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detroitbydark · 2 years

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Chapter 11

Title: Tell Me That Your Soul Lies Now

Relationship: Sev/OC/Scorch

Rating: Teen

Characters: Jessa, Sev, Scorch, Walon Vau, A slew of of Kyrimorut residents

Warnings: None

Summary: Tensions rise as the auction draws near -or- no one ever claimed Sev was a poet.

This was supposed to be done for day 1 of @officialrepcomm Republic Commando Week Day 1. little late on the draw lol. Thank you all for your patience. as you know life happens and I'm so happy to get back to this story. Thank @fractiouskat for being an A+ cheerleader and thank you to @royalhandmaidens for the greatest banner ever!

Besany Skirata hadn’t always been a doting mother. Jessa had been mildly surprised, yet not shocked, to learn the older woman had once been a member of the Grand Army of the Republic herself- though in what position it was never made clear. What was clear, Jessa noted, her eyes sweeping from one end of the woman’s expansive closet to the other, was that Bes had had an eye for fashion. Her closet held over a dozen different dresses: cocktail and evening gowns in soft silks and stunning chiffons cut in ways that only served to emphasize the blonde woman’s beautiful features. As the duo of Bes and Parja had plunked her in and out of each garment, she’d taken in the stories attached to each.

“I remember when I fit into that one.”

“Undercover with Ordo. Gods, he was so awkward.” The fondness Bes had for her husband was unmistakable as she strolled down memory lane with each cocktail dress and gown Jessa modeled.

“Oh, I never did get to wear this one. I was pregnant and on house arrest,” the blonde jokes.

Parja barked a laugh, “I’m surprised Ordo let you out of his sight to use the fresher.”

“He was insufferable. I thought I’d send him to the Manda before all was said and done.”

Jessa admires the black gown as the two older Mando women reminisce. She wanted that. She wanted stories she could look back on with soft, fond eyes.

The fabric of the dress slips through her fingers, falling to once again to dangle from its hanger.

“Jes’ika, try it on,” Bes is at her side. “It’s a shame to leave it unseen here.” There was a reason Bes had become something of the Skirata clan’s matriarch and it wasn’t just her marriage to Kal’s favorite son. She radiated confidence and a gentle authority Jessa couldn’t find herself saying no to.

The dress itself has been intended for Bes’ curves and full bust. Jessa felt woefully inadequate, holding the loose fabric up over a body she didn’t feel compared to the one it was meant for. Parja caught her eye in the mirror and gave her an encouraging smile.

“Don’t judge it just yet.”

It took time, pins, and an occasional smack on the hand from Parja to see what the dress could come to.

“Thank the Manda for small breasts, because you won’t be able to wear a bra under this.”

Parja laughs as Jessa's cheeks burn.

“Don’t be so shy.” Bes encourages from her spot relaxing on her bed. Her pregnancy was fairly progressed and she frequently needed to kick up her feet.

Cautiously, Jessa brings her attention to the floor to ceiling mirror near the closet. Her eyes go wide at the sight of herself. The high collar hugged her throat and neck. Though she’d still need applied makeup to hide the mining guild’s brand, a large portion of it was now obscured from sight.

The dress itself is velvety soft under her hands. The hem of the flared sleeves flutters around her fingers as she slides her hands down her body. The dress hugs the curve of her hips in a way nothing she’s worn before has. It skims over her hips and thighs, cutting off only slightly above her knees with a modest slit at the front of each leg to account for movement. From the front it appears almost simple, classic. The cool air on her back reminds her it’s any such thing.

Turning her body, she has to peer over her shoulder to see the plunging back. It’s low. It’s sexy. It’s unlike anything she’s ever dreamt she’d wear. She loved it.

“It’s perfect.” Parja and Bes concur.

Jessa had to agree.

———

Her recently acquired buir had begrudgingly agreed with Kal Skirata when he’d mentioned that the bare expanse of flesh from the base of her neck down to the dimples at the small of her back would thoroughly distract anyone from looking anywhere else. He didn’t have to like it, though.

While Walon had continued to play any genuine feelings of her being volunteered close to his chest, he was having a rather un-Vau like difficulty hiding the slight twitch of his right eye at the mention of the auction, or the tightening of his jaw as he spoke of the logistics with Kal. The little merc had no small delight in Walon’s discomfort. Di’kut .

He’d done a far better job than either Sev or Scorch, the former whose scowl was threatening to become more permanent each time Jessa’s involvement was spoken of, and the latter who openly opposed it at every opportunity. Of course, he had other ways of letting his distaste of the matter be known.

She’d endured long days of his tutelage and, while not as physical as what he’d put his sons through, it had been taxing on her still-healing body. As he'd known, she was an apt pupil, quickly memorizing his lists of imperial courtesies and customs as well as the names and faces of the more prevalent crime syndicates likely to be in attendance. With a glance she could now tell ranking officers from one another by the quick glance of a patch on the arm. She could recite the names of each syndicate that functioned within their corner of the galaxy and who each crime family's major players were (and to stay away from them). She would be able to assist in intelligence collection, even if only on a very limited level.

Still, he maintained a level of uncertainty about the whole mission. Sev and Scorch would doubtless be fine. But if something happened to his daughter… well. He wondered silently if the outcome would be worth the risk.

—----

“This is fun, right?” Scorch checks his DH-17 over for a second time. The armory is quiet, devoid of the noise and action of the rest of Kyrimorut.

The click, click, click of Sev loading and unloading, checking and confirming his verpine is good to go, breaks the silence. How many times had they done this routine? Some days, Scorch had a hard time recollecting exactly at what age the first blaster had been placed in his tiny hands.

“I mean, this is what we do. More fun than a bug zapper on Geonosis, right?” The silence eats at him so he fills it with whatever he can. They’d been doing it since decant.

Sev sighs irritably, the painted exterior of his buyce giving nothing away, but Scorch doesn’t need to see his brother's face to know. His blaster is laid across the nearest worktop, rattling softly as he sits back and pulls out the pair of knives Parja has slipped him the evening before. He turns the blades over, a hunter's eye assessing the set. Scorch eyes the pair as well, mismatched, but forged from the same piece of beskar.

“What are you getting at?” Sev’s voice is a low rasp.

What was he getting at? This is what they were made for. Controlling the chaos, wrangling it into what they wanted it to be, was something Scorch lived for. So why was his internal alarm blaring? “I just…. does something feel wrong-“

“I’m pissed she’s going too.”

And just like that, it was out in the open.

Ok. Scorch blinks. Good to know he wasn’t alone. The she in question was off somewhere being primped and prodded, made to look like the sexy spy of his dreams… focus Scorch . She’d be going through her thousandth brief like a cadet being prepped for their first mission.

Jessa had been adamant the two Vau adiike stay far away from her. Her narrowed eyes and earlier rebuke of Scorch’s concern had put a fine point on the demand. His gloved hand rubs over the ka’rta beskar in the center of his chest as if to remove the lingering sting from her finger jabbing at it.

Whatever. She could be mad. She could pretend all she wanted. Jessa wasn’t a soldier. She wasn’t a Mandalorian. The training she had was laughable and far below the level that would have had any of Delta meeting their maker (most literally) in a Kaminoan lab. She was a distraction at best, a liability at worst, and Scorch found it laughable that he was the only one to openly voice what a kriffing bad idea the whole thing was.

He’d watched, swallowing his snark like bad Coruscanti street food as Kal Skirata had sat with Wal’buir and Jessa the week before and laid out the coming op. It was the first he’d even heard of it, and that alone set him on edge. Jessa’s reaction only served to make that raw nerve of anxiety even worse.

She hadn’t paused to think about what was being asked of her. She’d agreed before Skirata had even finished his spiel. His buir had been less than enthusiastic if Mird’s soft chirps and nudging of his hand under the table had been anything to go by, but he hadn’t stopped her and he hadn’t so much as tried to dissuade her. Scorch watched in stunned silence as Kal Skirata, the old chakaar himself, had weedled exactly what he wanted from her. Of course he and Sev were in- the promise of an op more than either was willing to pass up, and the cause was good- so there was no reason to miss out on the fun. Their brothers in arms deserved more than being sold off as spare parts after being pawns for first the Galactic Republic and then the Empire.

Jessa though, she didn’t need to fulfill any of that. She didn’t need to be anywhere they couldn’t keep her safe, anywhere that risked her being reclaimed by the mining guild. His buir had silenced him with a single look before he could speak, but that hadn’t meant that he’d not used the week since to make his opinion be known at every opportunity.

“I don’t like that she’s been roped into this” Sev mumbles.

His brother’s possessiveness mirrors his own as a grim smile pulls at his lips. At least they were in this together. Now was not the time to fall apart.

Sev grunts his acknowledgment to his brother’s unspoken words. The pair of blades shine in the light. Sev flips one in his hand, the small grip of the custom weapon disappearing in his grasp.

They were going to court her properly, and make their intentions known. Scorch had told Laseema as much, and the twi’lek had given him a hard look. Jessa had told her she wouldn’t choose, and Laseema had been clear any attempt at doing so wouldn’t end in their favor. They had no intention of making her decide one or the other. It was a package deal. All or nothing.

He just hoped they could all handle it.

————

It was far simpler to admire the dress she’d been herded into by the Skirata matriarch than it was to worry about the shabla mess she’d volunteered herself for.

She tries weakly to blame the twist in her stomach on breakfast. But that wasn’t really the issue at hand, was it? This was a mission, a rescue mission. To an Imperial held moon. No, she can’t blame the food she’d had no appetite for. The heavy Mando-favored meal Laseema had thrown together (all full of cured meats and eggs fried in roba lard) had been wholly unappetizing. She’d only picked at her plate, much to Sev and Scorch’s audible displeasure.

”You’re not eating” Sev’s raspy voice pulls her from her thoughts. A glance at her plate confirms that she’s only managed to herd its contents from one edge to the other. She glances at him from the corner of her eye. He and Scorch are flanking her. Their presence, usually a reassuring safety net, was feeling anything but. They’d made their opinions known over and over.

Those opinions meant far too much to make any of this easy on her and they either didn’t know or didn’t care.

“I’m not hungry.”

“Doesn’t matter, Princess. Need to keep the calories coming.”

To her right Scorch sets down his fork and knife and turns his head toward her. She can feel his eyes and it’s only a matter of time til she hears-

“She’s not eating?”

Sev gestures subtly. She can feel Scorch’s eyes on her. She fights the temptation to look.

“There’s a pack of feral adiik’e that’ll do the job for you If you don’t watch out.” He’s joking, but his humor is strained. The talk around them has gone silent. Her lips press together in a grim line as she glares into the depths of her pile of eggs.

“Jessa,” he’s insistent, going stern in a way that brings the hackles up on her neck. He needed to let her be, but he was Scorch and he’d never let anything be in his life. Her irritation mounted. “It’s important. You need the calories. You-”

“I’m not a child, and I don’t need you to be my boss.” She lashes out, her finger finding the center of his chest to emphasize her point followed with a glare that’d freeze a tauntaun in its tracks.

She’s never rounded on him like that and it shows in the way he fails to hide his flinch. He hadn’t expected it, and he took it with all the grace of a kicked puppy. It lasts a moment before those big brown eyes narrow.

“You’re going to be a liability. You're going to get someone killed.” He pushes away from the table roughly.

The breath she’d been taking freezes in her lungs, a sharp pain at her heart. She follows his retreating form. Walon’s eyes lock with hers as Sev’s steadying presence disappears to follow his brother. Her buir arches an aristocratic brow in her direction.

And now she’s nauseous.

Her fingers tease at the edges of the gown’s velvety slit on her thigh. She remembers the tension that was obvious in Scorch’s shoulders and the way Sev had hovered like a lethal shadow when she’d shown them her choice earlier in the week. Kal was present and clapped once, doling out gentle coaxing praise. Walon, her buir, had said nothing, giving her only a nod.

“Jessa? Are you ok?” Bes’ smooth voice helps her refocus.

She offers a soft nod, ignoring the questions that lingered in her eyes. The older woman plucked a brush from the small jar on the counter and casually perused the available makeup.

“Do something smokey. That dress screams for it.” Bes rolls her eyes at Parja’s demand but pulls a dark palette from the stack. Laseema smiles from her spot lounging in the corner.

“It’s been a while since I’ve played around with this stuff. I hope you don’t mind?”

Jessa didn’t. It had been a long time since she’d worn makeup. It had been a long time since she’d felt like a woman. The situation wasn’t ideal, but it was the one she’d found herself in.

Her eyes flutter shut. The brush is feather soft as Bes applies layer upon layer of shadow. She tries not to think about the look on Scorch’s face. There had been betrayal in those warm eyes. He had not deserved that from her, but neither had she deserved the sharp words that had come after.

“Ignore it Jes’ika. There’s too much riding on this to be stuck in your own head.” Laseema’s soft voice breaks through her dark cloud of spiraling thoughts. She was right. There was too much at stake to allow her own self doubt to lead her to ruin.

“He’s a big boy and he’ll get over it.” Bes adds. “You’ve only wounded his ego a little. They all seem to think they know best at one time or another.” Bes steps back and Jessa opens her eyes to look up at the older woman. Her lips pull into a sly smile as she adds conspiratorially, ‘You’ve met my riddur .’

The women all laugh, but the weight of what’s to come remains.

———

It feels like old times in a way Sev haven't felt since before Kasshyk. The recently acquired pleasure cruiser and the tactically acquired Skirata gunship are humming quietly, their respective pilots beginning start up procedures. Jessa would be with Mereel in the cruiser, keeping up the facade of a wealthy buyer and her bodyguard, while he and Scorch would join Corr, Atin, and a recently returned Kom’rk in the gunship, staying below the radar and transporting liberated troopers.

It sounded easy enough when they’d run through it, but Sev has seen too much to believe in easy. There were too many people and too many working parts to make him feel comfortable. He pats his pocket and feels the twin beskar blades seated firmly in place.

“On your six.” Scorch warns a moment before he’s clapping his hand on his brothers back, “ready to help a few vod’e with their military discharge?’

Sev grunts. Scorch was playing like he didn’t have his feelings hurt. He was being too… him. Which was far more Scorch then he could handle today. When breakfast had gone to osik he’d been momentarily surprised, but then he realized it had been brewing all week. He hadn’t stepped in to check Scorch, and part of this was his fault. He had never been the balance point of the squad- that had always been Fixer- and he’d done a garbage job of stepping into that position.

“We should make this right before we go.”

Scorch raises a brow, but thankfully says nothing.

“I’m giving them to her before we do this.”

He waits for Scorch to ask what he was giving or to ask why now, why change the plan, but he doesn’t- because for as different as they were, they were brothers, and he always seemed to know what Sev was thinking. This couldn’t be left on a bad note, and she needed to know what they wanted. He needed her to know.

“Ok”

Sev’s head tips to the side. “Ok? No argument?”

“Nope. Just tear the bacta patch off. It can’t get any worse, right?” Scorch isn’t happy. He doesn’t smile. He isn’t joking around. He’s resigned, and Sev realizes that it’s bothering him nearly as much as the incident with their princess earlier.

A quick nod is all he gets in before there’s a shout for his vod , and the demolitions expert is slipping on his buy’ce and moving away. Sev watches him grab a duffle of ordinance off of a crate and walk toward a waiting Kom’rk. The Null pats his back as he hits the ramp. The soft whine of a speeder's engine can barely be heard above the din of the larger ships’. Sev watches. He can see his buir at the controls. He imagines he can feel his glowering glare burning a whole in him through the matte black of Vau’s buy’ce . Jessa’s there two. She’s bundled up in a thick coat to keep the chill of the wind at bay. Her hair’s covered in a scarf because… women. It’s his best guess.

Nearly a year he spent on Kasshyk, hiding from the terrifying local fauna and taking his licks from Trandoshan slavers, but that seems like a walk in the park compared to what he’s about to do. He feels more prepared to take a trando whip than to present his- their- intent.

Walon pulls to a stop between the two prepping ships. Sev watches as he gets out and steps around to help Jessa out, offering her a hand as she balances in spindly heels that make her legs -so much leg- look amazing.

Fek, he wasn’t ready for this. He fights the urge to unholster the blaster at his hip and click through the settings.

Scorch should be here. He should talk. This was wildly out of Sev’s scope.

Jessa catches him staring. Her gaze holds his steadily for a long moment before her eyes flick around. She was looking for his vod too, then. Her expression falters when she can’t find him. Sev tips his head toward an empty space near the front of the gunship. His buir catches his eye and gives him a cool nod as she strides toward him. He wants to throw up.

The only reality is action . His dear old buir had said it back on Mygeeto in the bowels of the Merchant Bank. It had stuck with him like much of his former Sargeant’s training had. Now was a time for action. He has a feeling now that the old man wanted a specific action from him. He glances over his shoulder as he heads toward his target. He was being eyed with all the interest of a bug under a magnifying glass. Or maybe he wasn’t.

Vau gives him a final look and turns to talk to the two null ARCs present. Must have been his imagination. Or maybe it was that perpetual discomfort the thought of letting down the former Cuy’val Dar sergeant left in the pit of his stomach.

“Sev.” Jessa’s voice is flat as she greets him. That familiar twist in his gut gets worse. Turns out he didn’t like her disappointment either. Go fekking figure.

‘Princess. You look good.’ She scoffs at him, arms moving to cross over her chest.

‘Don’t do that to me. Don’t try- I don’t know, to do whatever it is you’re doing.’

What he was doing- trying to do- was set up a future, and he’d rather be facing down a Fett-damned lizard. At least with a Transdoshan he knew where he stood. He had a skill set to deal with that. He reaches in his pocket, feels the butter-soft leather of the knife sheaths. He’d taken point on this, Scorch trusting him with meeting their objective.

Probably not either of their brightest moments.

“Listen. I’ve got- we’ve got-” he clarifies quietly as the words evade him. Jessa stares at him. At least there was curiosity peeking through the cold, very Vau-like look she was attempting.

“Here.” He’s pulling the set out and holding them bunched in a hand. “These are for you.”

When she hesitates, he grabs her hand, his gloved fingers encasing her smaller ones and presses the pair into her grasp. She falters for a moment, nearly drops them, then yanks away from him. Sev steps back as she looks down.

“From us,” he rasps. “Had ‘em made from the one I took.”

Jessa slips the first from its sheath. Her fingers trail along the edge of the blade. It’s the standard dagger, sized to fit her use over his own preferences. The bevel on each side shines as the lights of the ships flash. She glances up at him with an unreadable expression before looking back down to inspect it further. He fights the urge to shift in place as she grips the handle that’s been custom made to fit to her grip.

‘It’ll fit in your boot.’ His gaze travels up from her heel to the hem of her dress where the slit opens to show him a warm, soft thigh. ‘Or on your leg.’

She gives a quick nod before resheathing it. She bobbles the daggers and manages to pull the other out. It’s the smaller of the two, the sheath delicately detailed with swirls of wild flowers tooled into the leather. ‘For your arm… maybe your wrist.’ It’s a small push dagger, its t-handle crafted to be part of the design. Parja had gone above and beyond, and it shows. A damn hunting strill is etched into the grip. His heart thrums in his chest as she slips the neck of the handle between her second and third fingers and grips it gently. When she looks up, her eyes have lost their cool indifference. Instead, it’s been replaced with something he doesn’t know how to read.

“They’re beautiful, Sev.” Her voice barely rises above the low growl of the engines.

“Only the best for our girl.” His low voice cracks like he’s a damn seventh cycle cadet. A quick flash of the tip of her tongue moistening plush red lips, and his brain stutters and his cod tightens. There’s something else he’s supposed to be telling her about them, but his brain has gone smooth and blank.

“Help me put it on?”

Sev nods and steps into her space. Jessa raises her left hand, shakes back the fabric of the sleeve. With a sniper's steady hands Sev takes the push dagger and sheath from her and secures them over the delicate delicate bones of her wrist.

He could crush it in his grip, an intrusive thought that’s entirely unwelcome.

She admires the way it looks. Her finger traces the tooled designs.

“Looks good, Princess.”

“Sev, I-”

“WHEELS UP IN FIVE,” Mereel’s booming voice cuts off whatever she’d opened her mouth to say. Sev could gut him. Use one of Jessa’s new blades and find the sweet spot between beskar plating. Let him exsanguinate on the tarmac…

“We’ll talk about it when we get back, ok?”

All he can do is nod as she tips her chin up. Her lips brush his cheek just above the hard line of his jaw.

“Tell Scorch… tell him I said good luck, ok?”

He watches her turn to catch up with Mereel’s retreating form and it hits him exactly what he forgot to tell her.

————————

Jessa slips into the co-pilot's seat. The soft leather rubs between her thighs from her newly fastened knife sheath. It had been tricky doing it in the bathroom and positioning it so her dressing didn’t give it away but she’d managed. The pair of daggers on her body eases some of the nerves that had been thrashing her stomach since waking this morning. Mereel glances at her as she slips the push dagger from its spot on her wrist, practicing the movement, slipping it into a firm hold.

“New toys?”

“Sev and Scorch gave it to me. Another one, too.”

Mereel’s posture stiffens, “They gave you weapons? They tell you why?”

“Yeah, I guess they figured it’d be good to have tonight. In case, I guess. Why?”

“No reason.”

She doesn’t get a chance to pry further at the line of questioning. The small personal shuttle makes a soft banking curve as the lights of the Imperial outpost at Bral Choruk comes into view.

“Private craft 2-5-6-5-3-0-niner requesting permission to land.” Mereel calls in the clearance code they’d received as part of their invitation. He sounds bored but his body language is anything but- he’s alert with both hands on the controls.

Jessa listens intently for any sign that they’d been had. Unlike the Duke , the shuttle they’d acquired was built for the personal play and pleasure of the elite, and as such was lacking (by Mandalorian standards) in weaponry. A small pair of guns was nothing when it came to matching the might of the Empire. The turrets rising from all corners of the outpost only serve as a reminder that they were greatly outgunned should itchy trigger fingers prevail.

A quick glance shows Mereel’s attention fully focused on the comms board. The seconds stretch. Glancing at Jessa, Mereel offers a strained smile. It does little to ease the ball of nerves in her stomach.

“I used to know vod’e who would throw up before every mission. You’re welcome to use the fresher.”

Jessa’s back straightens, “I’m sure I’ll be fine.” Her voice is stiff.

The commando opens his mouth to say something but the crackle and subsequent clearance from the comms interrupts.

“ Private craft please make way for docking hub B and welcome to Bral Choruk .’

You’ll have nerves. Walon Vau’s words play in her head as if cued up by the sharp uptake in her own heart rate. You’ll use those to sharpen your focus and complete the task you’ve been set.’ Her building anxiety was supposed to be a boon, not a bane.

The shuttle settles gently into the dock, and the sound of the magna-locks clicking into place along the hull echoes through the ship.

Mereel clears his throat and Jessa turns. He’s in full armor, his colors changed by a quick, crisp coat of paint. He gives her a grin as he slips his buyce into place. He was an intimidating mountain of a man before the armor, but with it on… well, she was glad they were on the same side.

“Ma’am,” he teases, holding a hand out. “You ready to get to work?”

------------------

Mando’a Translation-

Riddur-spouse/husband/wife

Osik- dung (impolite term. Think ‘shit’)

Buir- parent

shabla: screwed up

Adiike: children

vod: comrade/brother/sister

vod'e: multiple of above

di'kut: idiot, useless, waste of space

chakaar: corpse robber,thief, Petty criminal

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#Repcommweek2022 #republic commando #sev scorch sandwich #star wars #republic commando fix #clan vau

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mandalorianbrainweasel · 2 years

Note

Hi! I love you writing! I never really thought about Walon/Jaster before, but you make it so soft?

Anyway, if you ever wanted too, I’d love to see you do anything more with Delta squad, either the four of them+ Walon, or just Walon and Sev? I feel like Delta has a lot more repressed feelings that are bound to burst at some point, and a lot of confused feelings surrounding Walon. Him as well, since he clearly wasn’t great for them as children, but he does love them in his own way.

Sorry if none of that made any sense, or you’re just not interested. Regardless, I hope you have a lovely day 😊

Hello!! Yes I came up with Jaster/Walon and I love them very much.

At the moment I'm not really in the headspace to directly deal with Walon's Fucked Up Canon Actions and how Delta deal with that and how they feel about him etc etc. HOWEVER! I have a stalled out WIP that has something I'll think you'll like, Nonny. Under the cut we go 😌

[Context: Delta have been sent to lie low at Keldabe City's Hotel Sarad, owned by the Mereel-Fetts and notably hosted by Akaani'ka "Spar" Mereel.]

“We’ll be fine here,” Boss finally decides. Hopefully they’ll be cleared to go back by the time Vau returns.

“Why do you call him Walon?” Scorch asks their odd host.

They blink a few times. “I knew him. Before. So I’ve always called him Walon.” They clap their hands. “I need to get back to the courtyard. I’m usually somewhere about. Since you have Walon’s keystone, you’re able to take the back lift all the way up to the family rooms on the fifth floor, the ones that are gated off from the rest of the fifth floor. I have a bigger kitchen, so feel free to use it. The manager, Yeva, has my comm code if you need to get a hold of me and can’t find me. Walon said you are free to explore everything, but he went ahead and locked his room so everything he put away is out of your way. I believe he is aware you can all slice locks. I’ll make sure that the keystones made for you are the only ones that can open your room. Though I believe eventually all of the squads Walon trained are supposed to receive keys. Unlikely that you’ll all be there at the same time, after all.” They have deep dimples when they smile. “Anything else?”

None of the others say anything, so Boss says, “Not that we can think of.”

They nod, hand him the keystone, a shiny piece of rock with little lines of blue that glow like electronics, and then disappear.

“What,” Fixer says succinctly, “the kark?”

---

They spend the next while taking stock of the place. Boss picks through the kitchen, looking for listening devices and pondering at what Vau keeps in the conservator. Things that keep well, but most of it is incredibly foreign to him. The counters are stone, a number of the cooking utensils are beskar, as are all of the knives from what he can tell. There’s a row of cookbooks, and, next to them, there’s a holo. It’s not on, but when he clicks it on it shows Vau, but much younger. He’s laughing, arms wrapped around a clone. Until it dawns on him that it isn’t a clone.

It’s either Fett, or it’s the glamorous Mereel who showed them up. Obviously close, and even...happy.

He’s not sure how he feels about it.

While Boss goes through the kitchen, Scorch picks the lock into Vau’s bedroom, peeking in like Vau’s going to be there with a disapproving look ready and waiting for him. Instead, the room is empty and dark. There’s art on the walls, with swoopy swirls, vibrant colours even in the darkness, and asymmetric figures. Men and women and others dancing and lounging. Some are in beskar’gam, some look to be in fashion not terribly different from the Mereel’s style. The bed frame has similar lines, carved of thick, dark wood, and the sheets are soft and dark. There’s a bed that just screams Lord Mirdalan on the floor. There are flightsuits and more varied garments both in the closets. A few of the leather jackets he’d wear when he was really tired, on Kamino.

He steals a super soft sweater. He’ll put it back before they leave.

Fixer digs into the tech, seeing how far he can get into the hotel’s systems. Not far, not without something else—he doesn’t think it’s an organic being—curses him out and about locks him out of the system entirely. It punts him to a collection of databooks and it takes him only a minute to realize that Vau wrote them. They’re...interesting. It’s a collection of linguistics and philosophy, bits of history, all how they wrap together. It’s not something he would have expected from Vau, from the brittle way he always held himself, from the snapping and the frowns. No, all of it is thoughtful and hopeful and...kind of whole.

He wonders what happened. He wonders why he cares.

Sev is the only one who wanders into the free bedroom. Their bedroom, in a way, that smells of freshly carved and stained wood. There are two double beds, just like the Mereel said. They’re both a red wood, sturdy, and when he sits down at the end of one, the one with the blue sheets instead of the red, they’re firm but with a little indulgent softness. A treat, but not one they’ll be discomforted by. He looks up at the shelves lining the walls, matching wood with matching carvings—star motifs and swirls that he doesn’t know match the bed in Vau’s room—and boxes along it. Less than one hundred, and when he counts them there are ninety seven of them. Well. Ninety six, but there’s a ninety seventh one on the bedside table. A note asking them to ferry it to Atin. He recognizes a lot of the numbers, but he stands up and pulls out the four most familiar ones.

He brings them into the living area and sits next to Fixer, who is frowning at a datapad, and passes him the box with his name and number marked on it. Fixer scowls, but he opens it. And then he just stops, frozen. Scorch sweeps in from Vau’s bedroom with a giant sweater on and he slings himself across the other two’s laps, accepting his box from Sev with an “ooo!” Finally, Boss comes over with a plate of snacks, sets them on the dark brown table that sits low in front of the sofa, and accepts his own box as he sits down in one of the chairs. Only then does Sev open his.

Credits—Mandalorian and Republic. Identification—at least three separate identities and one even has their names as Vau. Datachips—Sev’s has information for an armoury building, Scorch’s has a garage plot and a key code, Fixer’s has bank account details, and Boss’s has a list of names.

It doesn’t take them long to realize it’s people who owe Vau.

“What is this?” Fixer asks.

Boss sucks in a breath. “I think...I think this is if we ever need a new life.”

Boss has them close the boxes back up, taking only a bit of the Mandalorian credits for now, and then they all stack them back up on the shelves. In case of emergencies.

The Mereel arrives less than half an hour later, clapping their hands and offering to treat them to supper.

#my fanfiction #delta squad #delta squad scorch #delta squad sev #delta squad fixer #delta squad boss #walon vau #scorch vau #sev vau #fixer vau #boss vau #guest appearance from Spar #hotel sarad

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