#moff speaks

[random-moth]

Starlight Express (old and new) x Transformers

Ima go design later lol

[corellianhounds]

An alternate universe where the Mandalorian never turns the child over to the Client.

Pilot episode begins as normal with the Mandalorian retrieving a bounty and heading back to Nevarro. This Mandalorian moves a little more stiffly, handles the bounty a little more harshly, as if he’s had an even harder life than the one we the audience have come to know. His armor is a different patchwork assembly of materials and trophy pieces scavenged from his successful hunts, in addition to a beskar helmet and one vambrace with what one might assume is red paint. It’s hard to tell.

The Mandalorian is even more on guard once inside the Stormtrooper safehouse, obviously uncomfortable, and his gaze never wavers as he listens to the Client while he makes the offer. His hand is never far from his holster.

When he accepts the job and goes back to the covert, down payment of beskar in tow, everything proceeds as normal, save for the conversation with the Armorer as she prepares the forge for the casting process. His voice is almost unrecognizable, hoarse from disuse, a gruffness that’s more pronounced and world-weary than we’ve come to know in canon, further evidence of an even harder life.

“This is extremely generous,” the Armorer says, looking over the ingot. “The excess will sponsor many foundlings.”

“That’s good,” the Mandalorian says. “… How are they faring?”

“They are doing very well,” the Armorer replies. “They will be happy to see you.”

The Armorer prepares the forge to make the pauldron for the Mandalorian, and as the music ramps up we see the same flashbacks as before, the stamp of the forge and flickering lights harkening back to that day on Aq Vetina so many years ago. The Mandalorian remains rigidly in place, unflinching as the Armorer works, his mind’s eye filled with images of a terrified family racing through the streets as their friends and neighbors are shot and killed in the midst of an assault on their city. The flames of the forge settle once more and we barely get the glimpse of a brown-eyed child in red robes being rushed to the safety of an underground shelter before we cut back to the expressionless mask of the Mandalorian. The Mandalorian leader bestows his armament, placing the pauldron on his shoulder herself, and we cut to the Razor Crest’s descent on Arvala-7.

Events proceed as normal all the way up through the assault on the Nikto bandits’ encampment. Though the Mandalorian’s disdain for droids is clear, he and IG-11 still blow a hole in the hideout and follow the tracking beacon to the metal pod half-hidden beneath netting and supplies. When it opens to reveal a small green creature with large, dark eyes, the Mandalorian stills in his tracks.

He never asks IG-11 for clarification regarding the target’s age. He never asks IG-11 anything because the second the pod opened the Mandalorian realized what the occupant was and had already made a decision.

A shot rings out. The assassin-turned-bounty-droid falls to the floor inert, and the Mandalorian cautiously reaches out his finger to the child, seeing him reach back.

The Mandalorian leaves for his ship that night, pushing through the injuries sustained in the firefight with the Niktos. His dogged trek back to the Crest puts his arrival right at the beginning of the Jawas’ scrap haul, and he readily dispatches them with the rifle before assessing the damage to his rig. The Ugnaught helps him here too, piecing the ship back together and fortifying it for flight off-world. The Mandalorian thanks him, and the discussion turns back to the bounty before the Mandalorian is set to depart, asking for assistance with one other project.

“What do you suppose it is?” Kuiil asks. “I worked in the gene fields for years and I’ve never seen its like.”

“A child,” the Mandalorian says. “That’s all that matters.” He’s stooped next to the boy, keeping him steady with a gentle hand as Kuiil fastens a small bracer around his forearm. When it clicks into place it lights up, and Kuiil carefully presses a sequence into it before it emits a high-pitched whine that makes the boy shake his head, tugging at the Ugnaught’s grasp.

Kuiil gently pats his head with his other hand. “The noise will go away after a minute.” Then to Mando: “Do you have the code you wish to input?”

Mando nods and the Ugnaught watches as Mando presses another sequence along the bracer before locking it in place. The Mandalorian grunts, satisfied, shifting the boy’s sleeve back down around the bracer once all of the lights are blue. The tracking fob on the Mandalorian’s belt goes dark and silent. He picks the boy up and settles him against his hip as the boy wriggles his arm free, looking down at his sleeve.

Mando addresses Kuiil again. “I can’t thank you enough for your help. Please allow me to pay you for the trouble.”

The Ugnaught shakes his head, turning to walk away. “There will be no peace until the old ways of the Empire are gone forever. I’m happy to help.“

The Ugnaught stands at his homestead and watches as the Razor Crest swiftly lifts off red clay soil, turning its nose skyward and ascending to break the atmosphere. It does not return to Nevarro.

What follows is a season different from canon, one where the Mandalorian takes different contract jobs where he can but steers clear of official Guild business. The child is always by his side, and though we can’t see Mando’s face we see how he cares for the little boy, providing for and protecting him at every turn. The dichotomy of the Mandalorian’s character is seen in how quickly he falls into the parental role versus how he treats those he deems a threat, readily removing both pauldron and breastplate to let a baby sleep against his shoulder while in the same day snapping a man’s wrist for laying hands on the cradle. He removes his gloves and allows the child to play with his hands as he sits on the floor across from him, provides him with improvised toys, and he even seems to hum as he walks the length of the ship and back with the boy in his arms, bedtime accompanied by a gravelly voice finding use again in soothing a restless child. When the child absently gnaws on his calloused knuckle the Mandalorian lets him, gently stroking the boy’s cheek with his thumb as he pilots one-handed. It’s as though he’d always been meant for this role, slotting seamlessly into place.

The Mandalorian’s vicious protective streak reaches new heights too. Instead of what we’re used to seeing in Din offering everybody at least one chance, this Mandalorian only offers it half the time and even then seems reluctant to do so. He can’t take as many chances— The patchwork armor of trophy pieces and improvised protective gear isn’t as resilient as Mandalorian iron; there’s no full beskar cuirass or whistling birds since he never returned to Nevarro to collect payment from the Client. During all of their travels he fends off thugs, mercenaries, and hired guns of every kind, showing no mercy to those who threaten or try to use the kid as leverage against him, demanding what beskar he does have. Shoot first, ask questions later.

Interestingly enough, however, none of his adversaries are other Guild hunters. Anyone he runs across are people trying to prove something by gunning for a fight (something he’s used to, having been a Mandalorian for almost thirty years now), or trying to scavenge the beskar, or they’re enemies from his past with scores to settle.

The job he takes with the crew at the chop shop has a very different feeling to it. For one, it isn’t Ranzar Malk running the garage but his brother Tyko. Mayfeld is still the same as he is in canon, and though Burg is similar to what we know, he’s not sizing up the Mandalorian like before, and the Devaronian is missing most of one horn. He lingers in the back, his arms crossed as Zero joins them, Xi’an not far behind.

There’s no catty Harley Quinn-esque taunting and flirting with Mando this time around. When Xi'an joins the group she’s collected and silent, watching Mando from the corner of her eye as Tyko briefs the lot of them on the mission and plans out their route to and through the prison ship. Mayfeld, the only one not familiar with Malk’s crew from before, tries for a couple of jabs but none of them really land because nobody else joins in, and we can see him slowly start to feel the creeping unease the Mandalorian gives the others from his presence in their midst. On the Crest the Devaronian and Twi’lek give him a wide berth, keeping to the other side of the hold, and when Mayfeld’s the one to prompt a scuffle, reaching for the Mandalorian’s helmet, Mando reacts swiftly and fends him off. The door to the bunk still opens, revealing the kid, but before Mayfeld can close the gap to pick him up, Mando lands his last blow with a vibroblade straight through the edge of Mayfeld’s shoulder padding, just to the left of his bicep, pinning him to the wall.

Mayfeld’s doing his best not to show his panic, and though the others approached when the fight started they’ve still stopped several feet away, this time telling Mayfeld to back down. That Mando’s still needed for the mission.

Mando lingers with his hand on the hilt of the blade, his thumb hovering over the safety that would switch the vibroblade on and easily slice right into the meat of Mayfeld’s arm. He stays there long enough to make his point clear before jerking it out and letting Mayfeld stumble away, Mayfeld swearing as he does. Zero latches onto the prison ship and they drop down below as planned.

Everything in The Prisoner still goes as it does in canon (though with the characters changed just a little to the left in their regard of Mando), and when Ranzar Malk is revealed to be the prisoner they’re extracting, Mando’s caught in the middle of the ambush from the others, putting up more of a fight when he realizes the betrayal. The sequence that follows is harder hitting and bloodier than we see in canon: Burg eventually gets his hands around the Mandalorian’s upper arms, holding him in place for Ran to get a couple shots in.

“That’s for Alzoc III,” Ran snarls, ramming a fist in Mando’s gut and spitting on the face of the helmet.

The Devaronian lets go of one of the Mandalorian’s arms as he’s doubled over, putting both hands onto one shoulder and wrenching his arm out of socket. The Mandalorian lets out a strangled yell. “That’s for double-crossing us,” Burg growls.

The Mandalorian gasps, barely standing as Burg holds him by the arm. Xi’an ends with stabbing him between the ribs, up close and personal as she digs the knife in to the hilt just to the side of his armor. “And that’s for my brother.”

They shove him into the prison cell, harsh laughter echoing down the halls as they make their escape.

The Mandalorian looks down for the count. We watch as he drags himself, bleeding, upwards against the cell wall, assessing the droids outside in passing. He pants unevenly, gingerly assesses the stab wound with a shaking hand and grunts again in pain. With a steadying breath he steels himself and rolls his dislocated shoulder back into socket, yelling again. One injury fixed, he peers out of the jail cell again with his hand on his side, waiting for the most opportune moment to strike.

When Mando breaks free the hunt that follows is severely personal and merciless. Blood drips down his side and leaves a trail through white corridors. How he separates the criminals is similar to before, getting each of them pinned before ending with his stand-off with Malk. Ran makes the same bargaining negotiation as Qin does in canon and Mando still shoots Zero in the cargo hold before returning to the Roost with Ran in tow.

Tyko pays out the money to the Mandalorian, as promised, though it’s clear the brothers aren’t happy with how things shook out with the rest of the crew. Mando departs, they get ready to fire on his ship, the New Republic X-wings show up as before, having followed the tracking beacon Mando took from the prison ship and planted on Ran, and the chop shop is destroyed just as Mando planned.

The Mandalorian is uncharacteristically stiff in the cockpit, his movements jerky and labored. The kid coos, trying to get his attention, but as soon as the navicomp charts their course and they jump to hyperspace, the Mandalorian exhales raggedly, adrenaline finally running its course as he slumps over in his seat.

The child can sense something is wrong and wriggles out of his own seat, padding over to the Mandalorian. He shakes the man’s leg, worried when he doesn’t respond, and we see his gaze track to where the Mandalorian is still bleeding from Xi’an’s stab wound, his flightsuit darkening by the second.

The child’s eyes widen in alarm and he clambers up over his guardian’s boot, climbing his pant leg and over his lap until he can reach the Mandalorian’s side, blood pooling where his breastplate doesn’t cover. The child strains to reach the injury while keeping his balance, closing his eyes and holding out his hand, and very slowly we watch as the flow of blood beneath the suit stops and the wound knits back together as if it were never there.

There’s a long moment still before the Mandalorian takes a shuddering breath, jolting upright and nearly dislodging the child before catching him on reflex as the boy’s eyes slip close and he slumps against Mando’s chest. The Mandalorian looks around, feels at his side, and— in frustration at not being able to see with the angle he’s looking— takes his helmet off just above the view of the camera. He pulls his glove off with his teeth and he goes to feel his side again, his hand only bloody on its retreat from skimming his clothes. The knife wound from the Twi’lek is healed entirely, the muscle smooth and the skin unmarred. He gasps again, disbelieving, before he realizes the child is unconscious in the crook of his opposite arm. We see over the Mandalorian’s shoulder, just past brown hair going silver at the temples as he worriedly checks for the child’s pulse and breath. The tense moment holds, silence in the flickering light of hyperspace, before we can see the Mandalorian relax with a shudder, reassured that the boy is still alive. He gently tries to wake him, slipping his thumb into the boy’s hand, but the child doesn’t move.

Mando brings the child up against his chest, squeezing him gently in an all-encompassing hug before tucking him under his chin and standing from the pilot’s chair, the audience still never seeing his face. He turns back towards the ladder behind him while the camera lingers on the dash and the helmet smeared with blood, his retreating reflection warped in the visor.

Though we leave the found family on a good note, the next episode begins back on Nevarro with the Mandalorian covert that still remains below ground, having never had to expose themselves because Mando never returned with and subsequently stole the child back in the first place. Above, the marketplace is a buzz of gossip: rumors travel fast in a town like theirs and it becomes apparent to the audience that both the Guild hunters and Imperials from the safehouse are angry about the biggest target that sector had seen in a century suddenly dropping off the grid. Karga, a veteran Guild broker and diplomatic businessman, has his hands full mediating between short tempers left and right. Regular citizens are wary of leaving their homes and Karga sees hunters harassing others in town as competition for work stokes tempers even higher. The Client is furious, his stony expression betraying nothing but the tone of his voice making it quite clear what he thinks of Karga’s “most valuable partner.”

The Mandalorians of the covert discuss their options, knowing that if any of them are seen aboveground now of all times, they’d immediately be considered a target by association and hauled in for questioning, if not killed on the spot. The foundlings are packing bags, tools and supplies and blankets and toys hastily assembled or forced to be left behind. They don’t know what happened to the bounty hunter but it’s clear Nevarro is no longer safe for them to remain there.

Night’s beginning to fall as a rumble of thunder shakes the earth. The Client and Dr. Pershing’s furtive argument is cut short as they glance in the direction of the noise. Civilians halt in the streets, searching the sky for approaching ships. Hunters straighten in the cantina and go to the windows, looking out as others in alcoves outside begin to emerge, on guard. Mandalorians in the tunnels freeze for only a moment before mobilization efforts pick up double time at the Armorer’s orders, all of them knowing trouble when they hear it.

Three ships kick up dust and gravel as they land on the port city of Nevarro, two carrying troupes of sleek, efficient gunmen that pour out into the town square as an Outland TIE fighter descends behind them.

The next episode picks up with the Mandalorian muttering to himself as he unfastens hidden compartments in his ship, obviously in search of something. His visor occasionally darts to the cradle where the child sleeps cocooned in a muted red blanket. Frustrated by whatever it is he can’t find, the Mandalorian sighs and answers an incoming holo from another employer about a job.

When he arrives at his destination he places one ungloved hand on the child’s chest, needing the reassurance that he’s still breathing and just asleep, before he leaves and locks the ship behind him. The hunt follows the Mandalorian like normal— a local fetch and ferry to get enough credits for food and fuel— but it’s clear he’s impatient to return. How the camera moves as he wraps up the job and cuffs the target gives the audience the distinct impression that he’s being followed.

The Mandalorian has to intimidate the commissioner into paying out the full price promised for the job and he leaves silently once the man forks over the credits. He slips between people in the crowded marketplace, and as he rounds a corner the camera follows him, only to reveal an empty alleyway.

Greef Karga scans the alley, confused, and behind him in the blurry background we see a figure silently lower from the scaffolding and drop to the ground, grabbing Karga’s shoulder and whirling him around to slam his back against the wall.

The Mandalorian remains still as Karga yelps, clasping his wrist and breathing a sigh of relief at realizing who it is.

“What are you doing here,” the Mandalorian demands, his voice low and dangerous.

“Easy Mando, it’s just me, I’m sorry—”

“What are you doing here, Karga? Start talking.”

Karga shoves him off, irritable but evidently unafraid of the Mandalorian with a blaster still aimed at his chest. He looks around, lowering his voice too. “There’s a problem. We need to talk.”

“You followed me for two hours to talk with a gun in your hand?” Mando says flatly.

Karga scowls, holstering his pistol. “This is the Ring of Kafrene, you think I’m stupid enough to let my guard down here? Listen, I had to find you— Something’s happened on Nevarro.”

With the finale nearing, it turns out Karga himself was the only one capable of tracking down the Mandalorian, familiar with his old haunts and sources. None of the other Guild members or informants had seen hide or hair of either the Mandalorian or the target— It appeared the kid was listed on multiple registers and posting boards by a number of different entities and clients gunning for him. The Imperial warlord on Nevarro just happened to have the largest reward. When the child’s bio-signature disappeared and all tracking fobs were rendered useless, thanks to the bracer Kuiil was able to configure for the kid to scramble his chain-code, it caused a number of issues between the Guild, the still-operating ISB (through which the Bounty Hunters Guild operates), and posting agencies across the galaxy.

There in the hold of the Crest Karga says he’s there to warn Mando: a few days before this, an Imperial Moff arrived on Nevarro, establishing a despotic hold on the town and holding it hostage until the Mandalorian that disappeared from Arvala-7 returned to his base of operations with the target in tow. Karga managed to persuade the Moff into giving him time, saying he could find the Razor Crest but had to do it alone, and that he could convince Djarin to return.

Until then Mando had stubbornly refused to budge an inch, but when Karga says his family name— one very few are privy to— he jerks in surprised anger and stalks forward and demands to know how Karga got that information.

“The Moff,” Karga says, backing up, hands raised. “He says he has your family as ransom for the kid, that you would know what that meant.”

“My family is dead,” Mando states flatly.

“He had one of them,” Karga says, confused. “Another Mandalorian? A woman?”

At that, Mando freezes. “… Another Mandalorian.”

“Yes!”

“What did she look like?”

“I don’t know, you all wear the masks, she wasn’t—”

Mando grabbed Karga’s collar and shoved him against the bulkhead. “What did she look like?!”

“A gold helmet!” Karga says, floundering. “Red armor, I don’t know, a— a fur mantle! She was still alive when I left!”

Mando dropped his broker back to his feet, stumbling back in astonishment. “They have her?!”

“Yes! I didn’t know who she was, I’ve been hailing the Crest for weeks since you went dark but you didn’t answer, never got the holos, I didn’t have any other comm—”

Mando whirls on his feet and stalks towards the ladder, Karga forced to catch up. “Who is she, Mando? What’s going on?”

Karga followed him to the cockpit where the child lay curled up on one of the seats, still asleep. Mando scooped him up onto his lap and hurriedly flicked through his pre-flight checks, manually priming the Crest for takeoff. “He found the covert.”

Karga pitched to the side as the ship rumbled to life. Mando hardly spared enough time to make sure they were clear of their surroundings, hydraulics groaning under the strain of a cold liftoff. “The- the other Mandalorians on Nevarro, the tribe hidden beneath the city— Karga, there are children down there—”

Karga stumbled again, barely grabbing the other seat behind him; he hauled himself into it and strapped in. The Crest took off at a juddering pace, Mando pushing it to the limits to break atmo and set his course.

“Tell me everything,” the Mandalorian demanded once in hyperspace, turning back to Karga. The child made a soft sound in the crook of his arm, still asleep. “We’re going to get backup, and then we’re going to take back our city.”

—

Whatever allies Mando has made along the way are swiftly recruited to his and Karga’s cause. Kuiil and the reconfigured assassin droid join their ranks (the latter at the Mandalorian’s obvious loathing), one or two others from the season in tow. Either the Moff wiped out the covert, or had the rest of them under armed guard to ensure they didn’t interfere in an attempt to free the Armorer, or she gave herself up as a hostage in order to distract the Moff and let everyone else get out of harm’s way until the Mandalorians could make a coordinated attack against the remnant Imperials. If it’s the latter (and he prays that it is), Mando knows without a doubt who will be leading the charge and says they’ll need to find him first.

If it’s either of the former scenarios, then… Their prospects are much more grim. He says to plan for that, saying it’s possible the rest of the covert may already be dead or well on their way to it.

The child wakes up sometime during the flight and recruitment phase, and the Mandalorian is relieved to see he, at least, is doing better. He’s not exactly sure how the kid did what he did the night of the prison break gone awry, but he can see why the Client and the Moff may be eager to get their hands on him. During the retrieval of their allies we see Mando poring through what appear to be old codices and scrolls of some forgotten religion, finally found in the hidden recesses of his ship. The leather binding is cracked and the pages are yellowing with age, but it’s clear in how reverently he handles them that they mean a great deal to him.

There’s a quiet moment where we see the rest of the crew asleep in the hold while Mando sits up in the cockpit. He allows the child to crawl into his lap, turning the pages to bookmarked passages with drawings so the child can see. The child makes no sign that he recognizes anything Mando points out to him, murmuring the names of things, until he curiously lands on the page with an iridescent drawing of a cluster of crystals. The child perks up, leaning forward to tap the page, looking between the Mandalorian’s visor and the book expectantly. The Mandalorian re-reads the passage to himself before asking the boy:

“You know what this is?”

The boy tilts his head.

“Kyber crystals? You recognize them?”

The boy coos, his ears alert. He taps the page again.

Mando flips through the adjacent topics on either side of the page containing information on the crystals. “Ilum? Christophsis?”

The child doesn’t respond, instead trying to turn back to the page containing the crystal drawings. Mando flipped forward some more.

“The Whills? Jedha?” No response. “The Final Protector? Does any of this ring a bell?”

Still the child showed no interest. No other drawings or names elicited the same response.

Mando sighed. He wasn’t even sure the boy understood Basic, let alone human speech at all. He’d never spoken.

Still, the passage on the crystals themselves gave the Mandalorian an inkling as to why the boy might have latched onto them, and if his hunch was right, there was only one explanation for why the Mandalorian hadn’t bled out in the cockpit after he left the chop shop.

The thought was concerning.

The rallied forces aboard the Razor Crest descend far out from the outskirts of Nevarro’s port city. Not wanting to alert the Imperials should they be listening over the covert’s comm channels or their own, they maintain radio silence and depart on foot across the flats. They access the old pyroduct exit on the flats and Mando leads them down to the lava flow under the city.

Before they make it very far down the tunnels, though, he’s grabbed by hands reaching from the dark and shoving him up against the igneous wall.

“You’ve got a lot of nerve showing your skin around here,” Paz Vizsla growls. Mando’s crew snaps to attention, blasters raising as two other Mandalorians materialize from the shadows, their own guns brought to bear. Mando scrabbles at the infantryman’s wrist as Paz tightens his grip around his throat. His feet dangle above the ground. “I ought to kill you myself.”

IG-11 raises his blaster and immediately fires a shot that ricochets off of Vizsla’s helmet— The action spurs a flurry of activity as other Mandalorians appear, bringing their guns up in a line of defense the same time Mando’s group does. The cacophony of threats only dies down as Kuiil raises his voice above theirs, stepping between both groups and mediating until both sides calm down. IG-11 lowers his blaster, following Kuiil’s command.

Mando brings his vambrace down hard on Vizsla’s gauntlet, forcing Paz to drop him. He’s pretty sure Paz let him go just to see him fall, but he doesn’t care.

“Where are the foundlings?” Mando asks hoarsely, rubbing his throat.

Paz scoffs. “If you cared, you wouldn’t have done whatever blasted fool thing you did to bring the Empire down on our heads. Where have you been? What did you do?”

“I’ll explain when I can,” Mando says. He gestures to the crew behind him. “I brought backup. Are the foundlings safe? How many people do we have left?”

“You’re not calling the shots here,” Vizsla snarls. “The Armorer’s being held until you turn yourself over to the Moff, and if I have to drag you up there tonight myself—”

“There’s a kid,” Mando interjects. “The Moff is after a child.”

Paz glances to his right where Mando’s allies stand, unsure as they look between themselves.

“Start making sense.”

Mando turns to his group, gesturing for Kuiil to come forward with the boy’s pod. The cradle opens to reveal the small green boy with pointed ears, staring curiously up at those around him with big brown eyes before Mando continues. “I didn’t know the target was a kid when I was hired to find him. He’s barely old enough to walk. The client that commissioned me promised a camtono of beskar for him but I would never have been able to make that exchange. I couldn't turn him over.”

Vizsla’s hackles seem to lower at the sight of the boy and Mando’s explanation, the fire in his tirade dying down. “Why would he want a kid? Is it his?”

“I doubt it. I’ve never seen this species before, I can’t find anything about him anywhere. He’s… different.”

“Different how?”

“He’s Force-sensitive.”

“A Jedi?!” Paz asks, incredulous. The Mandalorians’ grips on their blasters tighten again and Mando’s friends shift uneasily. “The Jedi were wiped out, they’ve been gone for decades, how did you—”

“I don’t know, I’ve only heard of them in folklore, but he can do things I’ve never seen before, I didn’t think—”

“You weren’t thinking at all. You picked up an enemy’s child and you kept it.” Paz shook his head in disbelief. “Of course you would, of course you’d grab something that would bring the Empire to our door—”

“They would have killed him,” Mando snaps. Paz turns away and stalks down the tunnel to where a small cache of guns is propped next to some meager supplies. “The Empire destroys anything that doesn’t fit their mold and takes every good thing the rest of us has for themselves. Beskar or the Force or our land, it doesn’t matter, they wipe us out and scavenge the pieces—”

“Us,” Paz emphasizes, straightening up. He jabs an accusatory finger against Mando’s breastplate. “You had other options. The elders only took you in because you wouldn’t let them go without you. You were old enough, you could’ve gone back to the rubble they picked you out of and stayed there and we would have been fine without you and we wouldn’t be here right now and the Armorer—”

It was Mando’s turn to shove Vizsla against the wall, whipping a vibroblade up to hum beneath the lip of his helmet. Paz went still.

“Don’t speak to me of Aq Vetina,” the Mandalorian says viciously, the antechamber deathly quiet. “I lost everything, Vizsla. And I earned my place here. You’re no better than me because you were born into it.”

The cavern is silent for a long moment as they eye each other.

“If you’re one of us,” Vizsla says slowly, “Then what’s your plan to get everybody out?”

—

Vizsla’s and Mando’s groups come to an uneasy alliance, working together to plan an ambush on the Imperial forces. As Vizsla tells them how part of the covert managed to escape when the Imps started flooding the tunnels, his narration provides the voiceover for the scenes as they happened in the days prior, several warriors taking the foundlings out of one of the hidden exits to escape while the rest of them remained behind to fight and stall for time. The Imperials managed to get the Armorer separated from the group, those who took her no mere Stormtroopers but slick, black armor-encased Deathtroopers. She killed six alone before they stunned her, hauling her back towards the entrance they’d blown in the tunnels as the rest of the Mandalorians fought. Though they’d surged after her they were beaten back by a barrage of cannon fire, an E-WEB stationed up on the street that would have annihilated them had the tunnel not collapsed and blocked them in first. Vizsla’s tone is grim as he details the loss of another four Mandalorians who had gone above together in an attempt to retrieve their leader. Vizsla pulled the rest back to regroup and strategize farther outside of town, should the Imperials come back down to finish the job.

After spending the entire night strategizing it comes down to this: Kuiil and IG-11 would leave to take the boy back to the ship for safekeeping while Mando’s group used the tunnels to get up to the cantina on the other end of the main drag with the kid’s floating cradle as bait, and then they’d proceed to negotiate an exchange with the Moff for the Armorer while the Mandalorians placed detonators around the central bazaar. While Karga stalled for time with the Moff, backed by Vizsla, Mando, and Mando’s allies, the rest of the Mandalorians would move into position for an ambush and strike from above, using the Phoenixes to mount an aerial assault. Vizsla would destroy or commandeer the E-WEB to take out the Imps while Mando retrieved the Armorer. With luck, there’d still be enough Mandalorians with jetpacks able to grab each of them on the ground and fly out of range, finishing off the Imperials with the detonation from above.

The rescue party begins to bed down for the night, only a few hours between them and sunup. Paz can be seen looking over at the child’s cradle as Mando rolls out his bedroll. He looks back at Mando.

“How do you know the kid’s really Jedi?” he asks. “What did he do?”

Mando glances at Paz, getting settled. His hand rests on his ribs as he lies on his back.

“He saved me.”

The scene cuts to Dr. Pershing and the Client, frustratedly discussing something between themselves in the lab of the Stormtrooper safehouse. A comlink on the table behind them lights up and crackles to life, a familiar voice saying, “Come in, Doctor. It’s me.”

The two quickly come to the table, the Client picking up the comlink. “Yes? I presume you have answers?”

“Yes,” the voice says. “I can tell you where the child is.”

The next day brought with it a sense of unease. Everything was contingent on their bluff holding up long enough to keep the Moff’s attention while the Mandalorians snuck into the city from the outside, remaining undetected. Mando comm’d Kuiil to have him on standby once he reached the ship, ready to fly the Crest out to them on their escape.

Mando, Karga, Paz Vizsla, and the rest of Mando’s few recruits split off and made for the surface. They cut an exit from the maintenance access grate in the common house, quietly slipping out and barricading themselves behind upturned tables for safe measure. Karga makes his announcement and gives their terms to the Moff from the cantina.

The Moff seems entirely disinterested in what Karga has to say, however, unresponsive and unperturbed. Mando can see his focus turn almost to face him, as though he can somehow see through the architecture blocking him from view. The man in black outside projects his voice to be heard through the latticed window.

“A chain-code is a curious thing,” the Imperial says. “Individualized for each citizen, archived upon their demise, and until recently thought to be irreplicable. Falsified perhaps, but never revived.”

Mando goes very still. Karga and Paz looked between each other. “What’s he talking about, Mando? Who is this guy?”

The Moff continued. “When I saw this one crop up for the first time in almost thirty years, I thought our intelligence had found a glitch in the system, or perhaps someone was able to slip by unnoticed for decades before making some crucial error in revealing themselves.”

The familiar flashback of a mother and father racing through city streets begins to flicker in and out as the camera focuses on the Mandalorian, explosions and laser fire raining down around them as the man carries his young son in his arms. Neighbors, disciples, friends… Bodies fall as ships fly overhead and battle droids stalk the streets of Aq Vetina.

The Mandalorian strides for the door, halted in his tracks by the crew grabbing his shoulders, standing between him and the exit. “Mando,” one of them hisses, “Mando, what are you doing?”

The music builds, and though we can’t hear it we see the woman scream as another explosion rocks the ground beside them, a nearby wall crumbling and collapsing. The boy’s father course-corrects and races down a different street, his eyes darting between the chaos for somewhere to protect his family. The boy clings to his neck and squeezes his eyes shut, feeling his father’s coarse beard against his cheek as strong arms tremble around him. Plasma and smoke fills the air.

“It’s Moff Gideon,” the Mandalorian snarls. “He was an ISB officer during the Purge. He knew my name— He knew how to draw us out—”

The man stumbles to a knee but the boy’s mother helps him up, dragging him away from the wreckage of yet another building. Their hearts thud wildly in their chests as they race for the cellar beyond the pavilion, adrenaline fueling their feet and clearing their heads of all other thoughts but to run, and survive.

“Gideon gave the order for the Night of a Thousand Tears,” Mando said venomously, jerking in their grip. “He ordered the attack on my home.”

The scene in the ravaged cantina melts away, and Aq Vetina takes center stage.

—

The reinforced cellar doors come into view. The man skids to a halt, looking around them as his wife takes the boy from his arms so he can open the doors. He turns his son to look at him, cradling his round face in his hands as he does.

“Look at me,” he says as steadily as he can manage. “I will come back for you. It’s going to be okay.”

The boy nods, wide brown eyes mirroring his father’s. His father kisses his brow and his mother helps lower him below ground. There isn’t time for him to tell his wife goodbye as he helps her clamber down to meet their son, and as he takes one last look at the faces of his family he tries to smile in reassurance, praying they don’t see his tears as he closes the doors, sunlight dissipating to darkness around them.

The man turns to run, to lead their attackers away from the shelter. Four battle droids march down the streets. He waves to draw their fire, dodges another volley of shots and darts away from the cellar—

But the man in red only makes it twenty feet before a deafening clap of thunder knocks him back, the blast from the battle droid’s missile sending a concussive ripple through his body.

There’s a long, deafening silence accompanied only by a high-pitched ringing in his ears. The man tries to move, rolls over, thinking No, no, please… Please, not them… and his head falls at a painful angle to see the cellar doors beyond him, caved in and hanging from the hinges in a smoldering black crater.

His heart seizes. He chokes, the painful realization of what he’s just lost washing over him. An agonizing cry of fury, despair, and heartbroken anguish tears from his chest as he screams.

The man shoves off the ground in a rage-induced burst of defiance, grabbing a broken spade and wielding it like a quarterstaff as a battle droid comes into view. He darts beneath its uplifted arm as turmoil rages on, uncaring and unseeing beyond the singular purpose of dismantling the creature piece by piece by any means necessary. He jabs the broken-off metal tip into the droid’s unarmored shoulder joint high above him and shoves it up into the carapace, sparks flying. He pulls back and strikes again as the droid twists to grab him. Unfeeling metal locks around his upper arm and yanks him into the air, his feet kicking above the ground. The uncaring optical sensors turn his way as the arm locks in another shot.

He doesn’t care. He’s already died once that day.

But before he can pass into the next life with a mouth full of blood and a demand for answers, a different shot rings out, hitting the battle droid in the opposite shoulder. The man blinks, and the droid pivots, only to be shot in rapid fire succession by blaster-fire of a different kind, collapsing it to the earth and releasing the man as it does.

Several long seconds pass and the man tries to gather his strength. He turns over and looks up to see the visor of a warrior clad in armor, more like them descending upon the city and swiftly taking out every battle droid in the streets, shielding survivors with their own armored bodies, deflecting blaster-fire, pushing the advancing assailants back.

When the warrior extends their hand to him, the man takes it without hesitation and stands to his feet.

“The Imperial Security Bureau has records dating back decades.” Gideon looked to the common house from the side. “It’s curious to see a child’s chain-code come back from the dead.”

Mando’s allies struggle to hold him back, the whole group straining and clamoring for him to wait, to stick to the plan. Outside, more soldiers file in behind the Deathtroopers.

“Tell me, Tomás Djarin, for how long did you think you could use your son’s code as a cover for this substitute?”

A growl rips from Mando’s throat and he breaks free, lunging for the exit and slamming against the door, narrowly seized only by Karga and Vizsla hauling him back by the shoulders. Mando seethes, straining against their hold, his boots losing traction and sliding over gravel as he fights.

“What do you propose?” Karga barked to the Moff outside, gritting his teeth in the struggle.

Gideon smiled.

“Reasonable negotiation. I have in my possession an E-WEB cannon, with which I know many of your Mandalorian’s brethren are already intimately familiar. Come outside, lay down your arms, and we’ll consider sparing the city.”

Thick tension bore down around them in the silence. Mando sagged defeatedly, the reminder of the city held hostage shuttering his ire. It was time.

“Kuiil,” he murmurs into his comm. “Kuiil if you can hear me, take the kid and get out of here.”

He keeps his hand on the cradle as they leave the common house.

Moff Gideon towers above them, encased in black, his face inscrutable. The Client stands off to the side, seeing them march out in front of the squadrons of Deathtroopers and Stormtroopers alike, five against fifty. Gideon regards them almost with disinterest, and Mando seethes beneath the mask.

Karga acts as spokesman, but Mando is barely listening, his hatred of the Moff boiling under the surface until Gideon gestures for his troopers to bring out the Armorer. As Deathtroopers exit one of the crumbling buildings to their right, Mando's blood runs cold.

The covert leader is bound by the wrists, bloodied and devoid of all armor save for her helmet. The once-gleaming brass is clouded with ash and blood, smeared to a dull finish, and she’s hiding a limp as she walks. The Deathtroopers on either side of her hold onto her upper arms, escorting her to the center as Moff Gideon comes to stand directly behind her, his blaster drawn.

“The child,” Gideon says coolly, nodding to the cradle. “As soon as you hand him to me alive, your leader and the city are yours.”

The scene cuts to Kuiil and the assassin droid approaching the Crest on foot, still a good way’s away. The child sleeps against Kuiil’s shoulder. A high-pitched whine fills the air, quiet before steadily increasing in volume, and as Kuiil and IG-11 register the noise they turn, only for a bolt of red blasterfire to hit Kuiil in the shoulder. Kuiil falls to the ground, the child tumbling from his grip. Another laserbolt hits IG-11 at the same time, ricocheting off his head plate and sending him down. Four speederbikes begin to converge on the trio, the child sitting up from his blanket on unsteady feet. The Scout troopers split to flank the group, slowing to a stop. One hops off and goes to retrieve the child, who looks between the four of them, his ears turning down in fear. The Ugnaught’s body doesn’t move, but strangely enough the droid’s does; his servos spin as his motor functions return to life, the reinforced head plate Kuiil installed with care successfully protecting IG from the same fate that had befallen him on Arvala-7.

We see a split-screen HUD from IG’s point of view as his optical sensors spin to assess each target in millisecond timing. The scout trooper that had dismounted his bike stumbles back as the assassin droid comes to life, lifting off of the black earth. The troopers collectively fire at the droid, who in turn takes Kuiil’s blaster from the ground as he stands and returns fire, effortlessly spinning, evading, or deflecting the troopers’ bolts as he advances towards the child, firing at each of the troopers in turn. One of the speederbikes explodes, taking its trooper out with it. IG scoops up the child, spinning his torso to shield the boy as two more troopers are shot and fall, one after the other; none of them stood a chance against the cold and calculating processor of an assassin droid with both his manufactured skillset and a reprogrammed duty to protect, and as IG turns, the last trooper standing stumbles back in terror, firing wide as he falls onto his back. IG-11’s long strides close the distance between them and he kneels down to grab the man’s neck and slam his head back into the ground.

IG stands, spinning his torso back to the front. The child is unharmed, his ears perking up as he surveys their surroundings.

“It seems our position was compromised,” IG says mechanically, holding the boy out to peer down at him. “I surmise by the attack on our party that the Mandalorian’s plans have gone awry and that our allies are in need of assistance.”

There’s a groan somewhere off to the right, and IG turns with the boy to see Kuiil struggling to roll over, grunting in pain. The droid goes to the Ugnaught and kneels, assessing him with a clinician’s eye.

“You have been badly injured,” IG says as Kuiil sits up, extending his arm as a nozzle flips to take the place of his pincers. It sprays a mist into the opening where the laserfire burned through Kuiil’s coat, and Kuiil sighs in some relief. “But it appears our adversary’s shot missed anything vital. The bacta spray will heal you within a matter of hours.”

“IG,” Kuiil grunts, gingerly getting to his feet. “Mando is going to need your help.” He gathers his few belongings as the droid follows, the Razor Crest visible in the distance. “Take one of the bikes and get to town as quickly as possible. I will take the child with me. Do what you can to protect the others.”

“Affirmative.” IG hands off the boy to Kuiil and rests a hand on his creator’s good shoulder. “I hope to see you again soon.”

The Ugnaught nodded and the two turned and parted ways. The child watched as the bounty droid picked up two rifles and mounted a speederbike, kicking dust up behind him as he sped away.

Back in the city the negotiating party faces the Imperials. Moff Gideon’s serene expression reveals nothing.

Mando hears Vizsla yell from his position on the other side of the street, jerking his head to the Armorer. “How do we know she isn’t a decoy?” His voice is unsteady. At this distance Mando can hear her breathing raggedly through the helmet’s modulator. They needed more time.

Gideon almost smiles, then digs his free hand under the edge of her helmet. The Mandalorians jolt on reflex, but stop as the Moff holds her in place in front of himself.

“Would you like a guarantee?” he asks. “Or would you even know, regardless?”

“Do not give him the child,” the Armorer grits out, and they freeze at the confirmation. She stands as straight as she can, her voice hoarse but unmistakable. The Moff remains impassive.

“What assurance do you give that you’ll leave these people in peace?” Mando says, gesturing to the town. His joints have locked up. He’s barely breathing.

“Only this,” Gideon says plainly, and then he gestures to the side with his blaster. “Give me the child, or I promise to return to you tenfold what you had planned for us.”

At that, Deathtroopers from the shadows of the surrounding streets march out with the rest of the Mandalorians at gunpoint in front of them. Mando’s shock turns to outrage and despair as he sees each of the ambushing party lined up around the bazaar, and it’s then that Karga smoothly steps past Mando, pulling Mando’s blaster from his holster in one move and crossing the line of troopers, a grim look on his face when he turns back.

“I’m sorry Mando,” Karga says, and he almost looks as though he means it. “I have people to take care of too.”

The broker steps beyond the ranks of troopers, receiving a nod from Gideon before passing the Client. The Client slips something into Karga’s hand and Karga tucks it into his breast pocket, the two of them retreating from view as Mando trembles with helpless rage. The Deathtrooper at the E-WEB primes it to charge. Moff Gideon steps forward with the Armorer still directly in front of him. “The child, Djarin,” he says. “My generosity and patience have run their course.”

Mando hesitates as he steps forward, his hand still on the cradle, desperately trying to think of anything that might give them a chance to escape. A shadow passes over Gideon’s face, and he brings his pistol up under the Armorer’s jaw. Every Mandalorian jerks against their captors and Gideon digs the muzzle of his gun against the Armorer’s neck, a sliver of skin now visible above her collar. They go still. Mando’s fist clenches so tight he can feel his bones shift.

“Now.”

Defeated and without recourse, Mando presses the button on the cradle to open the shield, revealing the empty space within.

This time Moff Gideon does smile.

“It appears only one of us is a man of his word.”

And then Moff Gideon rips the Armorer’s helmet off her head.

Absolute, unfettered rage bursts from every Mandalorian in a vitriolic war cry as all hell breaks loose in an instant, every Mandalorian rearing back against their captors with unparalleled ferocity, breaking free and firing at the Imperials without mercy. Mando tears the Armorer away from Gideon and unleashes the full power of his flamethrower in Gideon’s and the Deathtroopers’ faces, hauling her back from the blaze as both sides fire shot-for-shot at one another.

The Mandalorian closest to Mando dives forward to grab the Deathtrooper’s rifle and cover their retreat. Vizsla shoots a white-hot spray of molten plasma from his gauntlet across the four troopers that had restrained him, their screams following them to the ground as their armor melts and they convulse. The firefight descends into chaos, Mando’s allies working together to cover one another and retrieve arms and munitions all across the square, ducking for cover behind the debris. The Imperials are caught off guard, having thought disarming them would be enough to keep them from retaliating, but they quickly find that even an unarmed Mandalorian is a weapon.

Mando shields the Armorer as they run, feeling blaster fire streak across his bicep, glance off the beskar pauldron and helmet, sear his vision white. The Armorer stumbles, trying to keep up but buckling under the weight of exhaustion and her injuries. He pulls her behind a large chunk of a fallen archway, breaking the binders holding her wrists together and looking wildly around for somewhere to get her to safety. He sees a clear path from their position back to the common house and the two of them begin to run.

A grenade lands in their path and Mando has seconds to react. He tackles the Armorer to the side, shielding her as best he can as the explosion blows them a dozen feet away, their ears ringing. Mando felt the lance of shrapnel embed itself in his leg, and his head slams against a piece of the barricade, stopping his trajectory and sending him to the ground. As he tries to make sense of which way is up he can see the Armorer struggling to pull herself up next to him, pulling a scavenged rifle from the wreckage of the street. He can’t breathe, and as his vision swims he catches sight of the covert’s leader, resilient even now, forcing her hands to cooperate as she fires back at their assailants from behind a broken wall. Her face is streaked with blood and dirt and the tracks of tears streaming down through both. Her helmet lay distantly in the dirt in the middle of the street surrounded by rubble and the bodies of dead Imperials.

Of everybody there, she was the most justified in leaving him for dead, and still she fought.

The Imperials start to gain ground as Mandalorians are killed or incapacitated. Their forces start to bottleneck, forced backward in the onslaught, but just as the Imperials start to catch them on the backfoot a high-pitched whine fills the air. Seconds later a speederbike slides into the fray, an assassin droid leaping off and firing with deadly accuracy against the troopers. A rallying cry goes up from Mando’s allies, even Vizsla crowing in triumph as IG advances, his body twisting and limbs spinning to fire in every direction.

“Paz!” Mando yells, struggling upright. “Cover her!”

The heavy infantryman picks up one Deathtrooper and slams him bodily into another, toppling both. He dashes over to their place amongst the craters and plants himself in front of the Armorer; she grabs hold of his shoulder for support, firing around him and shouting orders as they clear a path to the E-WEB. Mando drags himself to his feet and ends up back-to-back with IG-11, feeling an odd sense of gratitude towards the droid he’d left for dead all those weeks ago. The two of them twist and turn around each other, IG deflecting shots as readily as he fires.

“IG unit! Where’s the kid?!”

“The child is safe aboard the Razor Crest,” IG says, taking out three more troopers. Vizsla takes hold of the cannon and rattles the Imperial forces, decimating a fresh wave of Stormtroopers. “Kuiil is en route to our location.”

“No! Tell him to take the child and get out of here!”

“There is no time,” IG says. “My duty is to nurse and protect: you and our allies are in need of protection.”

Mando growls at the droid’s obstinate refusal to listen. He’s about to drag one of the Mandalorians with a jetpack closer and order them to fly out to Kuiil, but then he sees an arc of flickering white through the smoke of battle.

Time almost seems to slow. A swipe of black void edged in white light cuts through the haze beyond Vizsla and the Armorer. They haven’t seen him yet, but the figure in black carrying the blade materializes through the smoke, and in the breadth of a second, Moff Gideon raises his arms and brings an otherworldly saber clean down through the barrel of the E-WEB. Paz jerks back from the recoil of the cannon falling apart in a series of smaller, sizzling explosions, and as his attention turns to the Moff he blocks the still-vulnerable Armorer, shoving her back. Gideon brings the phantasmal sword up again and carves a downward slash at the infantryman— Paz blocks it with his vambrace in a skitter of sparks.

Mando moves without realizing it. He darts through the tumult of battle, honing in on the angry, half-burned face of Moff Gideon, not knowing if or for how long Paz’s armor can withstand the heat of the spectral blade. Laserfire streaks around him, each of their allies and adversaries fighting for their lives.

Gideon cuts through the chain gun’s connecting line, rendering Vizsla’s heavy repeating rifle useless. The next slash is caught by his other vambrace, Gideon pressing the sword in long enough Paz’s gauntlet starts to blaze orange, melting the circuits of his plasma thrower and leaving hot beskar intact to burn through his armor cladding. Though he easily towers above the Moff he’s forced to fight defensively as Gideon darts and weaves, aiming for the Armorer behind him, throwing off his blocks and parries. Vizsla’s vision burns with hatred as he sees this aruteii— this outsider— wielding what he knows is his ancestor’s sword against them. Imperials advance from the side, forcing the Armorer to shoot them and protect Vizsla, leaving him to fight Gideon. It’s only when they’re backed into the fallen debris of the city that the saber’s trajectory is halted mid-swing.

Mando stands resolute between his enemy and his tribesmen, the beskar tines of his pulse rifle catching the sword in the air. Gideon’s shock morphs to immediate outrage and he rips the saber back, twirling his wrist to cut upward, blocked again by Mando’s gun. The Mandalorian advances, using his rifle like a spear in a flurry of movement, energy crackling off the blade’s contact with every strike. Vizsla and the Armorer work together against the Imperials, and Mando advances on the Moff.

Back against the Imperials, the Armorer sees an opening, the door of a building near the Imperials’ base of operations buckled inward. She turns back to see the Moff fighting the bounty hunter forty feet away. They’re too close together to get a clear shot and smoke continues to billow from the explosions surrounding them. If the Moff finds an opening she knows the bounty hunter’s armor won’t hold against the Darksaber.

And then she looks down to the opposite end of the decimated street, seeing a distinct silhouette over the horizon growing closer every second.

The Armorer breaks the latch on the door with the butt of her rifle. “Get everybody towards the dockyards,” she orders Paz over the din of battle.

“What are you doing?!” Paz barks over his shoulder. He fires again, killing two more soldiers.

The Armorer kicks the door in, determination written across her face. “Reclaiming what I can.”

—

Moff Gideon spits insults between his strikes, and Mando fights just as viciously in return. Thrust, block, parry, jab— Every close-quarters maneuver is accompanied by the unsettling hum of a blade dipped in the void of space, light bending and refracting around its edge. Gideon swings at his head and when he ducks, the sword carves through a support column, bringing part of the decimated building down with it. Mando rolls to the side, hearing the hum of the blade miss him by inches.

Mando swings the rifle upward again, aiming it at the Moff. Gideon deflects the bolt of energy, his face twisted in a snarl. The Amban rifle crackles with electricity, but as Mando jabs the end of it towards the Moff, the barrel and its current are redirected by Gideon into one of his own troopers. Before Mando can twist free and put enough space between them to fire, Moff Gideon pulls back and twirls the blade directly up towards the Mandalorian’s chest.

There’s a gnarled crackle of energy as the saber cleaves the pulse rifle in two at the wooden stock, a piece of the gun in each of the Mandalorian’s hands. That split second shock is enough of an opening for Moff Gideon to thrust again, stabbing through the Mandalorian’s lower breastplate.

Mando feels the searing edge of white-hot fire dig into his body; he cries out in agony, doubled over at the shock. Time slows yet again, and all he can see is the helpless face of the boy he saved in his mind’s eye, knowing that if he cannot defeat the Moff, it won’t matter if his allies escape with the child. Gideon will keep sending hunters after the boy until he’s killed everybody standing between him and his prize.

With the greatest effort he’s ever exerted in his life, Tomás Djarin brings the barrel of his rifle up and jabs it against the hilt of Gideon’s blade once more, trapping it between the tines. Moff Gideon’s eyes widen, and the Mandalorian shoves him off with an agonized yell.

There’s no time to recover— Mando messily blocks the black blade with the barrel of the gun. He stumbles, shoves himself up and forces himself to fight through his injuries, but it’s clear he’s barely clinging to consciousness.

He’s bent at the waist and clutching his midsection, leaning against a stone column. He manages to duck and the move forces Gideon’s blade to become lodged into the stone, and Mando stumbles around the column, ducking when he hears the telltale hum behind him. Another spray of stone flies over his head— He twists, evades a second thrust from the sword, and punches Moff Gideon in the face.

Gideon howls in infuriated pain, messily swinging the sword as the Mandalorian parries it with what remains of the rifle. Hit after hit strikes stone until another slash glances off Mando’s beskar pauldron, singeing his flak vest. This time when he stumbles Moff Gideon brings his foot up and kicks him square in the chest, sending him sprawling a dozen feet down through the rubble. Mando yells in agony, the rifle skittering from reach. The Moff stands triumphant beneath the crumbling building, breathing hard, the saber in hand. Mando drags himself to one knee, refusing to die without standing up.

“You and your kind should have been eradicated long ago,” Gideon snarls. “The Empire will not make the same mistake twice.”

Before Gideon can advance, however, the Mandalorian aims his gauntlet and fires.

Gideon easily evades what he assumed to be a projectile, the Mandalorian firing wide. It isn’t until he sees Mando wrap both hands around the whipcord and pull it taut that Gideon’s glare hardens in confusion, and as he looks behind him there’s a grating, crumbling sound of stone on stone, the whipcord wrapped around what remained of the support column.

With wild eyes, Moff Gideon looks up as the structure groans, and with one final heave Mando wrenches the cable through the broken, weakened support, and the overarching section of the building finally gives way.

A tremendous rumbling crash brings the building down in a massive cloud of dust, shaking the ground. Mando runs as well as he can to a barricade, barely evading several large pieces of rock cascading behind him. When Mando looks back, Moff Gideon is gone. All that remains is the towering pile of rubble, carved out of the connecting buildings in the bazaar.

He wishes he felt relief. All he feels is pain.

A sudden ripple of force shudders through the square and extinguishes several flames, and all eyes turn to see a heavy artillery gunship descending to hover at the other end of the street near the dockyards. There’s a whoop of defiant hope from Mando’s friends and allies and they start trying to make their way down the long market street.

His head pounds. His leg is shredded. Exhaustion hangs on his limbs and his abdomen burns where the blade seared through his flesh, every movement sending lancing pain radiating through his torso. He looks beyond to the tumult of battle and surveys the scene.

Kuill has the ramp of the Razor Crest lowered, hovering in place for everyone to get onboard while there’s still time. More and more Imperials start to march on the bazaar. Mando can barely hold his head up to see Kuiil frantically gesturing from the cockpit, and with great effort he stumbles further to the second concentric barricade while his allies fight their way down the street. Very few covert members remain, and the battered few have to dodge through enemy fire between the razed buildings, trying to get out of range as Mando’s friends fight with them, shoulder to shoulder. Two of the remaining Mandalorians with jetpacks help draw the fire of the Imperials, but even they are forced to the ground, too much laser fire flying from too many directions. IG-11 sees the Mandalorian struggling to even stand as he holds one hand to his middle before he finally falls to his knees.

—

The Armorer twists, shattering another Deathtrooper’s chest-plate and caving their chest in. Two Stormtroopers emerge from an alley, targeting the droid and the hunter, and she brings the hammer up in a strike beneath one’s jaw before bringing it down on the helmet of the trooper behind him. She doesn’t wait to see them fall as she jerks her attention back to Mando.

Soldiers quickly file indoors and shoot outward from broken windows into the street now, the bazaar becoming a shooting gallery from both sides. The droid is far more accurate than any of them could hope to be, but even he can’t move without a barrage of laser fire forcing him down.

The bounty hunter is blocked from the assault by the debris shielding him and the assassin droid. She’d seen the Imperial stab him in the chest and knows he can hardly move. She doesn’t know how he even got to his feet.

The Mandalorian is dying, and his only chance of survival is extraction.

She quickly assesses their surroundings, but the moment she goes to step out of the mouth of the alley and slink down behind the lower-level stonework, a heavy hand clamps down on her shoulder, jerking her back.

“Don’t,” Vizsla says grimly. “We can’t save him. We have to go.”

“Let go,” the Armorer warns him, rolling her shoulder in an attempt to dislodge him. “If we don’t try, his death is guaranteed.”

“Alor,” Vizsla says, the pain in his voice evident. He nods to the shots raining down into the street from above, troopers filing onto the roofs of several buildings now. “Please. I cannot block them all.”

The Armorer shakes, wavering for the first time since she was unhelmed, but her eyes are filled with fire and flint as she twists out of the infantryman’s grip. “He wouldn’t leave us,” she says. “He’s the reason we’ve made it this far.”

“He knew what the cost of saving you could be,” Vizsla grits out, pulling her again. “And it would be a waste of his sacrifice to die now.”

A shot sails past them, missing them by inches as another strafing run of fire jutters against the earth. Vizsla wraps an arm around her from behind and pulls her forcibly back. The ship beyond falters in stasis, shots from larger artillery scorching off the hull.

“We need to go,” Vizsla says, dragging her with him despite her shouts of protest. “We can still save the others.”

With a heavy heart the Armorer is hauled away from enemy fire, praying the droid can find a way to secure their freedom. He’s the only hope the Mandalorian has.

Kuiil can’t fire from the angle he’s at and is busy trying to maintain a steady position for the survivors who climb onboard, who in turn are all so busy helping one another and crowding into the hold none of them see the small child in their midst, his stature and familiarity with the gunship allowing him to slip between them unnoticed the same way he avoided Zero weeks before.

Stormtroopers fire from rooftops down at the escaping heroes below. Mando and IG-11 are pinned down, unable to fight their way out as they cover the rest of the escaping party. A streak of silver catches the light and Mando realizes the Armorer is there, hammer and calipers in hand as she dispatches Deathtroopers with vicious precision and ferocity, vengeance exacted against those who held her captive. Vizsla follows behind her and the remaining covert, dodging through the wreckage as he covers their backs. He makes it to the Armorer’s helmet lying in the street, picking it up as they move. Mando can feel the adrenaline bleeding from his body, the stab wound beneath his breastplate buckling him with every step.

Of all the ways the Mandalorian expected to die, fighting side-by-side with a droid was never one of them. IG-11 was a crack shot, but there were simply too many Stormtroopers coveyed behind buildings for them to advance without being shot in the back. Mando’s gut throbs and black spots swim in front of his vision. He knew he was dying.

“You are in need of medical assistance,” IG says, peering at the Mandalorian between the laserfire. He shoots another Stormtrooper, and two more take their place.

“It’s too late for me,” the Mandalorian says miserably. Strength seeps from his body as the blackness presses in around his eyes. He can taste blood on his tongue. “Go. Get to the Crest. Tell the rest of them I’m— I’m sorry. I hadn’t meant for th-them to be hurt.”

Another explosion goes off nearby, closer than the ones before it. Mando leans his head back against the stony debris.

“I am programmed to protect you,” IG-11 says.

“There’s no way out,” Mando replies, coughing wetly. “Please, just— Keep the rest of them safe. Tell the kid I’m sorry. For everything.”

Mando had always known it would only be a matter of time before his sins caught up with him. You didn’t get to where he was in life without making mistakes, but now as he thought of the little boy in the floating cradle, he couldn’t help but wish he’d had the chance to tell him goodbye.

Another ripple sweeps through the street, shuddering the architecture, and in an instant the laser-fire sounds far away and muffled. Mando tries to turn his head to the side, and what he sees perplexes him.

The Crest was a blur behind the near transparent, blue-green bubble that had formed in a hemispherical dome over Mando and IG, the blaster-fire outside being repelled by whatever invisible force sustained it.

“What- What is that?” he chokes out.

“Ah,” says IG-11, sitting up from behind the rubble. “It appears the child is no longer safe aboard the Razor Crest.”

Paz heard the sound of the battle change first. He looks around them, then hangs out of the docking ramp to see the boy a dozen meters away with his back to them, one hand raised as he summons a force field around himself, the last Mandalorian, and the droid. Paz hollers for the others’ attention, but as soon as he tries to step off the ramp the boy’s other hand comes up, throwing him backwards and rocking the ship with a violent shake.

In the cockpit Kuiil tries to pull up on the yoke, seeing Imperial ships on the distant horizon, but the Crest remains seized in stasis. “What’s going on down there?!” he barks over his shoulder.

Vizsla rams the invisible barrier covering the open doorway with his shoulder again, all of those in the hold trying to break through. “The foundling’s blocking us in!”

Mando sees the boy concentrating fifty feet away, retaining some invisible hold on the ship and on his position next to IG-11. His allies yell somewhere distantly behind the child, and Mando realizes he’s buying them time.

“Go,” IG-11 says. “The child needs you. I can protect you until you both get to the ship.”

“Come with us,” Mando says, half using the droid for support, half pulling him along.

The droid gently pulls his arm away. A barrage of lasers and small explosions continue to hit the outside of the bubble. He hoists his gun up.

“If you assure me the child will be safe, I can revert to my original function. You must go.”

“But you’ll die,” Mando protests.

A larger explosion hits the outside of the bubble and it wavers, the child’s brow digging deeper over eyes closed in concentration. The repurposed assassin droid pushes Mando towards the boy.

“And you and the child will live, and I will have fulfilled my purpose.”

“Please,” the Mandalorian pleads. “We need you.”

“The child needs you.” The droid gently pulls his arm away, and Mando doesn’t have the energy to reach for it as the droid steps back, turning to walk in the opposite direction of the ship.

“Goodbye, Mandalorian,” IG said. “Tell Kuiil I give him my thanks.”

Another explosion hits the force field and it dissipates in shimmering ripples of blue and green. Mando’s heart rate spikes as he sees the child stumble, exhausted and exposed, and with one last burst of energy he dives through the smoke, scooping the boy up into his arms and running for the ship. Behind him the assassin droid’s voice can be heard from down the street.

“Manufacturer’s protocol dictates that I cannot be captured…”

—

A Mandalorian races with a pounding heart to his ship, leaping towards the ramp with a child curled protectively against his chest. He grabs the brace and lurches to the side as the pilot pulls up, and allies old and new reach with arms outstretched to pull them to safety inside the cargo hold.

The explosion on the streets of Nevarro sends a concussive blast rippling up through the surrounding buildings as the Razor Crest pulls away. The pitch and roll of the ship forces the survivors to brace themselves; Kuiil pulls up, firing with deadly accuracy against the Imperial ships bearing down on them. Several successive shots blast the ships apart and with a burst of acceleration Kuiil flies through the wreckage and smoke and soars skyward, leaving the destruction behind them.

Mando hears his friends cheer. Laughter and relief suffuse the hold with a warmth he hasn’t felt in years. His tribesmen and his newfound friends look over each other’s injuries, helping each other stand. The ache of his own injuries throbs with his slowing pulse, and he finally exhales a grateful sigh of relief.

The child squirms under his arm, and as Mando sits back against the bulkhead, the darkness pressing around his vision overtakes him and everything begins to fade. The last thing he feels is a small, three-fingered hand reaching up to him, slipping beneath the chin of his helmet.

Dim light filters through the helmet and someone shakes his shoulder. He couldn’t have been out long and as his blurry vision clears he can see the distressed face of the Armorer through his visor in front of him. He thinks she’s saying his name, but it still takes several long seconds for him to register her voice. The fire in his abdomen is unlike anything he’s ever felt. He’s barely clinging to life.

“Can you hear me?”

He tries for a nod, but even that sends pain through his neck and shoulders. His visor tilts down to see the child, large eyes watery and full of fear, his distressed coos tugging at the Mandalorian’s heart.

“He- He shouldn’t-t be here,” Mando croaks.

The kid crawls over his leg to perch next to his midsection. Mando’s arm feels leaden, too heavy to raise, and as he tries to sit up again he bites off a choked out yell of pain, the Armorer pushing him flat as she works to rid him of his belt and bandolier. Sweat pours from his brow and chills course through his body.

The child climbs up onto him. Mando watches as the boy moves, frantically gesturing for the Armorer to remove the fabric staunching the flow of blood beneath Mando’s breastplate. She does, swiftly following it with both breastplate and plackart to reveal the extent of the damage caused by the saber. Mando chokes in pain despite her care, his leg kicking out weakly on reflex as he writhes, vulnerability clawing at every nerve.

And then, for some unknown reason, a sense of gentle assurance washes over him like a tide. He gasps, relaxing immediately as tension releases from his chest; lost and confused, helpless to stop what comes next, he looks down at the boy.

Awake this time, Mando watches the child close his eyes in concentration; he hovers his hand over the charred, bloody wound with blackened skin lining the edges and depth of the laceration.

And over a long, tense moment we see the vicious injury begin to close up before their eyes.

Mando’s eyes prick with tears, seeing the depth of care on the child’s face. For so long he had worked to keep the boy safe, fighting off any and every assailant that dared try to take the child from him or put the boy in danger. He’d held him as he slept, picked him up when he stumbled, kept him close and loved him the only way he knew how, and now he watched as the child selflessly returned that care a hundred times over. No matter what he did in this life, Tomás knew he’d never truly be able to repay the boy for what he did.

Mando heaves a sigh of relief, the strain of survival being lifted in an instant. The boy turns, carefully coming up to his shoulders and tapping his small hand against the metal of the helmet. Before he can register what’s happening, the Armorer has joined him and has carefully cradled the sides of his helmet in her hands.

Alarm cuts through his senses and he immediately clasps her wrist, shaking his head and looking around wildly. “No- I shouldn’t- I’m fine—”

“You are in the captain’s berth,” she says, her face calm. “The child and I are the only ones here. Let us help.”

He’s shaking his head, trying to sit up, pull away, dislodge her hands without tipping the boy over, but he’s still so weak he can’t muster the strength. “I can’t— I’m not s-supposed—”

“Tomás,” the Armorer said, catching his protesting hands, and the sound of her weary voice makes him stop fighting. “I was the one who bestowed your armor. Of all the people on this vessel, I am the one best suited to help. Be still.”

The injustice of her own oath being broken by Moff Gideon weighs on his conscience to an unbearable degree. Though she remains stoic and reserved, the lines on her face are shadowed and deep, and there are still streaks of blood and tears on her skin. He can only imagine the toll it’s taken on her.

“Alor,” the Mandalorian said roughly, tears filling his own voice. “I— I’m so sorry. Please— Please forgive me.”

The Armorer sighs, her jaw working to maintain her composure, but she remains where she is with her hands on either side of his face. “You are not the cause of my pain,” she said. “Cuyir su. Be still.”

Somewhere beside him he heard a plaintive sound, accompanied by a tug on his cowl. The boy appeared in his periphery, his little face filled with concern.

Slowly, the Mandalorian lets go, and the Armorer lifts his helmet free.

The man we see is a sight older than Din Djarin, deep set wrinkles lining his face and silver hair prominent at his temples. He has the features of the father in the flashbacks, and though his brown eyes are the same, they are much more tired, and much more sad.

He starts to choke up as he looks at the Armorer. The child moves and places his small hand on the Mandalorian’s face. The Armorer watches intently, and suddenly the pain at his temple and the base of his skull abates, the wounds he’s sustained closing up.

The child sits back, exhausted, and immediately curls up to the side of the Mandalorian’s chest beneath his arm, falling asleep. Tomás looks at him in awe, gently stroking the boy’s hand with his thumb.

“So this is the one whose safety deemed such destruction,” the Armorer murmured. “I see why you thought it judicious not to return.”

Tomás cleared his throat, sitting up and cradling the child gently. “If I’d known what would happen, I- I never would have put the tribe at risk.”

“We knew what could happen if we were discovered,” she said. She stowed medical supplies in a footlocker, and Mando could see that his leg was bandaged as well, a metal washbasin with bloodied shrapnel also set to the side. “Moff Gideon is the only one to blame for all that happened on Nevarro, the danger he posed to the child included.”

There’s a beat of silence as he looks at his leader, her at the child.

“What will you do?” he asks.

She knows what he means. “I will return to Mandalore in search of the Living Waters,” she says, taking a seat nearby. “There I will seek out redemption.”

“… The Empire turned the planet to glass,” he says thickly. “How do you know they still exist?”

“I don’t,” she says simply. Her expression never changes. “But I have faith. This is the Way.”

For the first time under her leadership, he doesn’t feel like he’s permitted to echo their mantra. He still feels responsible for the desecration she experienced at the hands of the Moff, and the injustice only compounds his anger now.

“Let me help,” he says. “Let me come with you.”

“No,” she replied, taking his helmet in hand and beginning to clean it. “You have a charge to care for, and a new mission.”

“Mission?”

“Yes.” The Armorer nodded to the boy. “You must know that this is a Jedi child, yes?”

“Yes…?”

“Then you know that he must be reunited with his own kind.”

Mando’s jaw works as his eyes fill with tears once more, and he clutches the child closer to himself on reflex. He knows she sees it, but he can do nothing to curb the impulse to hold him tighter.

“… You wish for me to search the galaxy for some long-forgotten enemies— people we have never met, who may not exist— and relinquish him to them?” he asks carefully. “Enemies of the Mandalorians?”

The Armorer smiles sadly, resting a hand on his pauldron. “The child of our enemies found safety in you.”

Tomás has to look away from her as his emotions war on his face, his breathing stilted and harsh as he tries to keep them under control.

“Their kind were enemies at one time,” she says. “But the both of us have a common enemy in the Empire. The truth of the matter is that the boy is capable of more than either of us understand, and there are those who would stop at nothing to use him for what he can do. He needs training we cannot provide. Without it, he will not survive.”

The Mandalorian sagged, hearing her say what he knew out loud. He looked at the little boy in his arms, still stroking his fingers with his thumb as the boy slept.

“He may already have a family, Tomás,” she says gently. “It would be an injustice to keep him from them, should they be looking.”

“And if he doesn’t?” he demands. He’s trying to temper his reflexive impulse to protest but the weight and warmth of the child in his arms is making it difficult not to object.

The Armorer watches him silently, though not unkindly. He can’t muster the will to face her.

“… This child is a foundling,” she says with finality, standing. She sets his helmet beside him and goes to the door. “Until it is of age or is reunited with its own kind, you are as its father.”

Mando jerks his head back to her, watching her with a look of confusion and, perhaps, hope.

“We will be landing soon,” she says. “Where you go after this will be up to you.”

[happyheidi]

𝗆𝗒 𝗌𝗅𝖾𝖾𝗉𝗒 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝖺𝖿 🍞 🐕 <𝟥

[zeb-z]

Love the beef between Gideon and Thrawn. I hope he has no idea who Gideon is

[spicysucculentz]

it always gets me that people are still just now finding out about tarkin being gay and hooking up w stormtroopers meanwhile I’ve been plagued with that knowledge since the dark days of tarkintok iykyk

[sabines-wrens]

moff gideon, eyeing din’s armor after getting his ass kicked in s2: i gotta have that look

[nonhumanhottie]

Bad batch rewatch season 1 thoughts

I'm doing aftermath separately because it's basically a movie

I do love seeing animated clips of rots

Caleb sounds way too old but also sounds like a child at the same time

I really love watching Tech fight I love seeing a nerd throw hands

The animation is seriously so beautiful

Hunter enters dad mode so quickly I hope he gets to see Caleb again

Tarkin you raggedy bitch

Azi is back!!

Hunter telling Omega to keep her distance but also getting down on his knee to talk to her

I love crosshair's completely exasperated and angry growl/sigh

I love Saw and I think he's correct

The way omega doesn't even know what junk is

Omega is so shocked they came back it hurts my heart

'Harm her and you're a dead man' slay echo

Star wars animation is good at making space beautiful

[partlyironic]

finally got round to watching doctor who and my only take so far is that RTD has been trying to be Moffat. and I don't like Moffat, so. pretty gutted about it.

[cherryblossomshadow]

Does anybody else think Elia Kane might be trying thwart Gideon?

If she were helping Gideon, I would expect her to kidnap or otherwise encourage Pershing's cloning experiments.

Pershing wouldn't have been a threat to the New Republic without her help. And anyway, she's obviously going behind the New Republic's backs, by intensifying the Mind Flayer.

But if we try to look for personal motivations, maybe there was a grain of truth in the lies she told Pershing. And if she truly wants to atone for the terrible things she's done, maybe she thinks the best way to do so would be to thwart Moff Gideon. Under that line of thinking, I can understand why she believes Pershing would be too dangerous to let live. Actually, he'll probably survive the Mind Flayer, but his mind, the thing that Moff Gideon would want to use, would be destroyed.

[multiversetravelingjournalist]

My first Meme

[bumpscosity]

If when they add lothal and the rebels crew to star tours im never gonna shut up abt it

[random-moth]

I don’t usually post much and I apologize to those who don’t want to talk about US politics but I have noticed something.

You know that it’s bad when both tumblr and twitter have the same views on one thing. Are agreeing for something. But that’s what’s happening.

To all of those like me in America, please e please please wait until all the ballots are counted. Many people have said their vote didn’t get counted and there’s a possibility that the orange man cheated.

I will probably not be online much for a bit as I feel that I need to distance myself from social media rn but I promise you I am not going anywhere.

I love every single one of you I promise things will get better

It’ll be ok

[corellianhounds]

You know what people like better than a Strong Female Character™, Filoni?

A strongly written character.

Season 2 finale of The Mandalorian, after a more fractious and character-driven episode of “The Heiress,” has Mando begrudgingly asking Bo-Katan for help retrieving his kid only because it’s clear she’s had experience hijacking and navigating around Imperial ships, she has numbers with Koska and Axe behind her, and she is a legitimately good fighter.

Bo-Katan initially scoffs and refuses. To her, he is either intentionally or unintentionally the reason she lost the shipment of Imperial arms and munitions, and their culture clash only drove the divide between them even wider. Now he wants her help? Is he insane?

“It’s Moff Gideon’s lightcruiser,” Mando says.

And that gives her pause. She sneers at him with both derision and suspicion, saying nobody can just track down an Imperial Moff, especially a Moff who’s former ISB, especially by someone like you, Mando.

Mando grits his teeth and shows her verifiable proof and oh, noooooow she’s whistling a different tune. She readily agrees, giving him the same warning about leaving Gideon for her to fight. Din doesn’t care: his child is his only priority.

So the infiltration goes off and they get inside the ship with their collective crews. Mando beats Moff Gideon and saves his child, and then he shows up on the bridge with the Darksaber in hand, the tip of the blade humming at Gideon’s back.

Now Bo-Katan is even angrier. He, deliberately or not (and at this point she’s certain it’s deliberate, him continuing to foil her at every turn), did the one thing she told him not to do, and now this- this outsider, this cultist who knows nothing, is standing there with her sword.

And then he has the audacity to offer it up in forfeit, right there in front of everybody. There’s no possible way she’ll be able to challenge him for the sword now because people will know that he never wanted it in the first place, so he’d obviously just be throwing the fight and she’d have no legitimate claim over it.

He doesn’t even want it.

“It has to be won in combat,” she grits out through her teeth. She can’t even attack him here, not when he’s already tried to yield it to her and he’s holding the foundling he saved as a result of winning said fight in his other arm. The Mandalorian ideal, wrapped up in this new suit laden with more beskar than she’s seen in one place for a long time.

She can’t even begin to say how much she hates him right now.

But then in her periphery she hears Moff Gideon chuckle, and Bo-Katan bristles, knowing exactly what he’s about to say as soon as she hears him laugh and it’s going to ruin everything, but she’s too late

“Why can’t he forfeit the sword?” Gideon taunts. “Thats how I got it from you.”

The bright flash of a blaster bolt sails through the air and hits Gideon square in the chest, knocking him back with a grunt as she strides forward to kill him with her bare hands. There’s an immediate clamoring of voices, the drop soldier hitting her like a brick wall and holding her back while everyone else tries to break up the impending fight, saying he’s a war criminal who needs to answer to the New Republic for his crimes. Gideon groans, falling back against the console as his plastoid chest plate smokes, and Bo-Katan Kryze trembles with rage.

Koska and Axe are behind her. She knows what expression she’ll see on their faces, the immediate disdain and loss of respect. She shouldn’t have shot him. She shouldn’t have shot him because that’s more of an admission of guilt than anything, and now all of them know.

Gideon still somehow manages to chuckle weakly and she realizes that he knew exactly what he was doing. Even defeated and without recourse, he excels at psychological warfare and he’s just fractured any and all support she may have ever had at her back. The Nite Owls know. The cultist knows. The droptrooper, the assassin, the clone—

Everybody now knows that Bo-Katan Kryze, Mandalorian heiress to the throne of their homeworld, had at one point in time faced down Moff Gideon with the Darksaber in hand and had not fought to the death. They know that she forfeited the sword at the height of the Empire’s war, and they knew that Mandalore had fallen either because of her surrender, or because she was foolish enough to believe they would grant them mercy.

To them, she’s either completely inept and an idiot, or she’s a traitor, or she’s a coward, if not all three. Nothing about her actions was befitting of a Mandalorian and she’s fought so hard for so long to keep anybody else from finding out. With two sentences Moff Gideon has ripped any support or chance at leadership away from her entirely. It doesn’t matter what her intentions were when she surrendered; no one will ever truly know or believe her because there is no other way for them to see this freshly re-opened wound as anything other than a complete disgrace to her house, her creed, and her armor. Nobody will rally behind her now.

At the end of season 2, Bo-Katan is alone.

[dumbbitchenergy17]

Accident on Set

Plot: During a Buzzfeed interview stories of accidents on set happen to come up.

Word Count: 1.7K

Pairing: Paul Mescal x Reader, Pedro Pascal x Platonic!Reader

Warnings: blood/injury, sweet "father-daughter" moments, laughter giggles, just general fluff

—————

Doing a cute little BuzzFeed interview with Paul and some puppies was fun. The baby pitbulls play around between you, a gray one rests on your lap as you scratch its head, Paul using toys to keep their attention focused.

“Have you ever gotten an injury on set?” the interviewer asks, and Paul hums, letting one of the puppies gnaw at his hand as he plays with it.

“On Gladiator 2 during one of the fight sequences I pulled a muscle in my leg badly and was constantly on icy hots for a week straight, I strained something but it was not fun,” he says rubbing his muscle over his pantleg, “They had to work around shooting other scenes earlier while I was put on bed rest. I felt so bad.”

“I remember that call,” You pull another puppy onto your lap and it joins the sleeping one, “Luckily you had nurse Pedro to help with the healing process.”

Paul laughs, “He was just as banged up with his arm. What do they say misery loves company. And you?”

You give a sheepish look stroking the puppies’ fur, “I got my shit rocked by Giancarlo Esposito.”

The people behind the camera react with gasps and laugh at the normalcy of your words, while Paul looks shocked. “I don’t think I ever told you this, " you say honestly to him.

“I feel like I wouldn’t know if my girlfriend told me about getting assaulted,” he says.

“I wasn’t assaulted it was a complete accident,” you defend yourself and Giancarlo, “So it was during Season Three of Mandalorian in the finale there’s a portion where I’m taunting Moff Gideon and he punches me to shut me up.” you grimace already seeing the gears turn in Paul’s head.

You hear the doors open behind you as Gideon stands before a large hologram map, “Sir, the fighters and bombers have launched,” A commando says, “Their capital ship will soon be destroyed.”

Gideon is silent before speaking up, “But the Mandalorian has escaped.” Your heavy head perks up slightly upon hearing the news. Din had escaped. He was moving through this base. The whirring of Gideon’s armor as the Commando looks at him waiting for orders,

“Shall we engage?” The helmet is put on Gideon and you hear his modulated “No, I'll take care of him myself.” A hoarse chuckle comes fills the room and the commando stiffens Gideon is silent as it starts soft until it’s the only thing he can hear seeing your head shake. You look up at him the blood mouth and chin dried the hollow look in your eyes having a spark of malice.

“You’re dead…he’s gonna kill you.” You rasp a huff of laughter in your tone and you hear the whirring of his armor as it curls into a fist, “You won’t even last a minut-”

What was meant to be a faux punch you hadn’t realized you were too leaned forward until his fist, which was dressed in a decently heavy material that created the ‘beskar’ armor collides against your temple. If the scene was done correctly you would’ve ‘hit’ the ground before they paused to add the effect of a split eyebrow and a quickly growing bruise. What the crew hadn’t expected was the loud cry to come for you and with Tiya chained with her arms behind her back you hit the ground hard.

“Holy Shit!” Giancarlo shouts and it’s utter chaos. You can say you blacked out for just a second when he hit you, immediately feeling the pounding headache. You heard someone shout for a medic someone on the crew undoing the restraints so you could properly lay on your back.

“You’re alright Y/n,” Rick, your director calls out from beside you blinking back tears and seeing this crowd around you, Jon Favreau, Dave Filoni, and Giancarlo who has his helmet off a shellshock look on his face.

“Y/n I’m so sorry.” he pleads and you wave him off.

“It’s fine.” You reassure him though wince as your headache grows worse. The medic finally pulls up and the crew makes space for them to work. It didn’t help that you were already covered in fake blood.

“Y/n I need you to focus and follow this light,” one of them says before a tiny flashlight is shined and you follow his directions as he moves it from side to side.

“Pupil reaction looks good,” he says and you hiss as something is pressed against your brow, “You have a laceration across your brow we’re gonna get you to the hospital.”

It seemed almost unreal hearing laceration and hospital in the same sentence directed at you. It was hard to stop the waterworks, you’ve never been to the hospital before. You were going to be in one all by yourself, your family was across the fucking country and here you were crying getting put on a stretcher. Your assistant has to practically talk you down a panic attack during the ambulance ride to the hospital.

“I think I felt worse ‘cause I forgot I still had Pedro as my emergency contact for when he was on set for filming,” you pick at a hangnail, “I probably gave him a heart attack when he got that phone call.”

And a heart attack you gave him. Your assistant was on the phone with your parents informing them of your injury. Give them constant updates of being admitted, the concussion tests issued, and needing stitches. Then having to speak with your team while getting stitches put in to assure them, no you didn’t want to sue or press charges.

“Like I said for the fifth time Jeanine I don’t want to do anything. It was an accident. I just want to get back to set and finish today,” you say holding your phone on speaker.

“Are you sure you’re alright returning to set?” you hear her ask a bit frustrated but mainly concerned. No manager wants to receive a call that their client had an accident at work and was in the hospital.

“I passed all their tests and they are stitching me up as we speak. I just need to take antibiotics and I’ll be good. I wouldn’t be adamant if I didn’t believe I was truly alright.” you hear her sigh on the other end.

“Alright, I’ll have Cathy come to check on you after you finish filming today,” Jeanine says, “I hope you feel better.” The phone call ends as the doctor finishes with the last stitches. You were grateful for all the work they did, but you felt bad when they quickly rushed you seeing you covered in fake blood believing it was real.

Signing and giving any information needed to the hospital you had your team call head to the set that you would be returning to finish filming the sequence. Giancarlo gave you the biggest hug and apology on the planet with you constantly reassuring him it was an accident.

“If it makes you feel better we don’t need your coverage for that shot,” Rick says, “It’s a good take.” That makes you laugh loudly begging to watch playback to the crew’s horror to watch your accident. The scene was pretty sick and you took that punch like a champ. You all kept up with the rest of the filming schedule with a few scenes needing to get pushed to the next day given your hospital visit. Cleaned up and pampered by the makeup team when cleaning you up being extra wary of the stitches across your browbone. Like your manager said your agent Cathy arrived with a shocking guest.

“Pedro, what the fuck are you doing here?” your question is muffled in his chest as he draws you into a fierce hug before he pulls back. You can see the immediate concern on his face grimacing at the stitches.

“I got a call from a hospital saying you got hurt as your emergency contact, christ kid are you trying to kill me.” he pulls you back into another hug.

“Fuck I’m so sorry I completely forgot to remove you when you left,” you say before immediately pulling back it looked like he threw on the first thing and rushed here, “Did you fly from Calgary!” The wave of guilt crashes over you and he soothes you.

“Kid I’d drop anything to make sure you’re alright. I checked in with your parents before I boarded to tell them I’d make sure you’re alright,” he says resting his hands on your shoulders and rubbing circles to calm you. Your assistant never mentioned Pedro coming over but you were on such an adrenaline high and crash that the hospital seemed like such a blur.

“Now let’s get you home and get you all cozy,” he wraps an arm around your shoulder guiding you to your car, “I’m pulling out all the stops, Tex-Mex, true crime documentaries, and wine.” You and Cathy give him a look at suggesting you drink following your injury.

“The wine’s for me since you’re stressing me the hell out.” he says and you give a slight ‘oh’ as he keeps guiding you.

“Maybe it’s a sign for us to work on this project,” you say out of the blue as you climb into the passenger seat and he starts up the car, “I mean we both have given a blood sacrifice to Star Wars now.”

Pedro lets out a loud laugh at the realization you both have. Yours was a more serious scenario regarding getting injured while back in Season one broke his nose when he walked into a piece of plywood not paying attention.

“So this little scar I got,” you point right above your left browbone and Paul leans in close and hidden beneath the makeup you wear now he can see the shift in slightly raised skin from the scar. “Pedro and I are forever bonded to this show. Funny enough if you watch the finale they ended up using that take.” This makes the crew laugh at the comment. You see Paul’s slightly pouty face poking him until he scrunches it pulling away from your attack.

“I’m fine Paul. I handled it like a champ,” you say brushing fake dirt off your shoulder and he smirks.

“Didn’t you just say you cried the entire way to the hospital?” That only makes the crew laugh louder and you smack his shoulder drawing a chuckle from him.

“Shut up!” The laughter only gets louder before dying down allowing the interview to continue.

[erosmutt]

　★　Captain Save A Hoe　⨟　H. Solo

PART ONE

﹙characters﹚︰Han Solo, Darth Vader, Wilhuff Tarkin, Thrawn

﹙pairing﹚︰Han x DARTH VADER'S APPRENTICE!reader

﹙synopsis﹚︰Master let his little apprentice go on a mission all by herself. It took some convincing from the Admirals, but she soon found herself on Tatooine, searching for a certain smuggler, and their run-in is far different than what she anticipated.

﹙content warnings﹚︰semi-public sex, bathroom sex, quickie, blowjob, face-fucking

﹙word count﹚︰2.0k

⠀★⠀⠀─⠀⠀WRITTEN BY EROSMUTT 25.01.14

Every time you step into the conference room, you absolutely dread what's to come.

Rebels this, rebels that. Stationed here, stationed there.

The only plus to this specific meeting was that for once, Tarkin was not the one doing the talking. It was Thrawn.

"This man is not to be underestimated."

You sit at the table, fingers drumming on the surface in a steady rhythm, the only sound other than the soft beeps and boops of the control module as Thrawn navigates it, although both are being drowned out by your Master's obnoxiously loud breathing.

Nobody is really paying attention, for that matter. Except Tarkin, as always, kissing the Empire's ass.

Your eyes, previously clouded and distant, suddenly focus as the Admiral's words lift your veil of contemplation. You look up at the flickering screen displaying a mugshot of a man who, at first glance, seems unremarkable. "The man in question," Thrawn begins, his voice echoing through the conference room, "is Han Solo."

An involuntary scoff leaves you, drawing the attention of every high-ranking officer present. You lean forward slightly, your demeanor a mix of curiosity and skepticism. "Pardon the intrusion," you interject, your tone measured. "but, what exactly makes him so perilous? He looks utterly unexceptional."

Unfortunately, Tarkin is the one to speak this time. He scrutinizes you with an intensity in his narrowed eyes that can only be perceived as disapproval, which it is, because he does not approve of you. However, he tolerates you.

"His danger lies not in his outward appearance, but in the information he possesses, and the circles he keeps. He's a smuggler, one with a network of contacts that stretches across the Outer Rim and beyond." He takes a breath before continuing, eyes never leaving your face. "Solo has been known to associate with the likes of the Rebel Alliance's top leader. His ship, the Millennium Falcon, is used to ferry critical information and supplies to the Rebellion's strongholds."

Maker, what an earful.

Tarkin's gaze turns back to the mugshot, distaste clear on his face and in his voice. "Furthermore, he's been a thorn in the side of the Empire. He's evaded us for years, always slipping through our grasp at the last moment. In doing so, he's become a symbol of defiance, a beacon of hope for the discontented masses."

Is he done yet?

"Perhaps you'd like to aid in his capture, since you have such curiosity."

Of course not.

"Excuse me?"

The pale blue of Tarkin's eyes fall back on you, studying your expression. "I recommend you take personal charge of this mission to apprehend Solo. Your... unique skills and background may prove invaluable in navigating the underworld he inhabits."

A sound akin to a garbled scoff is heard from beside you. It's clear that Vader isn't happy with this new development. The Grand Moff, ever the antagonist, raises an eyebrow. "Do you disagree, Lord Vader?"

Yes, he does disagree. One thousand times over, absolutely. Yet for some reason, he can't find it in himself to argue with the Admiral today. A few moments of silence pass before Vader speaks.

"Very well."

That's how you found yourself on Tatooine.

Fate decided you would be dropped onto this podunk, backwater planet, and so here you are, feeling stranded on the desolate sands of Tatooine. The scorching heat of the binary suns above bears down upon you, your skimpy clothes given to you for the mission doing little to shield you from the temperature.

Vader had told you he had an inkling that the rogue would be lurking in one of the planet's countless cantinas. Sure enough, as you make your way inside of a particular dive bar, his intuition proved correct.

It's loud. Too loud.

The raucous noise of the patrons and music combined is an unwelcome and very stark contrast to the usual eerie, dead silence you've grown accustomed to in Imperial dwellings. It all grates on your ears, overwhelming you. As your eyes adjust to the dim lighting, they fall upon a familiar face across the room.

Han Solo. Just the man you want to see.

A warmth pools in your tummy as Han's piercing brown eyes meet yours, a cocky, charming grin spreading across his handsome face. Despite there being three girls at the table looking up at him like he hung the moon and stars just for them, you feel an inexplicable pull, a magnetic attraction drawing you towards him. Straightening your short skirt, the leather of it creaking a bit, you take a deep breath and make your way across the crowded cantina, weaving between the tables and assortment of patrons.

He sits at a sabacc table, boots kicked up onto it making no difference on the scratched up surface, his lips now fixed into a lazy smirk on the death stick between them as he plays the game with the ease of a seasoned gambler. As you approach the table, Han's eyes rake over your curves, a flicker of interest in his eyes. He leans back in his chair, one arm draped casually over the back of the seat beside him, a silent invitation. The others present, a mix of humans, humanoids, and aliens, eye you warily, sensing your potential competition.

"Well well," Han drawls around the stick in his mouth, his voice like velvet and sin. "Join us, darlin'." He gestures to the seat beside him.

As you settle in, your hand finds his arm, once again making a heat pool in your stomach. You can feel the warmth of his skin beneath the thin fabric of his sleeve, the firmness of his bicep beneath your fingertips. You lean forward slightly, looking at his hand.

Leaning forward, you watch as Han takes a long drag of his death stick, the embers glowing bright in the dim light of the cantina. He exhales a plume of smoke, his eyes never leaving yours. There's a challenge in his gaze, a dare to match his audacity.

The cards laid out before him are just a jumble of patterns and numbers to your untrained eyes. You have zero idea who has the advantage, but you're not here to play sabacc. You're here for him.

You hesitate for a moment, your stomach fluttering nervously as you glance towards the cantina's entrance. The noise of the crowd fades into a distant murmur. Han's presence, his raw charisma, is utterly consuming.

Suddenly, you remember the reason you came here. To apprehend him. Why does he have your body warming with attraction? You stand up a bit abruptly. "Excuse me," you murmur, hoping he doesn't notice the slight tremor in your voice. "I'll be right back."

Once again, you weave your way through the ridiculously crowded cantina, your heart pounding in your chest as you make your way to the refresher. It's a welcome respite from the chaos, the air slightly cooler and less smoky. You stand at the sink, staring at your reflection. Your cheeks are flushed, your eyes wide and bright. You look... excited, almost manic. You turn on the sink and splash some cool water on your face, trying to snap out of it and compose yourself.

As you dry your hands, another woman steps out of one of the stalls, approaching the sink and turning the water on. "Watch yourself with that one, sweetheart." She warns, tilting her head to the door, referring to Han. "He's trouble." She takes the towel from you, drying her hands. Just like that, she's gone.

The door swings right back open, revealing Han's imposing figure, the smell of smoke and whiskey brought with him. He strides in, each step eating up the distance between the two of you. At 6'2", his tall, muscular frame seems to dwarf the small bathroom, making you feel small and insignificant. Han leans against the sink, looming over you, his gaze boring into yours. A wolfish grin spreads across his face, and it takes every ounce of your willpower to not let out a whimper.

"You said 'right back,' didn't you?" His deep voice asks, sending a shiver down your spine. He hits a fresh pack of death sticks against his palm before tearing it open, tossing the paper onto the floor, and extracting one. With fluid motions he places the death stick between his lip and flicks open his lighter. Shielding the flame with his large hand, he ignites it, the embers glowing.

"Looks like the party's here now," Han sighs, flicking the lighter closed and setting it beside the pack on the counter. His eyes never leave your face. The air is growing thick with tension, the scent of smoke mingling with the lingering floral aroma of the hand soap and your own fear. You swallow, mouth suddenly dry, realizing the precarious situation you've gotten yourself in.

Thrawn was right. He is not to be underestimated.

"Loth-cat got your tongue, sweetheart?" He asks, growing agitated with your silence. "C'mon, darlin'. A pretty little thing like you, comin' here for a good time then runnin' away?" Han pushes off the sink, beginning to circle you. As he stops behind you, he stares with a heavy gaze, taking a long drag of his death stick. The smoke curls around his head like a sinister halo. "You know sweetheart," he taps the ash off the stick into the sink. His hand comes to rest on your hip, pulling you towards him, your back hitting his chest. "I could show you a real good time."

"A good time?" You question, laying your head back against his chest. "Mhm," he leans down and presses a kiss to your jawline, then to your neck, giving your pulse point a teasing flick with his tongue. "Turn back around f'me, sweet thing, face me." He murmurs, and you comply, now facing him. "On your knees."

"Yes Captain." Your voice in your ears is barely audible over the sound of your heart pounding in against your chest as you drop down to your knees. "You know what to do, sweetheart." Your hands find and undo his belt, the metal clasp falling open with a soft clink. Dragging down his zipper, you tug at the waistband of his pants, freeing his hardening cock. It springs out, thick and heavy, the musky scent filling your nostrils.

Tentatively, you wrap a hand around his velvety shaft, stroking it with a light touch. Han inhales sharply, his hips jerking forward slightly, seeking more contact. You lean in, flicking your tongue out to taste the pearlescent bead of precum glistening at the tip. The flavor spreads across your taste buds, salty and slightly bitter, but bearable.

You take a deep breath, steeling yourself, before taking Han's cock into your mouth. Inch by inch, you sink down, lips stretching around his girth. The head of it bumps against the back of your throat, making you gag reflexively. You fight the urge, determined to please him, to get him in Imperial custody as quick as possible.

Han groans, tangling a hand in your hair. "Kriff, hold still dollface," he mutters around the death stick before tangling his other hand in your hair, beginning to guide your movements. He sets a relentless pace, fucking your mouth with short, hard thrusts. Drool leaks from the corners of your mouth, hands on his hairy thighs. Your jaw aches, your neck strains, but still, you take him deeper, until the tip of his cock nestles in the tight clutch of your throat.

He grunts, grip tightening in your hair, holding you in place as he hilts inside your mouth. You shut your eyes, the tears that welled up in them finally spilling down your cheeks. With a deep, guttural moan, Han empties his balls down your throat. "Ohh, Maker," he drawls. "Swallow," he whispers hoarsely. You swallow, the hot, salty essence of his cum making you gag.

Finally, Han pulls out, his softening cock slipping from your used mouth with a wet pop. You gasp for air, strands of drool and semen connecting your lips to his crotch before they snap, decorating your chin with a sheen. You look up at him, eyes pleading and desperate. For what, exactly? You have no idea. Your dignity, perhaps.

Wait a minute. Aren't you on a mission right now?

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[sweetrevxnge]

Ghosts In The Snow

Chapter Seven

Pairing: Vampire!Kylo Ren x Reader AU

Summary: Six long years had passed under the reign of the First Order. The bitter winters grew longer, and as they did, hope faded from the hearts of the citizens of Hosnian Prime. As a lieutenant in the Resistance cavalry, it was your duty to nurture that ember of hope. After a mission takes an unexpected turn, you are taken prisoner by a commander in the First Order, a mysterious man with an insatiable appetite—for violence, power, and you. In the coming days, you must keep the spark of your own hope alive from the dark confines of the Commander's castle.

Warnings: sexual content, violence, blood kink, gore, mentions/descriptions of injury and death

*concurrently being published on AO3 and Wattpad as well!

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Chapter VI

Spotify Playlist

Word count: 3.6k

Chapter-specific CW: torture (what fun!), period-typical sexism

A/N: the dead speak! lmao at least that's what it feels like coming back after an entire YEAR??? I kinda got sucked into playing 1,200+ hours of baldur's gate 3, romancing a certain vampiric elf time and time again, which gave me plenty of inspiration to continue this fic. I never meant to be gone for so long, so if you're still interested in this story, please let me know!

───────── ❅ 🦇 ❅ ─────────

What have you done?

To say that you were restless would be an understatement. The first order of business when you returned to your chambers was finding a safe place to store your stolen weapon, and now, hours later, you had yet to succeed. 

You paced the room, wearing holes in the soles of your slippers as you wondered if you had made the right decision. It was unlike you to have sticky fingers, but then again, these were unprecedented times. Boldness meant survival.

Above all, you feared Ren was privy to your thievery, despite his silence on the walk back to your chambers. The prick of blood seemed enough to distract him for a moment, or perhaps he was practiced in hiding his tells. Either way, the consequences of him knowing gnawed at your sanity.

Rey had tended the hearth while you were away, ensuring your chambers were kept warm and filled with the familiar scent of dry wood. Her diligence as a handmaid proved to be an unforeseen complication in hiding your contraband.

Instinct urged you to keep it close to your bed, but reason told you it would be found too easily there. Same with the lounges circling the hearth, whose velour cushions could conceal many things if asked to. Though a dagger lodged in one’s rear would raise many concerns, as well as promise unspeakable punishments to come.

For these reasons, you ultimately settled on the bookcase.

Towering in the corner was a collection of books and texts, dense enough to put even the most curious scholars to sleep. A perfect place to hide a dagger.

Dragging a footstool over as a makeshift ladder, you reached for a leather-bound book embossed with gold letters along its spine. Imperium Nunquam Fuit. Though written in Old Basic, you understood its meaning.

The Empire That Never Was. A phrase coined by Grand Moff Wilhuff Tarkin to describe the destruction of Alderaan during the Revolution. An unsavory way to speak about a fallen civilization—considering he was the man responsible.

You made quick work of hollowing the historical text, skimming the page you’d turned to before defacing it. This passage detailed the last of the Imperial attacks on Alderaan, near the end of the Rebellion. One of the more infamous sieges of the war, earning its place in history with a tithe of blood and destruction.

The lines of script told the story of how Imperial soldiers salted Alderaan’s lands and butchered the citizens—babes and crones included. The Empire was thorough, wiping out an entire civilization over a mere conspiracy. With few survivors, and even fewer successors, Alderaanian blood was a rarity. You supposed that was one of the many things that set General Organa apart from the rest.

Considering the contents, it was a book of little interest to the First Order—a perfect hiding place.

The point of your blade pierced the parchment with ease, as if slicing through a block of butter rather than a thousand-page text. Tragic as it was to ruin a book like this, what other choice did you have? Hosnian Prime’s Grand Archives likely stored dozens of copies; one locked away in the depths of the First Order’s fortress would not be missed.

The fit was snug, but it would do for now. As for the pages you’d carved out, they laid in a pile at your feet, a messy reminder that your room was not private.

You slammed the book shut and returned it, hurrying to clean the shreds of paper scattered across the red carpets. Despite your efforts, the fragments proved too difficult to clean with just your hands alone, forcing you to sweep them into your skirts.

As you carried the pieces to the hearth, a gentle knock sounded through the oak doors. “Gods,” you muttered as you rushed towards the fire, dumping the pages unceremoniously onto the crackling wood.

Another rap on the door.

“Just a moment, please!” It was impossible to hide the panic in your voice as you prodded at the withering pages with an iron poker. Time seemed to slow as you watched the flames engulf the ink, turning Alderaan’s history to ash once more.

“It’s me, my lady.” Muffled by the wood, Rey’s voice was barely audible over the fire, hissing with fresh fodder. If any good came from her being your visitor, it was her staunch etiquette. She would not barge in uninvited—unlike some of the castle’s residents.

Brushing the slivers of evidence from your gown, you opened the doors, mindful of the lingering ash in the hearth. “My apologies. I was…” You cleared your throat, smoothing out your skirts before finishing your lie. “Indecent.”

Demure as ever, Rey dropped her gaze as she curtseyed before you. “It’s no matter, my lady. I was sent to fetch you; the Supreme Leader requests your presence.”

The moment his name left her lips, cotton filled your mouth, forcing its way down your throat as you swallowed your fear. What reason would the Supreme Leader have to summon you—at this late hour, no less?

Your thoughts immediately turned to Commander Ren. Perhaps he had noticed your theft after all and reported your offence to Snoke. If that were true, you vowed to slice his throat first. 

“Did he give a reason?” you asked, trying to maintain your resolve.

Rey’s throat knocked in her slender neck. “He did not say.”

Part of you wanted to take the damned blade with you, but recklessness wouldn’t serve you. Though you did not recognize him as your ruler, you were not keen on adding treason to your ledger.

You sighed, coming to stand beside Rey at the door, shoulders pressed back and hands folded over your lap. “I’m surprised he didn’t send you with manacles.”

She said nothing, but the trace smile on her lips told you all that you needed to know. You couldn’t blame her for watching her tongue around you. Given what transpired last night, you would do the same in her position.

The two of you walked in near silence to the throne chambers, passing countless tall windows with panes stained a deep red, dark enough to block most light from entering. What little light did manage to seep through painted the halls crimson, giving the appearance of blood spilling over the floor.

The burned pages of text flashed in your mind.

Every step forward was committed to memory, including the number of paces between notable fixtures, as well as where each one stood in relation to your chambers. Still, there was no sign of an access point in this section of the castle. But your resolve did not falter. If there was a means of entry into this accursed fortress, there must also be a means of escape.

As you rounded the corner to another corridor, you glanced at your handmaid, noticing that her usual singular bun had evolved into three smaller ones, meeting the nape of her neck in a uniform line.

“You’ve changed your hair.” The observation came out as more of a question than a comment.

“Yes, my lady,” she said, delicate fingers reaching to touch the one near her collar. “An effort to be closer to the gods.”

You furrowed your brows. “How’s that?”

“As there are three of them, there are three knots. We servants are forbidden to worship openly, so we find other ways.” She closed her eyes for a moment, tilting her chin towards her chest. “Divine strength allows clarity of the mind.”

While you were not necessarily a pious woman, you were familiar enough with the gods from your upbringing to understand what she meant. As a child, you often prayed at your family’s shrine, asking for a bountiful harvest, good health, and, most of all, peace in the realm. For many years, they fulfilled your wishes. Now, your faith provided you with little comfort.

“Certainly,” you said, not wanting to discuss the subject any further. “Are we nearly there?”

“Just down this hall,” she said, her tone clipped. Either she was annoyed with the change of subject, or just as uneasy about seeing the Supreme Leader as you were.

True to her word, Rey came to a stop near the end of the corridor, leaving a short distance between you and the two looming oak doors, with iron enforcements woven into the grain and a guard posted on either side. Their faces were concealed by crimson veils, the signature regalia of the Praetorian Guard. Those tasked with protecting the ruler of these lands, whether they carried the title of Chancellor, Emperor, or Supreme Leader.

The warmth drained from your face at the sight.

“This is where I leave you, my lady.” Her face lacked its usual peachy hue, her freckles washed away by the candlelight. “The Supreme Leader does not allow us to enter these chambers, save for when he is passing judgment upon us.”

Standing before the faceless guards, you understood her unease.

“Will you be here to escort me back?” you asked, palms growing damp as you clutched the fabric of your gown.

“It is late. I must turn in for the evening.” She shifted her weight, eyes darting between you and the guards, whose presence seemed to loom over you from meters away. “Besides, I should think you do not require my assistance from this point.”

With that, she turned on her heels and retreated, her steps muted as she faded into the stretching darkness of the hallway. Turning to face the guards, dread settled in your stomach. Surely these warriors would not accompany you back to your chambers.

You studied them for a moment, the strategist in your mind seeking to understand what threat they posed. Both were tall and well-fed, given the size of their uniforms. The one to your left carried a bisento, while the other held a tall voulge, both equally unnerving. Their blades were pristine, foreign to combat. You wondered if the same could be said for those wielding them, too.

As if seeking to test your theory, they readied their weapons as you approached, each blade humming as it sliced through the air.

You came to a halt, the hair on the back of your neck now stiff. “I’ve been summoned by the Supreme Leader.”

The two remained poised to strike for a long moment before returning to their sentry state, offering one another a brisk nod as they pushed the heavy doors open, revealing the grand throne room. With tentative steps, you approached, pausing at the threshold.

Black marble columns lined the walkway to the throne, each manned by a knight of the Praetorian Guard, their crimson armor matching the First Order banners draped along the cobbled walls. Above the throne was the room’s sole window, with red stained panels filling the space between the spokes of the First Order insignia. Six steps carved of the same dark mineral as the columns led to the throne, lined with black velvet upholstery and a towering slate backing. Perched comfortably in the seat was Supreme Leader Snoke, draped in golden robes that flowed over his limbs like smelted ore, barely concealing the matching jewelry wrapped snugly around his fingers.

The paragon of humility.

He was joined by another: the fire-haired General Hux. His gaze snapped to you as the doors creaked open, beady eyes piercing you like darts from across the chamber.

“Ah, my guest of honor,” Snoke crooned, clasping his hands before his chest in delight. His tone fell icy as he turned to address the General. “Leave us.”

Confusion spread across his pale features as he turned to face Snoke once more. “But, Supreme Leader, there is still much to be discussed.”

“Perhaps I did not make myself clear. You are to leave these chambers at once, General Hux, or you will be removed.” Snoke’s gravelly voice rumbled through the hall with the force of a thousand footsteps, and reluctantly, Hux obeyed.

You watched the scene play out before you from the safety of the doorway, your feet rooted to the floor.

Snoke relaxed in his chair once more, beckoning you in with a hand gesture. “Please, come in, darling.”

Willing your feet to move, you did as he asked, eyes flitting between the Praetorian guard and the approaching General Hux, whose expression could only be described as irate as he brushed past you, black coat fluttering behind him.

Your heart was lodged in your throat as you neared the throne, feeling like a lamb being shepherded towards the maw of a lion. You stopped in line with the last of the guards before the Supreme Leader, leaving some distance still.

Snoke watched you with keen eyes, a stark contrast to his stoic front. “I do hope you are well, my dear. I can only imagine the days spent in anticipation of your wedding are agonizing.”

You frowned. “Is that why you summoned me? To ask me about my wedding?”

“Of course not. But pleasantries are the foundation of any proper conversation.” The humor fell from his voice. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Yes, Supreme Leader.” The words left a sour taste in your mouth, like wine crafted from grapes plucked too early.

Satisfied, he settled back into his throne, resting his hands over the ornate armrests. “See? Deference needn’t be cumbersome.”

His mocking tone made your vision red, but you held your tongue. Invisible threads tied you to him and his guards, each one pulled taught in the silence. It would take nothing more than a misstep to cause one of them to snap.

He spoke again, this time with authority. “It has come to my attention that you are unaware of what is expected of you as a noblewoman.”

You let out a terse exhale. “I suppose I am. Perhaps that is because of the conditions under which I am becoming one.”

A thin smile curled on the Supreme Leader’s lips. “These are unprecedented times, lieutenant.”

The emphasis on your title made your skin crawl. Snoke was calculated, sadistic. With his power, he was untouchable. The red veils surrounding you served as a constant reminder of his invulnerability.

“Now, I am curious. How did you manage that?” he added, tilting his head in intrigue. “A commoner like yourself rising to the rank of a commanding officer is no easy feat—even more so for a woman.”

You narrowed your eyes. “I hardly see how this is relevant to my new status as a noblewoman.”

Despite your outward naivety, you knew too well what being a noblewoman would entail. You’d known from the moment your betrothal was announced. You were to be the docile wife of a commander, providing him an heir, a spare, and a warm bed whenever he pleased. Your military career would be swept away by the title of Lady Ren, all traces of your independence lost to time. You couldn’t think of anything less appealing.

“As a Lady of the First Order, you will be granted privileges seldom given to others, such as this.” Snoke motioned to the surrounding space, and you found yourself unable to decipher his meaning.

He isn’t referring to having an audience with the ruler of the realm as a privilege, is he?

He continued, “The safety of the castle. Our stronghold. You will be protected within its walls.”

Oh. Of course.

You suppressed a scoff. “I find that hard to believe, considering Commander Ren has attempted to strangle me twice over since my arrival.”

“I see,” he mused, pressing an index finger to his lips in thought. “My mercurial underling. If only his mind were half as quick as his temper.”

Somehow, your first instinct was to defend Commander Ren from his inflaming remark. While the Supreme Leader was correct about Ren’s temperament, he didn’t see the side of him that you saw—however infrequently it may have showed itself. There was a tenderness to him, fleeting in nature, like a luminescent star ripping through the night sky. You saw it in his eyes as he sat before your hearth, again when he laced your bodice.

Or perhaps what you felt was just the lingering effects of his charm.

Snoke’s rough voice broke your reverie. “Nevertheless, I’m sure Commander Ren had his reasons. Just as I’m sure whatever actions may have led to these outbursts will cease henceforth, won’t they?”

Before you could answer, a searing pain sliced through your skull, its barbed tendrils reaching into the deepest part of your consciousness. Every muscle in your body became succinctly rigid, frozen in place as an invisible force suspended you midair. You squeezed your eyes shut and tried to call out; for the gods, for your mother—even for Commander Ren.

“You will behave yourself, insolent girl, or you will be disposed of.”

Despite your efforts, no sound would come from your throat. An eternity seemed to pass as the Supreme Leader kept you trapped, holding your feet to the fire of his anger. Mustering every ounce of strength, you forced your chin down in agreement, hot tears distorting your vision.

Without moving a muscle, he relinquished his hold on you, your knees cracking against the marble floor in an instant. The violet fabric of your gown pooled around you like the blood of a slain enemy, collecting the tears that fell from your chin.

Before you could find your voice, the creak of wood and subsequent rustling of armor behind you swiped your attention. The guards had readied their weapons, aiming at something other than you.

You flinched as the doors slammed shut, followed by a heavy—yet quick—footfall.

“What is the meaning of this?” Commander Ren’s voice was biting, filled with untamed fury as he entered the grand hall. His cloak rippled behind him like the night sea, silver sword in hand as he marched forward.

You scurried backwards on your tender palms, caught between his rage and the throne. He drew closer, only stopping at the intersection of two of the guards’ blades.

“Commander Ren, what a welcome surprise,” Snoke crooned. “Your bride was just leaving.”

His eyes found yours in an instant—wild and dark. Silently, you pleaded for his cooperation. If he were to strike at the guard, your life would be forfeit.

Outnumbered by eight blades, he stowed his own. “What have you done?” he demanded.

Though he was looking at you, his question was directed at the man atop the throne, whose enthusiasm at his subordinate’s display was palpable.

“Nothing you have not already done yourself,” Snoke growled. With that, he stood to his feet and stepped down from his throne, closing the gap you’d deliberately left and standing over you. “See her back to her chambers, Commander.”

A snarl flashed across Ren’s face as he pushed past the guards and kneeled before you, extending a gloved hand for you. Though he was quiet, his eyes were heavy with guilt.

With legs like a new foal, you accepted his help, gripping his hand like a lifeline as you stood. “Thank you.” The words floated from your mouth, burning your throat as they passed through.

He only nodded in return, guiding you away from the chamber. Because of his intrusion, the outer guards were now sealed inside, allowing some privacy in the dimly lit hall.

Ren came to a halt, moving both of his cool hands to rest on your shoulders, inspecting you. “Are you hurt?”

Averting your eyes, you shook your head dismissively, ignoring how your knees seemed to rattle with every step.

He let out an amused hum. “I find that hard to believe.”

“Believe what you will, Commander,” you managed to say through your dry mouth. “I’m fine.”

At that, the two of you carried on in silence, meandering through the castle, passing knights and servants alike down each corridor. Ren’s emotion rolled off of him like heat from a flame, slowly dwindling the further you were from the throne room.

As your legs regained their strength, so did your voice. “How did you know I was in there?”

“Does that really matter?”

“I’d say so. For all I know, you’re the reason he summoned me in the first place,” you argued, head spinning as you tried to recognize your surroundings. Only when you realized these walls were unfamiliar did your pace falter. “Stop!”

He obeyed, meeting you where you stood. “What?”

“Answer me.”

He let out a terse breath. “No, I am not the reason he summoned you. Come, we can discuss this later.”

At that, he began his stride again, but you didn’t follow. “No. I will not take one more step. Not before I know where you are taking me, as it is clearly not my chambers.”

“I’m bringing you somewhere private,” he finally answered.

“Are my chambers not private enough?”

“By the gods,” he hissed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “As I’m sure you’re well aware, it is unbecoming of me to be seen entering your chambers before we are wed.”

You scoffed. “How pragmatic of you.”

Ignoring your comment, he continued, “After your encounter with the Supreme Leader, I think it’s best if we avoid unnecessary speculation—for your sake.”

You couldn’t argue with him. If Snoke was inclined to submit you to the rawest agony over the slightest display of defiance, you could only imagine what else he was capable of.

“Fine,” you conceded, seeing reason in his words. “But let it be known that my cooperation does not reflect my satisfaction with this decision.”

A smile ghosted over his lips. “I know.”