trivial amidst the maelstrom of emotions raging within you, barely registers.

Burg, seemingly unaffected by the tension, sets down a crate and then approaches Din. The casualness of his movements juxtaposes the turmoil that churns within you. Meanwhile, Mayfeld's words carry on, delivered with a nonchalant tone that feels like salt on a wound, “This may surprise you, but he's our muscle.” The nonchalant disclosure of Burg's role feels like a direct challenge, a deliberate attempt to provoke a reaction.

As they carry on, your grip on your clothes remains steadfast, the tension building as if holding a dam against the surge of your emotions. Every fiber of your being yearns to vent, to express the frustration building inside you, but you hold firm, teeth gritted, unwilling to let their provocation break through your defenses. The darkness and the anger roil within, yet you maintain a fragile equilibrium, aware that giving in now would only feed into their perception of you.

Burg's gruff voice rings through the air, a snarl underlining his words as he positions himself squarely in front of Din, his demeanor dripping with mockery, “So, this is a Mandalorian.” His eyes gleam with a taunting challenge as he moves around Din, his voice dripping with condescension, “I thought they'd be bigger.”

The Devaronian's disdainful circling doesn't go unnoticed, and the tension in the air grows palpable, the invisible threads of animosity weaving tighter around the group.

As Mayfeld's gesture draws your attention, your gaze shifts to the approaching Q9-0 droid, its awkward waddle reminiscent of an overgrown insect. “Droid's name is Zero,” Mayfeld announces matter-of-factly, his words carrying a casual tone that contrasts sharply with the mixed emotions swirling within you.

Turning your attention to Din, you catch the subtle shift in his posture, a minute tensing of his shoulders that belies his true feelings. You've come to know him well enough to discern his unease, and the presence of the droid clearly isn't sitting well with him. You silently make a mental note to broach the subject later, knowing that whatever history he has with droids is undoubtedly a complex one.

The atmosphere thickens with an undercurrent of resentment, an indignant fire kindling within you as Burg's mockery and Mayfeld's offhanded comments chip away at your patience. Beneath the calm facade, you're fighting to uphold, a storm brews, a visceral reaction against the selfishness and disrespect you witness. Your internal switch is flipped, your very core recoiling from the sight of someone deliberately attempting to provoke a good and faithful person like Din.

Din's voice cuts through the air with a sharp edge, his skepticism, "I thought you said you had four." His words hang for a moment, and right on cue, a female voice, smooth as silk and laced with a teasing edge, emerges from behind you two, "He does."

Both you and Din pivot around to face the source of the voice, your eyes landing on a charismatic purple-skinned Twi'lek. Her lithe movements exude confidence as she gracefully closes the distance between her and Din, her hips swaying in a rhythm that mirrors the sway of her lekku.

"Hello, Mando," she purrs, her tone oozing with familiarity.

Din’s response is curt, his words void of any semblance of warmth, "Xi’an."

The Twi'lek's demeanor shifts in a flash as she lunges, the knife she had been casually twirling in her fingers finding its place against Din's throat. Despite the sudden threat, Din remains unfazed, his visage a portrait of unyielding calm in the face of danger.

Beside him, you react instinctively, your fingers curling around the hilt of your saber, its reassuring weight grounding you. Dark thoughts whisper in the corners of your mind, urging you to react more aggressively, but you quell them with an effort. Your focus sharpens, your senses heightening as you prepare for any outcome.

With a venomous hiss, Xi'an's words slice through the air, her intent clear and unapologetic, "Tell me why I shouldn't cut you down where you stand?" The air becomes charged with tension, her blade a mere breath away from making contact.

Din's retort drips with dryness, his voice cutting through the laughter that ensues, the sarcasm a protective shield he wears, “Nice to see you, too.” Amidst the collective mirth, you and Din remain the exceptions, your guard firmly in place.

Xi’an's purring words snake through the air, a mix of familiarity and provocation, as her knife traces a path along the beskar armor adorning Din's frame. Her gaze narrows, evaluating him with a mixture of appraisal and something more. “This is shiny,” she remarks, her tone almost admiring. A soft, almost mischievous click of her tongue follows, "You wear it well."

While the others seem to find amusement in the reunion, your eyes roll almost involuntarily. The jealousy that simmers within you is undeniable, but you push it aside, focusing on the situation at hand. A flash of protective instinct courses through your veins as Xi’an's advances intensify.

Unwilling to stand by, you interpose yourself between Din and Xi’an, employing a shove to dislodge her presence. Your voice is firm, cutting through the tension, "Alright, back off."

Xi'an's eyes narrow further, her gaze now entirely fixated on you, as if sizing you up. Her lips curl into a wicked smile, and she utters words designed to sting, each syllable laced with a calculated venom, "Well, well, look at this... Mando's new pet. Guess he got tired of real warriors and settled for a stray." The derisive sneer in her voice is palpable, a cutting reminder of her history with Din, meant to hit you where it hurts the most.

You feel the urge to lunge forward, ready to let loose your own tirade, Din's arm wraps around your waist, pulling you closer to his solid frame. You could almost feel his warm breath ghost over your ear as he speaks softly, his voice a soothing balm, "Calm down, cyar'ika. She’s not worth it."

Mayfeld's bemused gaze oscillates between the three of you, his voice laced with humor as he suggests, “Do we need to leave the room or something?”

In response, Ran chimes in with a hint of sardonic nostalgia, revealing more about Xi’an's feelings, “Well, Xi'an's been a little heartbroken since Mando left our group.” Mayfeld takes the opportunity to mockingly address her, “Aw. You gonna be okay, sweetheart?”

Xi'an's smile takes on a flirtatious edge, her eyes locking onto Din's with an almost predatory allure. "Oh, I'm all business now," she purrs, her voice dripping with suggestion. "Learned from the best." Her deliberate fluttering of lashes at Din feels like a challenge to your patience.

A low growl rumbles in your throat, a guttural response to the surge of possessive anger and jealousy welling up within you. Your body tenses, ready to spring forward, but Din's arms wrap around your waist with a reassuring yet firm hold, anchoring you to his front. His presence is a calming force, a reminder that your emotions must be tempered, even in the face of such provocation.

Ran's authoritative voice cuts through the charged atmosphere, acting as a mediator between the tension that hung thick in the air. "All right, lovebirds. Break it up till you get on the ship," he commands, herding the rest of the group to move along. As Xi'an saunters away, her lingering wink at Din feels like a final provocation, a reminder of the emotions that had flared so intensely.

Your chest rises and falls with rapid breaths, the storm of emotions still swirling within you. Din's voice, calm and even, pierces through the turmoil. "You're usually not this violent," he remarks, his words acting as an anchor that grounds you in the present.

His statement triggers a moment of clarity, snapping you back to yourself. Blinking, you shake off the remnants of your reaction. Din's firm hold on your waist and his touch is a constant reassurance, grounding you further. Your voice wavers as you begin to speak, "Oh, I…"

Din guides you to face him, his hands on your hips inviting you to meet his gaze. Your gaze falls momentarily to his beskar chest plate, your cheeks flushing slightly with embarrassment. His gloved hands gently lift your chin, compelling you to look up at him through the vizor. Stammering, you try to explain, "I… I'm sorry. I don't know what came over me. I…"

His response is measured, his words carrying a depth of sincerity. "Don't apologize. I appreciated it," he admits, his admission causing a soft flutter within you. A pause follows Din, searching for the right words amidst the unspoken emotions. "No one has ever… defended me before. It… it felt nice."

The sincerity in your voice strikes a chord within him, and your words resonate in the charged air. Your eyes widen as you fully grasp the impact of your defense. "I didn't like what they were saying to you," you confess, your tone a blend of protectiveness and empathy that echoes through the space between you. "They were being mean, and you didn't—don't deserve that. Ever." Your honesty hangs in the air, tangible and raw, forging an unspoken bond between you that seems to deepen with every uttered word.

Din's helmeted gaze remains steady on you, his silent gratitude is evident. "This is the Way," he responds, a testament to the Mandalorian code governing his actions. You offer him a small smile, your affection and support unwavering. Gently, you cup the side of his helmet, your touch tender and laden with unspoken emotions. Din's gloved hand meets yours on his helmet, his fingers gently brushing against your wrist.

The weight of the upcoming mission and the necessity to keep up with Ran and the rest of the team tug at your consciousness as you slowly start to separate. Even though the moment may have ended, the words said to remain in the air as a tacit pledge of sympathy and support that will get you through the difficulties ahead.

The atmosphere grows tense as Mayfeld's holographic display illuminates the room, depicting the fortified transport ship. His voice is matter-of-fact as he lays out the plan, "So, the package is being moved on a fortified transport ship. We got a limited window to board, find our friend, get him out of there before they make their jump."

Your brows furrow in contemplation, a cascade of thoughts racing through your mind. Beside you, Din vocalizes the concern that had crossed your thoughts, addressing the rest of the group, "That's a New Republic prison ship. Your man wasn't taken by a rival syndicate. He was arrested."

With a smug grin, Mayfeld leans in over the table, his confidence undaunted, "So what?"

Burg's gruff grunt resonates with the sense of practicality that seems to underpin the group's operations. Ran's casual shrug further emphasizes the notion that business often transcends the nature of the task, as he remarks, "A job is a job."

Din's voice, laced with a tangible caution, interjects, "That's a max security transport, and we're not looking for that kind of heat." Yet Ran dismisses his apprehension with a casual wave, as if the potential risks were of no concern, countering, "Well, neither are we. So just don't mess up."

Xi'an's presence nears Din, her calculated steps revealing a self-assuredness that matches her words. Her sharp teeth gleam in the dim light as she inquires, her voice both playful and provoking, "The good news for you is the ship is manned by droids. Still hate the machines, Mando?"

The familiar hum of the Razor Crest's engines fills the hangar bay as the droid Zero returns from his systems check, his mechanical voice projecting a sense of detachment, "Despite recent modifications, the ship is still quite a mess. The power lines are leaking, the navigation is intermittent, and the hyperdrive is only operating at 67.3% efficiency. We have much better ships. Why are we using this one?"

Ran, seemingly unfazed by the droid's assessment, offers a response with a trace of confidence, "'Cause the Razor Crest is off the old Imperial and the New Republic grid. It's a ghost." Mayfeld chimes in, elaborating on the strategic choice, "Yeah, and we need a ship that can get close enough to jam New Republic code."

The hologram shifts under Mayfeld's command, revealing their plan for entry. He gestures towards the projection, explaining, "So, when we drop out of hyperspace here, if we immediately bank into this kind of attitude, we should be right in their blind spot, which will give us just enough time for your ship to scramble our signal."

Din, ever the pragmatist, voices his doubts, "It's not possible. Even for the Crest." Ran nods towards the droid, their solution to the challenge, "That's why he's flyin'."

Mayfeld's laughter resonates through the hangar as he heads inside the ship, leaving the group to prepare. Ran's attention shifts to Din, a knowing look in his eyes as he remarks, "Mando, I know you're a pretty good pilot, but we need you on the trigger. Not on the wheel."

Zero's articulated fingers snap, a gesture that coincides with its proclamation, "Don't worry, Mandalorian. My response time is quicker than organics. And I'm smarter, too."

Ran dismisses the droid with a shooing motion, a wry smile playing on his lips, "All right. I... Yeah. That's good." As Zero boards the Crest, Ran turns his gaze to both you and Din, his tone shifting slightly, "Forgive the programming. He's a little rough around the edges. But he is the best."

Din, ever cautious, questions the droid's reliability, "How can you trust it?"

Ran's response carries a touch of irony, "You know me, Mando. I don't trust anybody." As you and Din embark onto the ship, positioned by the ramp, ready to seal it, Ran's tone lightens, his words tinged with nostalgia, "Just like the good old days, Mando. Huh?"

With a decisive press of a button, Din activates the mechanism, causing the ship's ramp to ascend smoothly. The low hum of the ship's engines blends with a soft hiss as the Razor Crest gracefully disengages from the space station.

THE RAZOR CREST, 9ABY – SPACE

Both you and Din observe Zero, the droid, diligently operating the flight computer, his metallic fingers deftly navigating the hyperspace calculations. "Calculations complete. Jumping to hyperspace now. Feel free to join the others. I will handle it from here," Zero announces, his mechanical voice devoid of any emotion.

With limited options, you leave the flight deck, descending the ladder into the cargo hold, Din following suit. As you hop down, your eyes catch Burg prying open Din's gun cabinet. A glance at Din prompts him to react swiftly, a press of a button on his bracer causing the cabinet doors to snap shut, securing his weaponry.

Burg's displeasure is evident, and he attempts to engage the mechanism leading to the child's safe room. Din's hand clamps around Burg's wrist, a clear message that snooping around his possessions is not tolerated. Burg emits a low growl, his discomfort evident. Mayfeld intervenes, playing the role of a referee, his voice a soothing note amidst the tension. "Hey, hey, hey. Okay. Okay. Okay, I get it. I'm a little particular about my personal space, too. So, let's just do this job. We get in, we get out, and you don't have to see our faces anymore."

Burg's inquiry breaks the silence, “Someone tell me why we even need a Mandalorian,” his skepticism directed at Din's presence. You instinctively move closer to Din's side as Burg's gaze pierces. Mayfeld responds with a mixture of fact and myth, "Well, apparently they're the greatest warriors in the galaxy. So they say."

The snide remark follows, "Then why are they all dead?" Din remains unfazed by the jibe, his silence serving as a retort that speaks volumes. Laughter ensues amongst the group, but beneath your calm exterior, the tempest of your suppressed anger churns like waves against a shore.

Intrigued, Mayfeld presses on, his curiosity directed at Din's abilities, "Well, you flew with him, Xi'an. Is he as good as they say?"

Xi'an's smile is cunning as she balances a knife on her fingertip, her gaze locked onto Din. "Ask him about the job on Alzoc III."

Your attention swivels towards Din, his response anticipated. He keeps it succinct, "I did what I had to."

Xi'an's laughter carries a knowing edge as she playfully points her knife at Din, her eyes narrowing with a calculated intensity. "Oh, but you liked it. See, I know who you really are."

Your brows furrow, doubts creeping in as you ponder whether you truly knew the depths of Din's character. Fault lines tremble underneath your glass house, but you will yourself to push it down, trying your best not to let it show across your face.

"He never takes off the helmet?" Mayfeld questions, his curiosity apparent in his tone. Xi'an, in response, mockingly places a hand over her chest, her fist clenched in a mock salute as she echoes, "This is the Way."

The urge to grind your teeth is nearly overpowering, your jaw clenching as your eyes narrow at Xi'an's display.

"I wonder what you look like under there. Maybe he's a Gungan. Is that why yousa don't wanna show your face?" Mayfeld's taunt cuts through the air, a palpable jeer aimed at Din.

They all guffaw at that and by this point, the crew seems intent on testing your limits. Din remains adept at maintaining a façade of detachment, but for you, their provocations are as clear as day. Their mocking tones, their envy, and the swirl of colors in their auras – the varying shades of yellow, black, and red – are almost perceptible.

Mayfeld's inquiry hangs in the air like a challenge, laced with a touch of mockery. "You ever seen his face?" he questions Xi'an, his tone a mix of curiosity and amusement.

Xi'an's response is teasing and coy, as if she's savoring a well-kept secret. Her lips curl into a knowing smile as she softly gasps before her words come forth, "A lady never tells."

Mayfeld's smugness only grows, his eyes locking onto Din, determined to push his buttons. "Aw. Come on, Mando. We all gotta trust each other here," he goads, leaning into the provocation. "You gotta show us somethin'."

You and Din maintain your stoic stance, your collective resolve unyielding. Yet, Mayfeld remains relentless, his voice dripping with taunting insistence. "Come on. Just lift the helmet up. Come on. Let's all see your eyes."

A simmering fuse inside you, long-held but now ignited, transforms into a tempest of emotions. It's as if crashing waves of pitch black and pale blue swirl within your core, a tumultuous sea that surges and roars. The spark of this intense turmoil travels down the wire of your patience, each second counting down to the impending explosion of pent-up anger. The echo of this emotional turbulence reverberates through your being, akin to a widening equator, traversing a landscape of suppressed frustrations. The crescendo of dissonance builds, orchestrating your emotions into a fevered symphony, each note tuning itself with rapid intensity. In that charged moment, the threads of your self-control fray, and the brewing storm inside inches ever closer to release.

Burg goes up and positions himself in front of Din, saying, "I'll do it," clearly intending to remove Din's helmet.

As though a switch has been flipped, the storm within you roars to life. A torrent of dark thoughts, rage, and frustration surges to the surface. You're caught in a whirlwind of emotion, your surroundings narrowing into a tunnel vision. In this maelstrom, your actions become almost instinctual, driven by an overwhelming tide of intense feeling.

In the blink of an eye, you position yourself protectively in front of Din. Your arm extends in a swift and assertive motion, fingers flexed like the claws of a predator. Burg's imposing figure is abruptly brought down to his knees, a desperate struggle for breath filling the air. Your own breathing is labored, heavy with the rush of power coursing through you. The storm of emotions within has transformed into a tempest of action.

Mayfeld and Xi'an react swiftly, moving to intervene, but your focus remains unyielding. Your other arm extends, palm outstretched, fingers acting as a conduit for the Force. A powerful surge of energy emanates from you, forcefully pushing both Mayfeld and Xi'an back, slamming them against the opposite end of the cargo hold. Your control over the Force is unwavering, fueled by the potent mixture of emotions swirling within you.

However, amid this whirlwind of power and action, a crucial detail slips your notice. In his flailing struggle, Burg accidentally triggers a compartment to open, its contents exposed. Within that compartment lies the Child, vulnerable and exposed, an unintended consequence of the chaotic scene unfolding around you.

A shock of realization courses through you, widening your eyes as the gravity of the situation hits you like a physical blow. In that split second, your grip on Burg relinquishes its hold, and he staggers forward, struggling to regain his breath. Your rapid step back inadvertently leads you to collide with Din's solid beskar-clad chest. The sudden impact jars you, but it's the overwhelming surge of fear from within that renders you momentarily speechless.

The atmosphere in the cargo hold becomes almost suffocatingly dense, each heartbeat seemingly echoing in the quiet aftermath of your impulsive action. Swallowing hard, you wrestle with the knot of anxiety that's taken residence in your throat. From where you stand, you can see Mayfeld and Xi’an pulling themselves up from the floor, their attention now fixed on the exposed compartment.

With a mix of curiosity and disbelief, Mayfeld's voice breaks the silence, "Whoa! What is that? You get lonely up here, buddy? Huh?" His gaze shifts to you and Din, his words taking on a taunting edge, "Wait a minute. Did you two make that? Huh?"

A pointed raise of your eyebrows is your retort, your fury simmering just beneath the surface. Mayfeld's gaze meets yours, and his words drip with a mixture of sarcasm and insinuation, "A Mandalorian and a Jedi, who knew…"

Your nostrils flare as your teeth grind together, a flare of defiance emanating from you. You respond in a tone that holds both irritation and rejection, "I am no Jedi."

Mayfeld doesn't miss a beat, his taunting tone persisting, "What is it, like a pet or somethin'?"

Din's voice, soft but firm, emerges from behind you, "Yeah. Something like that."

Xi’an interjects, her words loaded with provocation, her gaze alternating between you and Din, "Didn't take you for the type. Maybe that code of yours has made you soft."

A mirthless chuckle escapes Mayfeld as he comments, his tone carrying a hint of indifference, "Me, I was never really into pets. Yeah, I didn't have the temperament. Patience, you know? I mean, I tried, but never worked out."

Your jaw remains clenched, your patience wearing thin as Mayfeld's words scrape at your nerves. And then, his words take an unsettling turn, his tone turning almost casual as he lifts the Child in his arms, "But I'm thinkin' maybe I'll try again with this little fella. Huh?"

The sight of him holding the Child triggers an instinctual protectiveness within you. Your voice is a low, warning growl, "Put a single scratch on him and I will make sure you beg for mercy." The intensity in your tone leaves no room for doubt – this is not an idle threat.

"Dropping out of hyperspace now."

The transition from hyperspace to real space is abrupt, the jolt reverberating through the Razor Crest as it emerges above the New Republic prison ship. The ship executes a sharp, evasive maneuver, causing its occupants to stagger; the Child, unfortunately, loses balance and falls, his tiny voice emitting a startled cry.

“Commencing final approach, now. Cloaking signal, now.”

Reacting swiftly, you and Din reach for the Child, his cries driving you into immediate action. With careful hands, Din gathers the child, comforting him as he places him back into his cot.

Through the intercom, Zero's voice resounds, "Engaging coupling now. Coupling confirmed. We are down. And relax. Commence extraction now."

As the ship gently rests on the prison ship's hull, Din's presence seems to work like magic on the Child. His soothing coos become a balm for the little one's nerves, casting a brief moment of serenity amidst the intensity of the operation.

“Useless droid didn't even give us a proper countdown,” Xi’an hisses in annoyance, her frustration palpable in the tense air. Meanwhile, Burg unceremoniously discards the boxes containing their equipment, his actions reflecting his impatience.

“Z, are you sure they can't see us?” Mayfeld queries, holding a comlink in his hand, his tone edged with caution. Zero's mechanical voice responds, “The Razor Crest is scrambling our signature, and I am navigating within the prison system. It's remarkable that this gunship managed to evade Empire capture.”

With a sense of purpose, Mayfeld asserts, “All right, we've got a job to do. Mando, you're up.” In response, Din promptly moves to open a hatch beneath the Razor Crest, creating an entry point into the New Republic prison ship.

A moment of hesitation lingers as the crew stands on the precipice of action. Mayfeld's uncertainty is vocalized as he scans the group, questioning, “It's me?” His inquiry is met with Burg's laconic response, “Always you.”

Mayfeld takes the lead, descending into the shadows of the New Republic prison ship, deftly avoiding the watchful gaze of several R1 Security Droids. With cautious steps, Xi’an and Burg follow suit, as they navigate through the unfamiliar terrain. In the quiet that ensues, you and Din remain on the Razor Crest's threshold, the weight of your shared decision hanging in the air. A subtle shake of your head signals your reluctance, yet you can sense Din's gaze on you, a silent encouragement. His eyes shift from you to the door concealing the Child, and you exhale slowly, striving to regain your composure. Steeling yourself, you follow Din's lead, your footfalls echoing as you make your descent from the ship's ladder, the echoes of your internal turmoil blending with the gravity of the mission at hand.

NEW REPUBLIC CORRECTIONAL TRANSPORT, 9ABY – SPACE

The urgency in the air is palpable as Mayfeld briefs the group, a sense of impending danger hanging over the mission. "All right, we're on the clock. When we engage those droids, they're gonna be all over us," Mayfeld's words hold a weight of caution. Din's response is curt and straightforward, his voice a monotone that resonates with experience, "I know the drill."

Amid the tension, the intercom crackles to life, and Zero's mechanical voice chimes in through Mayfeld's comlink, his words reverberating with calculated precision, "Bio trackers activated. I've got eyes."

Mayfeld's nod is an unspoken acknowledgment of the information as he addresses the team, with a sense of determination in his demeanor. "All right, let's go."

Navigating the ship's brightly lit corridors, blasters are held at the ready by the crew, and your fingers find the familiar grip of your lightsaber hilt. The tense atmosphere is punctuated by the presence of various humanoid and alien prisoners, their watchful eyes trailing the group as they pass. Among them, a few Imperial officers cast lingering glances, their scrutiny prompting a quiet mutter from Din, "I don't like this." The collective unease amplifies the gravity of the mission, each step forward a reminder of the risks involved.

Xi’an's laughter is a brief, sharp sound that cuts through the tense ambiance, her voice dripping with familiarity as she teases, "You always were paranoid."

Mayfeld seizes the opportunity to playfully prod further, his voice laced with a smug undertone as he seeks confirmation, "Is that true, Mando? Were you always paranoid?"

You let out an audible sigh that sounds both frustrated and impatient. You respond to the banter with a noticeable expression of irritation as your eyes roll. The gravity of the circumstance appears to heighten your annoyance as you respond, "Were you born stupid or did you take lessons?”

A sudden growl from an alien prisoner sends a jolt through the group, causing Mayfeld to practically leap in surprise. Xi’an responds with a hiss that sounds almost maniacal, her readiness for confrontation evident. Amidst the tension, Zero's voice breaks through the commotion, guiding the crew: “Approaching control room. Make a left at the next juncture.”

Following the instructions, you round the corner and continue to move with the group. Just as you do, an MSE-6 series repair droid scurries into view. Burg's reaction is almost comically misaligned with the situation as he grunts and coos, “What? It's just a little mousey. Come here, little mousey.”

Mayfeld, seemingly trying to prevent further chaos, calls after Burg, but it's too late – Burg takes a shot, hitting the droid. The clashing reactions within the group only add to the chaotic atmosphere, and you can't help but rub your temple in frustration.

And as if on cue, the unexpected appearance of four N5 sentry droids turns the situation from bad to worse. The droids immediately detect the intrusion, their metallic voices chiming, “Intruder alert. Open fire.” Seeking cover, you all scatter, taking refuge behind the edges of the corridor as blaster fire erupts around you.

“We're too exposed here,” Xi’an warns urgently, her words strained amidst the chaotic onslaught of blaster fire. Mayfeld's response is grimly practical, highlighting the stakes: “If they get a signal out, it's not gonna matter.”

“Mando, let's go! You're supposed to be somethin' special,” Mayfeld shouts, the desperation in his voice evident. With all eyes turning to where Din had been, it's undeniable – he's disappeared. Xi’an's frustration grows into a low, threatening growl while Mayfeld's accusation echoes, “I knew it. I knew it!”

Just as doubt attempts to creep in, a sight catches your eye – a flash of beskar armor and the glint of a helmet in the fray. Relief courses through you as Din re-emerges, his appearance timed perfectly with an ambush. The Mandalorian strikes from behind, moving with calculated efficiency.

The first droid falls as Din deftly slices its foot with a vibro-knife, sending it crashing to the ground. A precise shot takes down another droid, demonstrating his unmatched marksmanship. Amidst the chaos, one of the droids manages to grab Din, hurling him against a cell door. The ensuing brawl is visceral, a testament to Din's unyielding determination. Blow after blow, he fights to break free from the droid's grasp.

In a daring move, the Mandalorian employs his whipcord, toppling yet another droid with its swift precision. Unwavering, he rips off the droid's head, further thinning their opposition. Din's resourcefulness shines as he employs his flamethrower, searing the circuits of one droid before executing a pinpoint shot to the head of the fourth.

However, the conflict is far from ending. You approach the conflict beside Din, a force to be reckoned with, as you intuitively ignite your purple lightsaber, a vibrant arc of energy. Together, you navigate the frantic dance of droid advances and blaster fire. You attack the mechanical foes one by one with careful, calculated blows that dance between light and darkness.

Din steps in at just the right time, his blaster rounds precisely timed to shut off the security droid's targeting sensors as it rushes for you. The threat posed by the robot is removed when it falls. The two of you continue your onslaught as the momentum of the fight shifts in your favor. Your perfect synchronization of fighting skill plows through the remaining foes.

Amidst the chaos of battle, Mayfeld and his companions become mere spectators as the prisoners roar in exultation, their jubilant cries blending into a cacophony of alien languages. The fallen droids bear testament to your combined might, the remnants of the skirmish a testament to your prowess. 

As the adrenaline-laden air gradually subsides, your attention shifts, your gaze drawn like a magnet to Din. The aftermath casts a warm, reddish hue over the scene, and his form is etched in the ambience, beskar-clad and formidable. His chest rises and falls with each deliberate breath, the gentle rhythm of his respiration a contrast to the chaos that surrounded you moments ago. Your heart flutters at the sight, your breath quickening in response.

His figure exudes a primal magnetism, a silent declaration of power and control. The beskar plates that encase him rise and fall with his breathing, sculpting his form in an almost mesmerizing cadence. Through the visor of his helmet, your gaze meets his, an unseen connection forged in that charged moment. The emotions roiling beneath your surface rise to the fore, amplified by the intensity of the battle and the closeness of your partnership.

Within the confines of your heart, a tempestuous fire rages, drawn to his enigmatic energy like a moth to a flame. His presence is a captivating constellation, a map of stars that navigates your thoughts. In his being, you've unearthed a revelation – a revelation that he's as boundless and beguiling as the universe itself, a force that holds you captive in its gravitational pull.

As the echoes of combat fade and the prisoners' cheers meld with the gentle hum of the ship, you remain rooted in the moment. Your feelings swell, words unspoken but deeply felt, an electric current that courses between you and Din. The universe has painted this canvas of fate, intertwining your paths in ways that defy explanation.

Mayfeld's voice breaks the momentary spell, “Make sure you clean up your mess,” pulling you from the intense gaze you had shared with Din. As the group begins to move away, you find yourself still standing amidst the resonances of the fight, the rush of adrenaline leaving your chest heaving with each breath. The aftermath is a lingering unseen tapestry made of energetic and emotional strands.

Din's steps bring him closer, his presence a steadying anchor in the whirlwind of sensations. He draws near, his concern evident in the subtle tension that marks his movements. His gaze meets yours, and you're acutely aware of the dilation of your pupils, a visual echo of the internal tempest that rages within you.

With your pupils dark and dilated, your eyes seem to mirror the vast expanse of space, the depths of your emotions laid bare for him to see. Your mouth is slightly ajar, the remnants of the heightened moment leaving you momentarily suspended, needing to tilt your head slightly upward to fully meet his gaze. In this charged instant, the universe narrows down to the connection between your eyes, a silent exchange that communicates volumes without the need for words.

In that suspended moment, the silence speaks volumes, a symphony of unspoken sentiments. Your heartbeats seem to synchronize, a rhythm that matches the ebb and flow of the tide in your chest. Time dances on the precipice of this interaction, and you find yourself caught within its gravity, unable and unwilling to break free.

The universe has momentarily stilled, a canvas painted with the interplay of gazes and emotions. It's a connection that transcends the physical, forging a link that words could scarcely encompass. As you stand there, the universe around you continues its dance, but within this bubble of time, you and Din share an unspoken language that's uniquely yours.

His touch is electric, a spark that ignites a cascade of sensations within you. As his gloved hand brushes against yours, a shiver courses through your frame, a response as instinctual as the pull of celestial bodies. It's as if the very universe has conspired to send a myriad of shooting stars dancing across your skin, leaving a trail of tingling warmth in their wake.

His touch lingers, a slow and deliberate movement that traces the contours of your arm, following an invisible path etched by fate itself. The weight of his touch is both grounding and intoxicating, a tangible connection that bridges the gap between you. His hand ascends with a tantalizing slowness, ascending from your hand to your forearm, and then to your elbow.

A soft hum resonates from within him, a sound that vibrates through the air and settles within the depths of your being. Its resonance is both soothing and electrifying, a sensation that seems to harmonize with the very pulse of your existence. The world around you blurs, your senses zeroing in on the symphony of his touch and the melody of his voice.

You close your eyes, surrendering to the moment, letting the cascade of emotions and sensations wash over you. The darkness behind your closed eyelids becomes a canvas upon which you paint the memory of his touch, each stroke a testament to the intensity of this connection. It's a stolen moment amidst the chaos, a fragment of time where the universe seems to pause and let you bask in the radiance of his presence.

In this suspended state, you're adrift in a sea of feelings, carried along by the tide of emotions that his touch evokes. It's an experience that transcends the physical, a communion of souls that defies words.

Din hums again, his voice husky as he speaks lowly to you, a timbre that sends vibrations down your spine, “Hm… is there something you wanna tell me, cyar'ika?”

Your eyes flutter open as you peer at him through the veil of your eyelashes, caught in a gaze that holds more unspoken promises than words ever could. “You’re not playing fair, Din,” you murmur, your voice a mixture of exasperation and desire.

He doesn’t offer words in reply, his actions speaking louder. His gloved hand travels down your arm once more, a touch that both ignites and soothes. Then, in a move that sends your heart racing, he intertwines his fingers with yours, the contact a firm yet gentle connection that bridges the gap between you two. His words are a magnetic pull, drawing you from the depths of your thoughts, “Let’s get this over with, and then we can talk more about this later, cyar’ika.”

With a wordless nod, he begins to lead you, his grasp on your hand guiding you through the corridors. Each step feels ethereal, as if you're treading on clouds, suspended between the moment you've shared and the mission that still awaits. As you walk together, hand-in-hand, the world around you seems to blur, your senses attuned solely to the warmth of his hand in yours, the echo of his voice in your mind, and the unspoken promise of what's to come.

The rest of the crew comes into view, their chatter and presence fading into the background as your focus remains firmly on the Mandalorian at your side. The job ahead beckons, a task that demands your attention, but for now, the connection between you and Din is a current that flows with an irresistible intensity, a silent understanding that no words could ever encompass.

“It seems your presence has been detected. Redirecting security alert away from your position,” Zero's voice chimes in once more, its mechanical tone cutting through the tension in the air. Mayfeld's impatience is palpable as he snaps at the droid, “Z, open the door!”

A brief pause follows, the artificial intelligence seemingly hesitant. “But I'm detecting an organic signature,” Zero interjects, its tone conveying its concern over the potential danger.

Mayfeld, driven by the urgency of the situation, dismisses the warning without a second thought, frustration lacing his response, “Yeah, okay. All right. Just open the door!”

A New Republic officer, his uniform a stark blue against the metallic surroundings, appears before your group, blaster raised and hands slightly trembling. His voice wavers as he commands, “Stop! Just stop right there.”

His breaths come quick and uneven, a clear sign of his nervousness and uncertainty. With a palpable tension in the air, he addresses your group, his voice a mix of caution and apprehension, “You put down the blasters right now.” You take a discreet step, instinctively concealing the hilt of your lightsaber, not wanting to inadvertently escalate the situation or draw undue attention to your own abilities as a Force-sensitive individual.

Mayfeld's mocking words pierce the tense air, his demeanor almost nonchalant as he circles the New Republic officer. His dry comment about the officer's shoes and belt creates an odd moment of levity, juxtaposed against the serious circumstances.

Din's voice cuts through, an edge of sternness lacing his words, “There were only supposed to be droids on this ship.” But Mayfeld seems to disregard the Mandalorian's concern, his focus firmly on the controls he's inspecting.

Amidst this backdrop of escalating tension, Mayfeld's voice takes on a hint of urgency as he narrows his attention to a specific cell, “Hang on, hang on. Let's see here. Uh… Cell two-two-one.”

However, his attention quickly shifts, and he assesses the officer with a touch of sarcasm, “All right, now for our well-dressed friend.” The officer's swift reaction, pulling out a tracking beacon, is met with a surge of panic from Mayfeld, his words a rapid stream of protest, “Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa. Hey, hey. Easy. Easy, egghead. Put that down. Put that down. Come on.”

In an effort to regain control and stop the situation from getting out of hand, Din speaks in an authoritative, calm voice, interjecting, "Easy," to both the officer and Mayfeld.

Mayfeld, however, is unrelenting, his anxiety palpable, “Put it down now!” Din steps in again, his voice a steadying presence, “Easy. Nobody has to get hurt here. Just calm down.” The gravity of the moment hangs heavy, the outcome teetering on a knife's edge.

Burg's puzzled voice slices through the charged atmosphere, his uncertainty hanging in the air like a question mark, "What is that thing?"

You, the embodiment of composure, provide a straightforward answer, "It’s a tracking beacon."

Mayfeld's voice leaps in, urgency punctuating his words, “He presses that thing, we're all done. A New Republic attack team will hone in on that signal and blow us all to hell. Put it down!”

Xi’an’s frustration finds voice, her tone laced with incredulity, "Are you serious?" Mayfeld’s response is swift and resolute, "Yes, I'm serious."

Annoyance ripples through Xi’an’s voice, her accusation landing with weight, "You didn't think we needed to know that tiny little detail?"

Mayfeld's voice carries a mixture of frustration and agitation, "I didn't think we'd get to this point." A tinge of disdain colors Xi’an's response, her retort dripping with irony, "Yet here we are."

The tension between them is palpable, the air heavy with unsaid words. Mayfeld's frustration escalates, his voice a crescendo, "Are you questioning my managerial style, Xi'an?" Her response is nothing short of mocking, a low chuckle escaping her lips, "No, sir."

Din’s voice emerges as a soothing beacon, an anchor in the storm, "Hey. Listen to me. Hey, hey, hey. Listen to me, okay? Look." His blaster disappears into its holster, his hands raised in a gesture of surrender. Following his lead, you lift your hands too, a visual assurance to the officer that harm isn't your intention.

With a determined glance, you address Mayfeld, your tone firm and unyielding, “Hey. Put it down.”

His frown deepens, his voice more intense, “Are you crazy?”

Undeterred, you echo your words, your gaze shifting to the trembling officer clutching the beacon, “Put it down. What's your name?” The question hovers in the air, a sliver of humanity in the middle of the mayhem.

He stutters before replying, “It's Davan.”

You nod, your expression gentle as you offer your own name and introduce yourself. Turning back to him, your tone remains steady and reassuring, “Davan. We're not here for you. We're here for a prisoner. If you let us go about our job, you can walk away with your life.”

“No, he won't,” Mayfeld says, his blaster aimed unwaveringly at Davan. The tense standoff escalates as Din swiftly raises his own blaster, its cold muzzle locked onto Mayfeld, his tone firm, “Hey. You realize what you're gonna bring down on us?”

“You think I care about that?” Mayfeld's voice drips with defiance, his finger tense against the blaster's trigger. But Din remains unyielding, his grip unwavering, “We're not killing anybody. You understand?”

“Get that blaster out of my face, Mando,” Mayfeld's command is laced with an edge of desperation, his eyes narrowing at Din's unwavering stance.

Din’s helmeted head shakes almost imperceptibly, his voice like stone, “I can't do that.”

“Get that blaster out of my face, Mando!” Mayfeld's demand escalates into a furious yell, and Burg, feeling the tension surge, raises his own blaster at Din, the atmosphere crackling with impending violence. But Din anticipates the move, the flamethrower bracer extending with a threatening hiss, a wordless warning to back down.

As tensions teetered on the brink of eruption, Xi'an's blade swiftly put an end to the escalating confrontation, ending Davan's role in a fatal strike. The aftermath of her swift and ruthless action hung in the air like a heavy shroud, a stark reminder of the unforgiving tightrope they tread. Your gaze shifts to Din, his stance unchanged but the tension in the room evidently affecting him, his demeanor slightly unsettled by the abrupt turn of events.

In the middle of the mounting tension, Xi'an's command pierces the charged air and ends the argument she was having with Mayfeld. She takes the knife back from Davan's lifeless body with a nonchalant attitude while Mayfeld tries to defend his actions with the words, "Crazy Twi. I had it under control."

Xi'an's laughter is a subtle ripple of amusement that contrasts with the gravity of the situation, her dry humor punctuating the room, "Yeah. Looked like it."

The rhythmic beeping of the tracking device punctuates the room, its red glow pulsating in time with its urgent signals. Mayfeld's voice strains with panic, his words coming out in a rush, "Was that thing blinking before? Was it?"

A droid's voice resonates from the comlink, breaking through the tension, "Zero to Mayfeld. Zero to Mayfeld."

Mayfeld responds urgently, "What?"

Zero's metallic tone delivers the unsettling news, "I've detected a New Republic distress signal homing in on your location. You have approximately 20 minutes."

“We only need five.” Xi’an says happily before running down the corridor while Mayfeld commands all of you, “Let's go, let's go. Move, move, move!”

On the way, you run into a black hover security droid, but Burg hurls the droid to the floor with brute force, knocking it out. A second hover security droid appears, but Burg hurls the fallen first droid at it, knocking it out. The two droids explode into flames.

As the countdown to the impending threat ticks away, your group arrives at the prison cell. Mayfeld's command to Zero is sharp and impatient, "Z, open it up."

The droid responds crisply, "You have 15 minutes remaining."

Mayfeld's urgency heightens, a hint of desperation edging into his voice, "Come on, come on. Open it up!"

With a mechanical whir, the doors of the cell part, revealing the prisoner held within – a Twi'lek male mercenary named Qin. Din's gaze locks onto Qin's form, recognition flashing across his features. The air is heavy with unspoken history as their eyes meet.

Qin's tone is edged with wry humor, a barb aimed at Din, "Funny, the man who left me behind is now my savior. Mando."

The tension in the room tightens like a coiled spring, and just as you're trying to process the weight of the situation, Burg's aggression erupts. With a savage growl, he lunges at Din, striking him with brutal force and sending him crashing into the cell.

As the tense situation spirals into chaos, a sharp, searing sensation jolts through your body. You gasp, a high-pitched sound escaping your lips as the effects of a drug take hold. Panic surges within you, turning your limbs into leaden weights, and your surroundings seem to blur.

Your cries pierce the air as your body convulses, and in the midst of your agony, you become aware of strong arms wrapping around you. Qin's figure comes into focus, his grip firm as he lifts you effortlessly over his shoulder. The world spins as your pleas for help ring out, your voice a raw symphony of fear, "Mando! Help me!"

In the shadows cast by the unfolding turmoil, Din's form stands frozen, his eyes wide with disbelief and shock. Anguish courses through his veins, a torrent of emotions he struggles to contain. The scene before him is a nightmarish tableau, your distress etched into every fiber of his being. The tendrils of rage snake through his consciousness, coiling tighter and tighter, a tempest of anger like none he has ever felt.

As you're carried away, your voice echoing in his ears, Din's gloved fists clench, his entire body vibrating with an unquenchable fury. It's a wrath that burns brighter than the hottest star, an all-consuming fire that threatens to consume him. Every ounce of his being demands retribution, and at that moment, the Mandalorian's resolve becomes ironclad. He will unleash a storm that no one could have foreseen.

Din's gaze narrows as he peers through the small windows of his cell, his thoughts aligning swiftly with his actions. With a deft and calculated move, he deploys his grappling cable, ensnaring a humanoid New Republic security droid that strides past his confinement. The droid fights against the cable's hold, discharging blaster bolts that splinter the air and illuminate the cell's interior. The sound of metal meeting energy punctuates the struggle, an echo of determination resonating in every ricocheting blast.

Skill and unwavering purpose guide Din's hands as he manages to subdue the droid's counteroffensive, creating a brief respite from the storm of blaster fire. Amidst the lingering wisps of dissipating energy, he retrieves a severed arm from the droid, repurposing it into a tool of liberation. The cell's lock yields under his meticulous manipulation, granting him freedom.

Returning to the control room, Din surveys the array of screens and the intricate console before him. His strategic mind takes hold, weaving plans with precision born from countless battles and encounters. The rhythmic hum of technology intermingles with the rhythmic beat of his heart as he molds his thoughts into a cohesive strategy.

A symphony of calculated keystrokes and deft button presses follows as Din's fingers dance across the control panel. With deliberate intention, he commands the locking mechanism, sealing blast doors that partition the room. This division becomes a strategic maneuver, creating a barrier that cleaves Mayfeld and Qin from Burg and Xi'an, a tactical separation that enhances their chances for success. 

Through the surveillance cameras, the Mandalorian's gaze remains fixed on Xi'an and Burg, their actions playing out like a holographic performance. His mind churns with calculated purpose, the cogs of ingenuity whirring as an idea takes shape. His hand descends to the floor, fingers curling around the tracking beacon. A glint of determination glimmers within his visor, setting his plan into motion.

Time passes in measured increments, each second marked by the thud of his heart. The silence of the control room envelops him, a stark contrast to the tumult that brews outside its confines. Then, like a predator sensing its prey, he perceives the Devaronian's approach. As Burg's form materializes in the entrance, the Mandalorian springs into action, his movements as fluid as the currents of a hidden river.

With a seamless fluidity, the Mandalorian ensnares Burg with his grappling cable, a vice-like grip that tightens around the Devaronian's throat. Gravity becomes his ally as he employs the cable to pull Burg upwards, an ambush executed with unyielding precision. Their confrontation transitions into an intimate dance of hand-to-hand combat, each moves a reflection of their honed skills.

Fire meets resilience as the Mandalorian deploys his flamethrower, its fierce tongues licking at Burg's form. Yet, the Devaronian presses on, seemingly unfazed by the inferno. The control room becomes an arena, an arena where every punch and parry is a symphony of strength and strategy. A console becomes a weapon, hurled by Burg with the ferocity of a beast asserting dominance.

In the distance, Xi'an's sharp ears catch the rumblings of the altercation, a discordant melody that sparks concern. Her steps hasten, her movements propelled by a mixture of curiosity and anxiety.

The steadfast commitment of the Mandalorian is evident in every deed. He extends his purpose by aiming a knife toward the blast door controls. His throw triggers a series of mechanisms, setting up a battle of might vs metal. Blast doors that are dropping vertically seem to be trying to stop him, but he fights back, his muscles aching from the effort.

But as fate's tides change, so does his plan of attack. Burg is basically rendered unconscious and imprisoned within a metal cage when a second set of blast doors that close horizontally swings into operation. The physical conflict ends, but the clash's echoes remain. The fact that the control room is still a battleground is evidence of the Mandalorian's fortitude and unwavering persistence that propels him ahead.

Amidst the ebb and flow of dreams, a sinister undercurrent tugs at the edges of your consciousness. The passage of time eludes you, a disorienting blend of moments that slip through your grasp like elusive shadows. The landscape morphs, nightcrawlers emerging and vanishing, a surreal dance of existence.

Shadows undulate like ethereal specters, their contours contorting with each blink of your mind's eye. A somber darkness descends, ensnaring your senses in its enigmatic grip. The allure of the unknown beckons, a velvety whisper that stirs long-dormant desires within the labyrinth of your thoughts.

In this realm of shifting illusions, the boundaries between reality and fantasy dissolve, and the threads of your fears weave a tapestry of surreal proportions. You tread through landscapes of ambiguity, each step fraught with trepidation. Whispers reverberate in your consciousness, playful and taunting, coaxing you deeper into the uncharted depths.

As you find yourself in this dreamscape, confusion reigns, a haze of uncertainty clouding your mind. The chronology of events eludes you, lost in a landscape of quiet desolation. The world around you is still, a void that seems to stretch to infinity. At its heart lies a serpentine river, its waters flowing inexorably toward a gaping abyss.

Your voice trembles as you call out, a plea for connection in the silent expanse, "Hello? Is anyone there?"

Approaching the river's edge, you seek your reflection, only for it to warp into a visage that reflects your deepest fears. Red eyes glint beneath a dark hood, a malevolent red lightsaber casting an ominous glow. Fear grips your heart, and with a splash, you desperately scatter the reflection, ripples distorting the ominous image.

Abruptly, the river's current shifts, and the unseen ground beneath you gives way. The world dissolves into a vast expanse of water, a towering wave looming over you like an executioner's blade. The sensation of drowning overwhelms you, your struggles to break free becoming a desperate symphony of survival. The threads of time slip and warp, as if reality itself is fraying at the edges.

Beneath the shimmering moonlight filtering through the water's surface, you fight to ascend, each stroke a battle against the suffocating weight of the wave. Yet, in the depths of your subconscious, the allure of surrender tempts you, the pull of the abyss becoming strangely tempting, a surrender to the consuming waters that promise oblivion.

You shut your eyes tightly, swimming and kicking, one hand outstretched just to feel the break of the surface and then you do, opening your eyes you are gasping and gulping for air. Before you know it you see an island nearby and you swim towards it. You crawl onto shore, coughing and wheezing before laying on the sand and on your back. Smoke puffs are white and piling. Silently detonating emotions as you feel your chest rise and fall rapidly, huffing.

You feel like you’re dying in the dark, and it's written there in the stars. You're understood by so little and loved only from afar. Always going when the going gets too tough. You briefly close your eyes, swallowing the lump in your throat, letting yourself embrace the silence.

A gentle tap on your forehead rouses you from the depths of your dreams, a sensation akin to the soft prod of a wooden stick. Slowly, your eyes flutter open, and to your astonishment, Master Yoda stands before you. Disbelief mingles with surprise in your expression as you gaze up at the wise old Jedi.

Yoda's ancient features bear a quizzical expression as he regards you. His head tilts slightly to the right, a gesture that has always held a mixture of curiosity and assessment. With his characteristic syntax, he speaks, his voice a blend of wisdom and whimsy, “Hrm… curious are you.”

Startled, you jerk up from the sandy ground, your senses slowly reconciling with the unexpected presence of the legendary Jedi Master. As you rise, your eyes meet Yoda's gaze, an amused glint in his eyes that speaks of an understanding beyond mere words. Words spill out of your mouth in a rush, a mixture of astonishment and uncertainty, “Am I… Am I dead?”

A chuckle, soft and reminiscent of ages past, escapes Yoda's lips. He shakes his head, his ears twitching as he replies, “No, not you are. Yes, hrrrm.”

The confusion lingers, and you're compelled to seek clarity amidst the surreal encounter. Your voice trembles with uncertainty, seeking answers from the source of wisdom before you, “Then… what…?”

Yoda's gaze remains steady, his eyes penetrating to your core as he speaks with the weight of his insight, “Become powerful you have, the dark side in you I sense.”

The realization dawns upon you like the breaking of a new day, the truth you've long wrestled with now laid bare before the venerable Master. Your response is a simple and contemplative, “Oh.”

With a beckoning gesture of his hand, Yoda invites you to accompany him. “Come, a walk with me take,” he says in his enigmatic manner, and without hesitation, you comply. Following in the footsteps of the Jedi sage, you walk along the shoreline of the mysterious island, the whispers of the sea and the wisdom of a centuries-old being intertwining in a dance of insight and revelation.

In a swift and fluid motion, Xi'an pivots, her lithe form a dance of danger as she flicks a knife towards Din. The blade streaks through the air, a glint of deadly intent, and strikes true. With an unexpected clang, Din's blaster clatters to the ground, disarmed by the precision of her throw. The Twi'lek's hiss echoes in the charged air, a prelude to the battle that ensues.

Xi'an becomes a whirlwind of motion, her movements a symphony of lethal grace. Knives fly from her grasp in rapid succession, a storm of shimmering steel. Yet, Din is no stranger to combat, and his beskar bracers become his shield against the oncoming storm. The blades deflect with metallic resonance, each clang a testament to his prowess and preparedness.

Their clash is a dance of contrasts, Xi'an's agility matched by Din's stoic determination. Knives seek their mark, the air humming with tension as they narrowly miss their target. Din counters, each parry a testament to his unyielding focus. The choreography is a testament to their honed skills, the blades a dangerous dialogue in the silence of their struggle.

Din's commitment is unwavering despite the ferocious attack from Xi'an. He seizes the opportunity when it arises as it is a small window of opportunity. He closes the distance between them with measured movements that are accompanied by a controlled energy burst. He quickly and precisely grabs her wrists in a vice-like hold that renders her motionless.

As the clash of blades subsides, Xi'an's knife finds itself seized by Din's unyielding grip, its cold edge pressing against her throat. Her defiance is met with the unrelenting strength of the Mandalorian, his beskar-clad form an immovable force. The dance of conflict transforms into a tableau frozen in time, their positions a silent testament to the power struggle that has transpired.

In the dimly lit corridor, Mayfeld's wary footsteps echo, his senses heightened by the uncertainty that surrounds them. The lights flicker, casting an eerie dance of shadows on the walls, the alternating hues of red and white adding to the disorienting atmosphere. As he approaches a blast door, his gaze narrows, catching a glimpse of movement in his peripheral vision.

A small mouse droid skitters past, its mechanical chatter echoing in the silence. It's an unexpected presence in this tense environment, and it's enough to startle even the steadiest of hearts. Mayfeld's muscles tense, his fingers gripping his blaster as he warily scans his surroundings.

Amidst the dissonance of flickering lights and the droid's scuttling, a presence emerges behind him. The Mandalorian, a silent predator, moves with the grace of a shadow. His beskar-clad form blends seamlessly with the darkened backdrop, his steps nearly soundless against the metallic floor.

Before Mayfeld can react, a hand clamps over his mouth, stifling any potential outcry. His blaster is deftly plucked from his grasp, leaving him unarmed and vulnerable. In this heartbeat, the Mandalorian's strategy unfolds with precision. The surprise ambush leaves Mayfeld incapacitated, his options dwindling in the face of an opponent who has mastered the art of stealth.

The corridor's interplay of light and shadow mirrors the tension between the two figures — one caught off-guard, the other poised to strike. As the Mandalorian's grip tightens, the echo of Mayfeld's startled gasp remains unheard, a secret shared only by those immersed in this clandestine struggle.

The enigmatic island shoreline stretches ahead, the waves rhythmically kissing the sand as you walk alongside the wise presence of Master Yoda. The air is heavy with the scent of salt and the mysteries that hang in the atmosphere. It's a tranquil scene, the serenity of the surroundings belying the inner turmoil that has led you to this point.

Amidst this picturesque backdrop, Yoda's words cut through the silence like a whisper carried by the wind. His voice, both ancient and gentle, resonates with a depth of perception that goes beyond the visible world. His ears twitch slightly, attuned to the emotions that ripple through the Force.

"Great fear in you I sense," Yoda utters, his ancient voice carrying the weight of his centuries of wisdom. His eyes, though small, seem to pierce through the façade you've put up, delving deep into the recesses of your soul.

With the wise sage's words, your steps seem to falter, the very ground beneath you shifting slightly. It's as if Yoda's insight has illuminated the corners of your mind that you've been keeping in shadows. Vulnerability washes over you, like a curtain being drawn back to reveal the raw emotions you've been grappling with.

Time slows as you halt, the world around you a blur while Yoda's presence remains vivid and unwavering. His gaze feels like a spotlight, exposing the layers of your being that you've been reluctant to confront. You collect your thoughts, your voice trembling slightly as you attempt to put words to the tumultuous thoughts swirling within.

“I don’t want to end up alone again,” you admit, the confession hanging in the air like a fragile thread. The weight of your uncertainties and self-doubt colors your words, making them more potent and raw. 

“The destiny on the road you take to avoid it, one often meets,” Yoda's reply comes like a gentle breeze, laden with the wisdom of countless experiences and lifetimes. His speech, though cryptic in its ways, carries a profound message that resonates with the core of your being.

"Rejection and failure is one of the greatest lessons," he imparts, his tone measured and deliberate. “In the end, you become whoever would have saved you at that moment when no one did,”   

His words hang in the air, each syllable carrying a depth of meaning that you find yourself unraveling, piece by piece. In the presence of this venerable Jedi, amidst the backdrop of the serene shoreline, you begin to grasp that your fears and struggles are not unique to you alone. Yoda's guidance offers a glimmer of understanding and the promise of growth, even in the face of your deepest fears.

“Qin,” Din's voice is a low growl, his tone laced with a blend of caution and tension. Recognition stirs in his gaze as he fixes his eyes on the male Twi’lek who carries you over his shoulders. His arms remain at his sides, beskar armor gleaming in the ambient light, but the muscles beneath it are tense, poised for action.

The ladder that leads back to the Razor Crest looms before them, a path that could take Qin away with you. The sight of your limp form draped over his shoulders tugs at Din's heartstrings like a merciless tug of war. His gloved hands clench, the anger he feels simmering beneath his calm exterior.

Din's emotions are a tornado in the midst of this stressful scene, a swirling combination of worry and rage. He is caught between his responsibility to get you back to safety and his burning desire to hold Qin accountable for daring to touch you. He is torn between the competing flames of his Mandalorian creed and his own deeply entrenched feeling of duty to ensure your safety.

“You killed the others,” Qin's accusation hangs in the air like a sinister melody, a reminder of the violence that has unfolded. Din's response comes in a calm yet unyielding tone, his voice etched with the weight of his convictions, “They got what they deserved.”

The tension crackles between them, a palpable energy that threatens to erupt into another confrontation. Qin's lips curl back in a snarl, the corners of his mouth twitching as his fingers curl around the grip of his blaster. In an instant, Din's blaster is in his hand, the weapon raised with the precision and swiftness that only a skilled gunslinger possesses.

The stand-off continues, each participant locked in a dangerous dance of determination. Qin's calculating gaze meets Din's unyielding stare, their intentions clashing in the narrow space between them. But as the seconds tick by, Qin's resolve seems to waver, a flicker of uncertainty dancing in his eyes.

With a resigned sigh, Qin lowers his blaster, a defeated acceptance settling over him. The tension in his muscles ebbs away as he carefully lays you down along with his weapon, his gaze flicking between you and the Mandalorian. The change in his approach is almost a plea, a final attempt to appeal to Din's sense of reason.

“Come on, Mando,” Qin's voice carries a touch of exasperation, tinged with desperation, “Be reasonable, huh? You were hired to do a job, right? So do it. Isn't that your code? Aren't you a man of honor?”

Din's internal struggle is a hurricane of emotions that rages within him as his glance travels from Qin to you. His gaze lingers on your sleeping figure, contrasting your fragility with an underlying resolve. His feeling of obligation, his developing attachment to you, and the hope for a safer future all came together at that very time.

Din gives a firm nod as his determination grows. The choice is obvious. He muses about the way ahead as his blaster gently lowers. It is immediately apparent that he is not simply a lone gunman. He is a guardian and a protector who will stop at nothing to defend the people who are important to him.

Yoda's ancient eyes hold a profound understanding, their luminous gaze fixed on you. "Abandoned, you feel, hmm? Much pain, this carries."

Your voice wavers, carrying the weight of years of unspoken sorrow, "Yes, Master Yoda. The memory is still vivid, the moment my master chose another, left me behind like I was nothing."

Yoda's ears twitch slightly as he listens, his voice soft yet firm, "Chose another, your master did, but abandon you, he did not. Understand his choice, you must."

Tears threaten to well up, your pain rekindled by the memory. "Understand? How can I? It felt like my worth was measured by his rejection, that I was cast aside like a broken tool."

Yoda's craggy face remains impassive, his wisdom a steady anchor amidst the tempest of your emotions. "Broken tool, you are not. The Force's will, sometimes difficult to perceive, hmm."

The weight of his words resonates within you, an echo of a truth you've struggled to accept. "And what of the darkness I feel within? The whispers that entice me toward paths I dare not tread?"

Yoda's eyes hold an unspoken recognition, a knowing that transcends the bounds of time and space. "Darkness, a part of all beings it is. Temptation, it brings, but choice, yours always is."

"But what if I can't resist it? What if it consumes me?" Your voice trembles, the abyss of your fears yawning before you.

Yoda's response is steady, his voice a gentle guide through the storm, "In you, the power to overcome resides. Learn from darkness, as Jedi have for centuries. Fear, it is that often leads to the dark path."

The weight of his words settles upon you, mingling with the tendrils of hope that have begun to weave their way through your thoughts. "But how? How can I navigate this treacherous path?"

Yoda's gaze is unwavering, his words a beacon in the shadows, "Learn, you must. Seek guidance, from within and from those who have walked before. A Jedi's strength, in perseverance, it lies."

A mixture of resolve and uncertainty churns within you, the turmoil of your thoughts mirrored in the currents of the Force. "And if I stumble, if I fall?"

Yoda's voice carries a sense of reassurance, "Fall, you may, but rise again, you must. The journey of a Jedi, marked by trials, but also by redemption."

Your breath steadies, a fragile calm settling over your turbulent thoughts. "Redemption... Do you truly believe I can find it?"

Yoda's gaze softens, his ageless eyes a wellspring of compassion, "Believe, I do. The Force's currents, they guide us, hmm. Trust in yourself, in the Force, you must."

As the conversation unfolds, Yoda's wisdom offers a lifeline in the darkness of your doubts. The exchange becomes a journey of self-discovery, a fragile yet profound step toward embracing the strength that resides within.

The Razor Crest glides smoothly through the darkness of space, its engines humming with a sense of purpose. Qin's presence on board, though subdued, casts a lingering shadow within the ship's confined quarters. Din's gaze is focused yet inscrutable, his thoughts a whirlwind of calculations and decisions.

Upon landing at Ran's space station, the hangar's metallic echoes resound with a blend of anticipation and tension. The ramp of the Razor Crest descends, and Din emerges, Qin following suit. The atmosphere is heavy with an unspoken acknowledgment of the unknown fate that awaits.

Ran's figure looms in the hangar, an enigmatic presence whose calculating eyes sweep over the scene. Qin's embrace is tinged with a mixture of familiarity and uncertainty, a testament to the complexities of their shared history.

"Where are the others?" Ran's question lingers in the air, a reminder of the unpredictable nature of their line of work. Din's response is curt, accompanied by a nonchalant shrug that underscores the ethos of their profession. "No questions asked. That's the policy, right?"

A begrudging agreement escapes Ran's lips, the unspoken agreement of a clandestine world. "Yeah. That is the policy."

The exchange is a prelude to the transaction that follows, a seamless handover of payment that echoes with a sense of finality. "I did the job," Din states, his words weighted with the weight of his actions.

"Yeah, you did," Ran acknowledges, the pouch of credits symbolizing a chapter closed and a debt paid.

"Just like the good old days," Din's voice holds a hint of nostalgia, a reflection on the countless jobs that have brought him to this point.

"Yeah, just like the good old days," Ran echoes, watching as Din embarks on the Razor Crest, the ship's departure marked by the ascending roar of engines.

As the ship rockets into the expanse of space, the tense air of the space station is replaced by the ship's familiar comfort. The child's presence is a quiet reminder of the bond they share, a bond that transcends the chaos of their surroundings.

Ran activates a lift that brings up a gunship and tasks Qin with killing him. However, Qin finds that the Mandalorian has left the tracking beacon on him, allowing the New Republic to track them down. Three New Republic X-wing starfighters exit hyperspace, narrowly avoiding the Razor Crest. 

In the co-pilot seat, the child's innocent curiosity contrasts with the gravity of their recent endeavors. A ball from one of the levers becomes a focal point of fascination, small hands exploring its texture. Din's gaze softens, a fleeting smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "I told you that was a bad idea," he murmurs, the words a lighthearted testament to the newfound balance he's found in his unexpected role as guardian.

THE RAZOR CREST, 9ABY – HYPERSPACE

Your eyelids fluttered open like a hesitant butterfly emerging from its cocoon. The room's darkness held an unfamiliar weight, its silence a shroud that clung to your senses. Your heart raced as your consciousness gradually waded through the fog of sleep, memories of the past hours only a blurry mosaic.

Slowly, the contours of the room took shape, and the sensation of a blanket draped over your form brought a semblance of comfort. As the door hissed, your gaze snapped towards the sound's source, revealing the figure standing there – Din, the Mandalorian.

His voice, a gentle murmur in the darkness, cut through the silence. "You're awake."

You were dragged back from the edge of bewilderment by the words, which served as a lifeline. You were unable to speak due to a dry and scratchy throat and could only nod in agreement.

Din moved closer and reached out to offer you a drink of water. As you sipped, relief flooded your body from the soothing effect of the cool beverage on your dry throat. As you put the glass aside and locked eyes with him, a quiet bond grew between you two in the darkness of the space.

"I thought you... left," your words trembled, vulnerability threading through them.

His head dipped in a small nod, the glow of his visor casting a soft luminescence over his features. "I won't leave you."

Emotion swelled within you, finding its outlet in the shimmer of your eyes. A trembling smile graced your lips, gratitude and relief mingling in a silent chorus.

"Thank you," your voice was a fragile whisper, weighted with the depth of what you couldn't fully express.

His gloved hand felt warm against your skin as you reached out, an anchor in the sea of emotions that threatened to engulf you. Your gaze met his, seeking understanding and reassurance. "This isn't your fault," you said firmly, your voice a whisper that carried the weight of conviction.

He settled onto the edge of the cot, his presence a steady comfort in the midst of your turmoil. "I should have listened to you," regret colored his words.

Your hand found his, a gentle touch that conveyed more than words ever could. Looking up at him through the reflection of his visor, you spoke from the heart. "I'm just glad we all got out of this mess okay and in one piece."

Curiosity mingled with concern, the need to understand what had happened in the gaps of your memory pushing through. "What happened after they... drugged me?"

Din's pause was palpable, his gaze distant as he navigated the memories of those tense moments. He exhaled softly, the weight of his words measured. "They took you away from me. So, I went after them."

Your brows furrowed, the puzzle pieces slowly slotting together. "Did you..."

"No," his response was swift, carrying a conviction that resonated with the core of his being. "I wanted to, but... no, I didn't. They're locked in a prison cell aboard the New Republic prison ship."

A sense of relief washed over you, a tangible exhalation of tension. "Is the child okay?" you asked, concerned for the innocent life that had been unwittingly thrust into this chaos.

"He's fine. He's asleep," Din's words held a measure of reassurance, a testament to his commitment to safeguarding the child's well-being.

The air seemed to hold its breath as your voice broke the stillness, the weight of your confession hanging between you and Din like a delicate thread. Your cheeks, warmed by the rosy hue of embarrassment, seemed to mirror the intensity of your emotions.

Din's gaze remained steady, his visor concealing the thoughts that swirled beneath. In the suspended quiet, uncertainty wrestled with hope, and you found yourself compelled to fill the space with your unfiltered feelings.

"About earlier on the prison ship..." you began, your voice quivering slightly, "I... I really like you, Din."

Silence stretched between you, a moment of suspended time that seemed to hold the universe in a breathless pause. The seconds seemed to hang on a precipice, each heartbeat reverberating in the chamber of your chest. As the seconds passed, the weight of your confession bore down on you, and the vulnerability of your words laid bare.

Just as your nerves threatened to overrun your thoughts, Din's voice cut through the tension, a calm amidst the storm of emotions. "I know," he said, the simplicity of those two words holding a world of understanding.

Your eyes locked with his visor, an unspoken connection forming between you. His silence had spoken volumes, and now it was your turn to fill the quiet with the unadulterated truth of your heart.

"I've been trying to find the right words, the right time," you confessed, your voice steadier now, "But I can't hold it in anymore. Din, I care about you... more than I've ever cared about anyone."

The air seemed to crackle with anticipation, the universe itself attuned to this moment of shared vulnerability. In the luminous haze of his visor, you could sense the intensity of his emotions, his unspoken response to your heartfelt words.

"And," you continued, your voice a soft tremor that resonated with sincerity, "I don't want to pretend anymore that I don't feel this way. The way you make me feel... it's something I've never felt before."

As the confession hung in the air, a suspended promise of what could be, a subtle shift in the atmosphere indicated Din's movement. His gloved hand reached towards you, his fingers finding your cheek with a tenderness that bespoke volumes.

"I don’t want to pretend either," his voice, a low rumble beneath the surface, conveyed an emotion that mirrored your own. "Being with you, it's different. It's real."

Tears threatened at the corners of your eyes, your heart overflowing with emotion at his words. His visor hid his gaze, but you felt his fingers brush against your skin, leaving a trail of warmth in their wake.

"Din," your voice was a mere whisper, the space between you a sacred bridge that had been crossed.

He says your name as his response, a breathless echo, a name that held within it the promise of a new beginning. With a gesture both gentle and meaningful, you tilted your forehead, allowing it to make contact with the cool, solid surface of his beskar helmet. The touch felt almost electric, a connection that transcended the physical plane. It was a gesture that spoke volumes, a silent affirmation of the bond that had been formed through shared experiences and the unspoken language of the heart.

Amidst the quiet, a hushed stillness settled in the room, the outside world seemingly fading into insignificance. In this private sanctuary, the air seemed to hold its breath, as if the universe itself was pausing to witness the depth of the connection between two souls.

The tender exchange between you, as gazes held and fingers intertwined, seemed to bridge the gap between past and present, drawing you closer together in the present moment. It was a moment of vulnerability, forged in the crucible of challenges and uncertainty, and now solidified by the authenticity of your feelings.

In the heart of the chaos that defined the galaxy, your connection shone like a beacon of light, illuminating the path ahead. The fires of adversity had not consumed you; instead, they had forged a bond that was unbreakable, a bond that now found its expression in the unspoken language of shared gazes and the gentle touch of fingertips.

END NOTES:

LOWKEY, this chapter got out of hand… initially I had a whole fight scene planned out but I figured that it wasn’t the time… yet…

CONFESSIONS! YAY! I think after 40k words… a confession seems appropriate. I wanna write fluff and smut with these two already >u< (as well as some GOOD OLE ANGST HEHEH)

It took me a while to write this chapter… cuz obviously… 16k words… uh… yeah… ANYWAYS! We’re nearing the end of season 1! Omg… o-o 

See you in the next chapter!

TAGLIST:

@wastingspaces @avengersheart @lunatic1012 @keepingupwiththeskywalkers @mxltifxnd0m @syviiss @luckyzipperscissorsbat @avengersheart @dins-riduur-anthe @lizlil @n7cje @scoliobean @ofmusesandsecrets

[taylorrama]

Crown Him With Many Crowns

You girlies liked the cassette tape that had "Crown Him With Many Crowns" on it, so I thought I'd make a post about the song.

I don't think there's much depth/authorial intention with this reference–Tamsyn Muir was probably just looking for a song title to match Coronabeth and went with this one. The title also sounds kind of silly and redundant.

I'll admit, when I saw this name in Nona the Ninth, I was like "That's probably a hymn or Bible reference," but didn't know the song. Turns out, as is the case with a lot of hymns, I know the melody but with different words. This hymn appears in a bunch of hymnals, including Catholic ones, so it's possible Muir knows this song simply from being Catholic.

A fun fact about this hymn is that, according to Wikipedia, it has twelve verses. TWELVE. VERSES. That is a CHONKER. Wiki also says that typically, the song is split into two six-verse versions. Fascinating how you split the song and get two different songs with the same melody but different themes. It's almost like if you take an embryo and split it and get twins.

The other funny thing about Corona being named for a chonky hymn is that she's described as well-formed compared to how scrawny Ianthe is.

So, do the words give us anything interesting with respect to The Locked Tomb? Let's see under the cut. This isn't gonna be a detailed analysis at all. More like pointing out some parts that get some weird/cool meanings when applied to this series.

Crown him with many crowns, The Lamb upon his throne; Hark! how the heavenly anthem drowns All music but its own: Awake, my soul, and sing Of him who died for thee, And hail him as thy matchless king Through all eternity.

We have Corona and Harrow in the same verse. Amazing.

I might be misremembering, but isn't there a sound that Resurrection Beasts make? If so, there's our "heavenly anthem." And of course this idea of a king being hailed through all eternity–Jod.

The next interesting part we get is verse 5.

Crown him the Lord of years! The Potentate of time,-- Creator of the rolling spheres, Ineffably sublime! Glassed in a sea of light, Where everlasting waves Reflect his throne,--the Infinite! Who lives,--and loves--and saves.

Jod is an immortal (essentially) necromancer, the literal recreator of planets. And everlasting waves? The River.

The last one to point out is verse 10.

Crown him the Lord of life Who triumphed o'er the grave, And rose victorious in the strife For those he came to save; His glories now we sing Who died, and rose on high. Who died, eternal life to bring And lives that death may die.

Since this verse is referencing Jesus' death and resurrection, it highlights that exciting tension we feel as readers knowing this version of the story, but then seeing this same theology twisted around in The Locked Tomb. This does strike me, though, as pretty close to the narrative that most citizens of the Nine Houses probably have about Jod. He harnessed the energy of death to create life.

That's all I've got on this one. Sometimes, being a church nerd pays off. 😌

[catluvus]

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[luckydragon10]

P&P Chapter 43

(Chapters 41 and 42)

Chapter 43 looks chonky, so I'm gonna do just one this time.

Score check:

Lizzy is down to +10.

Mr. Darcy continues to hold at -15.

BTW, I've decided to start considering this my sentimeter, or measurement of sentiment.

~~~

Chapter 43

“And of this place,” thought she, “I might have been mistress!"

Definitely sounding young and her age here. Silly child. Best to make sure you like the husband that comes attached with the house.

Mr. Gardiner, whose manners were very easy and pleasant, encouraged her communicativeness by his questions and remarks; 

The uncle exists! And can speak!

Mrs. Reynolds: “Yes, sir; but I do not know when that will be. I do not know who is good enough for him.”

I like Mrs. Reynolds. Potential new side blorbo.

Elizabeth almost stared at her. “Can this be Mr. Darcy?” thought she.

Child. Judge others by how they treat people who are working, not by how they treat their peers and friends.

This feels like less a tour of the house than it is a tour of Mr. Darcy's real personality and motivations.

Something something something house as metaphor for real self.

What praise is more valuable than the praise of an intelligent servant?

Theeeeere we go. Good girl.

Every idea that had been brought forward by the housekeeper was favourable to his character, and as she stood before the canvas on which he was represented, and fixed his eyes upon herself, she thought of his regard with a deeper sentiment of gratitude than it had ever raised before; she remembered its warmth, and softened its impropriety of expression.

Mmm, in some ways this isn't very fun to me? She seems to be softening and coming to like (love?) Mr. Darcy not by interactions with him but vicariously through other people's regard, and through her vanity at the idea that such an esteemed person was romantically interested in her. Eeehhh.

...her uncle and aunt stopped also, and while the former was conjecturing as to the date of the building, the owner of it himself suddenly came forward from the road, which led behind it to the stables.

Yep, knew this would happen, just wasn't sure when it would happen.

Amazed at the alteration of his manner since they last parted, every sentence that he uttered was increasing her embarrassment; and every idea of the impropriety of her being found there recurring to her mind, the few minutes in which they continued were some of the most uncomfortable in her life.

The fact that none of this is written in dialogue is very frustrating. It seems like such an important meeting, and I can't tell what's being said.

(Mr. Darcy) At length every idea seemed to fail him; and, after standing a few moments without saying a word, he suddenly recollected himself, and took leave.

You wonderfully awkward potato. I'm going to give you 5 points for character consistency and for being damn funny. Maybe you'll get out of negative digits someday.

Oh wait. I still don't like the way you fucked Jane over. You're cute, but I will remember that.

Whilst wandering on in this slow manner, they were again surprised, and Elizabeth’s astonishment was quite equal to what it had been at first, by the sight of Mr. Darcy approaching them, and at no great distance. 

He's like a whack-a-mole game. He just keeps popping up.

It was consoling that he should know she had some relations for whom there was no need to blush. She listened most attentively to all that passed between them, and gloried in every expression, every sentence of her uncle, which marked his intelligence, his taste, or his good manners.

I'm still in disagreement with Lizzy about family matters.

More of Lizzy being willfully blind about Mr. Darcy's regard... same old, same old.

It originated in Mrs. Gardiner, who, fatigued by the exercise of the morning, found Elizabeth’s arm inadequate to her support, and consequently preferred her husband’s. 

Mrs. Gardener needed no such thing. She knows what's up better than Lizzy does.

Mr. Darcy: “There is also one other person in the party,” he continued after a pause, “who more particularly wishes to be known to you. Will you allow me, or do I ask too much, to introduce my sister to your acquaintance during your stay at Lambton?”

This man needs help. Cart him off. He's insane.

“But perhaps he may be a little whimsical in his civilities,” replied her uncle.

Whimsical? That's an understatement. He's a damn fucking unicorn is what he is. Very skittish, doesn't warm up easily.

In confirmation of this, she related the particulars of all the pecuniary transactions in which they had been connected, without actually naming her authority, but stating it to be such as might be relied on.

Lizzy. Your secret-keeping powers are SHIT.

(Chapters 44 and 45)

[willow-salix]

Thought I'd share one of my isolation updates. I haven't had much time to join in with the #irrelief of @gumnut-logic because of these so I decided to go down the list and try to fit some of the requested prompts into this series of shorts. This is the one that I think Nutty requested, fish and chips on the beach. If anyone wants to give me some prompts or things they want the boys to do during lockdown, please feel free to send them in. The rest can be read on Ao3.

Day 47 of isolation on Tracy Island and I walked into the kitchen to find a bowl of fish staring at me.

"New pets?" I asked Gordon.

"If they are I really should have looked after them better," he answered, poking at the ice that they sat on. "We went fishing this morning."

"I never would have guessed."

"We thought we could have a fish dinner on the beach tonight, you know, barbie and beer, it'll be the best fish you've ever tasted."

I made a face. "I'm not really a big fish fan, I prefer them battered and wrapped in paper, not judging me for wanting another cup of coffee."

"You don't like fish?" You'd swear I'd just told him I hate puppies.

I shrugged.

"You have to like fish."

"What, is that a law now? The law of the island?"

"Yes."

I snorted. "Yeah, I'm gonna be breaking some laws then, bub." I pushed the bowl aside with a shudder of disgust and reached for the coffee pot.

"Come on, live a little, just try them."

"So when you ask me to try something I'm supposed to agree but I ask you to eat a Yorkshire pudding and you pitch a fit."

"Thats different."

"Why?"

"Because you've heard of a fish."

I tried to argue his logic but it was really hard, so as I always do in cases like this, I went on the defensive.

"Nope, batter and chips or nothing."

"Chips? Why would you eat chips with fish?"

"Because you do. With salt and vinegar on them."

"Won't they get soggy? And what flavour?"

"Flavour?" my brain whirled for a second before I caught his meaning. "Not crisps, chips, like fries, but fat ones."

He still looked baffled but pulled himself together. "OK, how about we do both? You make your battered stuff and your weird fries and I'll do my grilled fish and we'll see what's the best."

I thought about it for a moment or two, then held out my hand. "You're on."

“You have to help prepare them though,"he threw in just as he grabbed mine and shook.

“What? No!”

“The deal is struck,” the little sod grinned. Dammit.

Half an hour of convincing later and he had me standing beside him with a fish of my own and a sharp knife, neither of which I particularly wanted.

“So first we’re gonna scrape all the scales off, using the tip and flat edge of our knife,” he got to work, rubbing at the fish as if he were shaving it. Just like doing my legs, I could do that.

“I don’t want skin on my fish, I reminded him, not if it's gonna be battered.”

“We’ll get to that later, just get the scales off first.”

“Bossy,” I muttered, but did as I was told. We had some kitchen towel wrapped around the fish’s tail which made it a lot easier to hold but it was still icky and I knew the worst was still to come.

Gordon rinsed his under the tap and took a pair of kitchen scissors, I followed.

“Right, see this hole here?” he pointed with the tip of the scissors and I nodded. “That’s its butt. Stick your scissors in there-”

“I’m out!” I declared, dropping the fish in the sink. “Nope, I’d rather lose, but you know full well that no one else would blame me so you wouldn't get any glory from it anyway.”

I left the kitchen and went to hide with someone that would be nicer to me. I found Virgil first and decided he’d do. I flumped down next to him at the piano.

“You smell,” he greeted me.

“Thanks, love you too.”

“No, not you personally, you smell like fish.”

“Gordon tried to get me to poke its bum hole so I left.”

Virgil blinked, although he managed not to mess up, his fingers still dancing effortlessly over the keys, “I don’t know what to do with that information.”

“Neither did I, so I noped out of the situation and ran.”

“Good choice. He’ll end up doing yours for you anyway, he always does. He can’t stand to see fish prepared wrong so if you don't want to do it, just do it badly and then he’ll take over.”

“Pro tip!” I nodded. “Thanks for that.”

“Welcome.”

I reached out a finger to plonk a key, because it was just too tempting.

“Go wash your hands, you aren’t stinking up my piano.”

I lifted my hands up innocently. “Think he’ll be done yet?”

“Probably, he’s pretty quick at it, but I’d give it anoth-”

“Stop hiding, I’ve finished the fish,” Gordon called up the stairs to the lounge.

“See?”

“Woop!” I jumped back up, using his shoulder as leverage , much to his disgust. “We’re having a competition.”

“Of course you are, but if it involves food I’ll happily judge.”

I did that pointy finger, winky eye, clicky tongue thing in answer as I trotted back down the stairs.

True to his word he had the fish all prepared, he’d even fileted and skinned mine. He might be a pain in the butt most days but he was a good boy where it counted.

“I need beer,” I announced.

“Is the thought of touching fish really that bad? It’s only 2pm.”

“For the batter,” I sighed, rolling my eyes. “Why does everyone think I want to drink all day every day? I’m only drinking on a saturday night for the quiz.”

“Because it's fun to watch you get annoyed when we say it,” he shrugged. See? He’s a sod.

I stole one of his beers for that comment, and after checking the recipe, assembled my ingredients and began to mix flour, beer, sparkling water, spices and baking powder.

“So you're basically making a cake for your fish?” Virgil asked, wandering through to get a drink.

“No, I’m battering it, you cretin. Fish and chips, the english food of summer and beach trips. Squidward wanted fish on the beach, that's what you're getting.”

“She means fries,” Gordon added just in case Virgil didnt understand me either. “I’m doing grilled fish and vegetable kebabs.”

“Wanna help me peel potatoes?” I asked Virgil, who was the quickest peeler I knew.

“Sure.” Bless his chonky heart, he’s always ready to help, especially if food is involved.

Virgil peeled and I chopped, making a mound of fat chips which I threw into a pot of water to par-boil ready for frying later.

Gordon had barely done anything to his fish, just rubbed some seasoning and oil into the skins and laid some lemon slices on top. Apparently simple was key, I told him that was a good thing if he was in charge. He threw a slice of lemon at me.

We stored all the prepared food in the second fridge and wandered off to wait for evening.

At around seven that night we had everyone assembled outside, some around the barbecue and some just lounging around waiting to be fed.

They had one of those fancy pants grills that have two gas rings on one side, which was needed for me to heat up two massive pans of oil. I had a flashback to the donut incident and was very grateful that Grandma wasn't involved this time and that she hadn’t fed me cooking sherry.

I had a few near misses with splattering oil and it took me a while to get the dip and slip action just right ( that was what I was calling the dipping in batter to coat the fish and then letting it slip and slide into the oil) but we got there in the end.

The chips were frying nicely and we’d managed to get vinegar from a jar of pickled onions, which was perfect for me as I prefer onion vinegar on my chips anyway.

Gordon had these weird fish cages, where he trapped the fish inside and just turned the whole thing to cook the other side instead of flipping.

It was supposed to be a competition but since it was just the two of us I obviously hadn’t triggered his competitive Tracy gene which is only activated in the presence of his siblings. It was actually quite nice to chill with him for a bit, we got into a nice rhythm and managed not to get in each others way too much.

When he was busy with his fish and his veggie kababs were getting a little too charred I turned them all for him, he in turn rescued a batch of chips as I had my hands covered in batter. See, we could be civilised.

We dished out food like it was a canteen, everyone lining up with plates. We didn't want people to have to choose whose food they wanted to try so we gave them some of everything and then all trooped down to the beach where Scott and Virgil had already lit the firepit.

Gordon's fish was ok, but I didn't like the fact that it still looked like a fish, its eyes were staring at me and I was plucking around its bones, which just wasn't for me, but the veggie kebabs were nice so I gave Scott the fish to finish.

I looked over to see Alan holding the entire piece of battered fillet in his hand and biting into it like it was a slice of pizza...I honestly don't know how his brain works sometimes.

“Back home we have tiny wooden forks for the fish and chips,” I told him, which blew his mind. I had to get my phone out and show him pictures of them.

“So, who’s fish was the best?” Gordon asked once everyone was done eating, although Alan was still doing his impression of the seagulls from Nemo and snaffling left overs with little yelps of “Mine” every time someone abandoned a plate. I was currently feeding him chips as he sat patiently with his mouth open.

“I like them both,” Jeff hedged. “But the beer batter was interesting.”

“Batter is a little too crispy for my tastes,” John mused, nibbling on a piece of batter he’d picked off my plate.

“I like the fat fries,” Alan mumbled around a mouthful of said chips.

“I liked the lemony taste of the fish,” Virgil added.

“So who won?” I asked.

Everyone shrugged.

We decided in the end that we didn't care who won, it had just been fun to cook and hang out on the beach and chill. Sometimes that's all you need in life, sorry we weren't more exciting but this is just a normal family that is coping with things the way that everyone else is.

They want to be out there helping people and doing things like normal, but they can't and it’s definitely starting to impact on them a lot, so if chilled days and enforced rest is all we can do, then were going to make the most of it.

[recordmcqueen]

so there was this fanart of gopal and fang and ofc my gofang bren just went wild as one would in my content-starved circumstance but alas the requests that the drawing was answering were “fang no visor” which is very good excellent i stan, and “gopal but thinner” which. well. im takin all the gofang i can get my hands on but...really?