Chapter Text
Din was going to kill him. Only Boba Fett would send him on a wild goose chase based off a tall tale uttered by Lak Shivrak—of all the informants. Din was grateful for the distraction, truly he was, but running around on some Outer Rim swamp was not his idea of a good time.
And yet to Din’s chagrin and Boba Fett’s delight, there was something strange happening on the planet Fortuna. Call it a feeling—which Din did not—or even an instinct, but he’d felt a flutter kicking in his gut the moment he’d arrived. Three ports later—all three drowning in vegetation, water, and people—and he was convinced. If anything, the gut feeling had only grown.
Weeks later, and Din was hunting through the fourth and largest port. Drei’k Kobar was not the capital of Fortuna, rather a major hub of commerce. Rammed up against the edge of a lake so large the water stretched far beyond the horizon, the city maintained a hard line separating it from vast jungle looming where the blue ended, hemming the city's populous into a thin habitable slice. Between the razor-toothed fish and muddy bogs swallowing chattel whole, Din was having a hard time seeing the area’s appeal.
Not with the jungle’s humidity threatening to drown him in his suit.
There’d been a tangible sign of his quarry in Drei’k Abul, the second port. There was a room, hastily emptied, left with a cleaning rag swollen with a type of metal polish no dar’manda would know how to make and scratches on the door frame made by idle, unfettered hands holding a knife—a child’s hands. Bolstered by the breakthrough, Din had carried on in his pursuit.
Then he hit a wall. And then another. Here he was, hopping between settlements on a trail that should have been warm, but kept slapping him cold at every turn. The Mando’ade knew his people were excellent at evasion, but this had become excessive. Turn after turn was met with empty promises. A market man took him one path, while a barkeep told him another. All he needed was one solid clue.
When desperation threatened to eat his insides as he stalked the narrow streets, Din Djarin keenly felt the weight of the Dark Saber strapped to his thigh. He kept catching his hand brushing its pommel as unblinking eyes sharpened further, straining towards his surroundings in search of friend or foe alike.
That was when Din began to notice something strange. There weren’t many children in these ports. At least, not out in the open. The few he did see were with parents who either gripped little hands tightly or had the grubbers perpetually strapped to their backs and sides. Surely, even amongst the vast cultural differences of space, there would still be places here where the little ones gathered?
“Someone’s been stealin’ chitlins,” a spice trader whispered over the lip of his drink. He and Din tucked into the shaded corner of a well-to-do watering hole in the merchant district. The trader had taken one look at Din walking in and flagged the merc down long enough to ply the cost of a drink for his attention out of him.
“Where are they being taken?” Din said, his voice controlled at a razor’s edge. He breathed deeply, attempting to stave off the tension that threatened to lock his back up for days.
“No one really knows. There is a high demand for medi-trade here. Fortuna is a planet used primarily to grow the ingredients for BACTA products. If ya' didn’t notice, you’re standin’ in a planet-wide swamp bucket. Plenty of bacteria here,” the trader griped, taking a long swig of the fluorescent grog popular around these parts.
“What do children have to do with bacta production?” And Din honestly couldn't say he knew anything about it other than the end result. Bactarin and other salves were used across the galaxy to treat anything from a soldiers’ wounds to paper cuts.
“Small hands,” and the merchant held up his own much larger ones, “Little bodies to get in between machinery, or perhaps they don’t sink as quick in the bog for raw material collection. It could be anythin', what with the lack of regulation this far out. Not even the Old Republic held much sway this far into the Outer Rim. With no one to enforce basic decency, well…”
Din inhaled through his teeth, then out his nose. White-hot heat exploded from behind the plates on his chest. A clear image of little green fingers twisting into wires where they shouldn’t be—an ache traveled up, then down each of his extremities before settling back above his heart.
It took him longer than it should to find his voice after the episode. “And what...Where do you think they are taken?”
“Who knows? It’s a big planet. Lots of jungle. Lots of scum lookin’ for a quick credit. Food’s not scarce, thank fakk, neither is buildin’ material…though the reliable hands it passes through is few and far between,” the trader’s eyes swiveled in three directions, before he leaned back in to whisper, “If I were you though, with all that armor and angry feelin’ swirlin’ around, I’d go lookin’ in Drei’k Hugar. Nasty bit of business over there, but it'd be where I—if I was stealin’ what wasn’t mine, ye kin—would go not to get caught.”
Din’s brow rose beneath his helmet and somehow he felt that the trader could see it, “Why are you helping me?”
“Because I don’t like Boris Baggarty—and neither does his brother,” the trader said, weighty with certainty, “Consider it a favor. From the Gran of Kinyen to your people, Your Highness.”
The trader stood, perhaps unaware of the shock this declaration delivered, and bowed his head before leaving Din swirling in a storm cloud.
Din stared at the dregs of his grog for a while after the encounter before sense had him booking it to Drei’k Hugar.
He’d honestly not considered anyone recognizing him. Sure, he was Mando’ade and would catch some attention regardless of where he went, but there wasn’t much rumor surrounding his new position, or even the results of his actions against Moff Gideon over a year ago. A surprise in all honesty, but one that was as tightly regulated by his inner circle as possible. The location and owner of the Dark Saber was supposed to remain under the radar, at least until the reestablishment of the capital, Keldabe was well underway.
In Din's mind this was a double-edged sword. Part of him wished the rumors would reach his people and they would come to him having heard of his victory to reclaim their homeland. The other side feared at how troublesome it would make his traveling to find those who could not come freely. Every Mando'ade would suffer if more were lost to rumor or rash foolhardiness. If he survived this, he’d have to consult the Armorer when he returned to Manda.
Din cringed in his helmet as his ship passed over the edge of the new city. The Armorer might actually kill him with the trouble he knew he was about to cause.
The bounty hunter could almost feel the weight of the forge-woman’s glare as he landed the ship in Drei’k Hugar. The sound of the trader calling him 'Your Highness' echoed again and again.
Barely started, and he was already fekking it up.
And yet, what did Din care if some goaty Gran got a favor out of the Mand’alor? It wasn’t like he was going to be the leader long enough for the bastard to cash in. Inevitably it would become someone else’s problem—that same someone who was bound to win a trial-by-combat against Din, obtaining for themselves the honor if his title and the Dark Saber that came with it.
Din wasn’t modest enough to be anything but strong, yet even he knew there was always going to be someone stronger. The clusterfuck he’d found himself in would go away soon enough and then he’d either be dead or would be able to get back to...back to—
Din shut his mind from that train of thought. He’d get nothing done dwelling upon things he couldn’t change or questions he couldn’t answer. Let the others figure out his future. His people were his priority now. Just because an Empire or two fell doesn’t make their situation less dire.
“…Find your people, Din Djarin, and don't get killed before I see you again.”
The Armorer’s voice rang clear around in his helmet—her last piece of advice before shoving him out of her forge.
The hardest part of any stakeout was not jumping the gun, Din thought.
For the last week he’d researched the Baggarty Pharma Co., haggled with a grocer over two packs of rations, and managed to stay in the woman’s good graces long enough to get a layout of the city. Drei’k Hugar was not the largest city on Fortuna, if one could even called it that. Most of it was taken over by a labyrinth of manufacturing and industrial complexes. The townie side, small as it was, was damp and half eaten by vegetation like the rest of the damned planet. Its people were modest, but firm. Blunter somehow than Din had expected, but he could appreciate a lack of duplicitousness where he expected to find nothing but smugglers and slavers.
He hadn’t seen a single child while doing recon in the city. It made a sick slither creep down his spine finding silence in the streets where there should have been play and laughter. The Gran trader had been right about Drei’k Hugar—it was a viper’s den.
"You know, I saw one of youez a while ago. A big one too. Almost as big as me! Pretty banged up though, in the armor. Blue and gold, of all bleeding colors. I didn’t know you guyz came in blue. Moonz above, youz wouldn’t believe the ruckus he was making—barging through a Fortuna port like them Imps were racing after him! Naught but a little human it was. Fire-eyed and swinging a blaster like she knew what she was doing with it. Lupa’s Mane! She'd make a Vrakka howl any day. So anywayz, is that blue Mando anyone youz know?”
Lak Shivrak’s story looped in Din’s head. Yeah, he had an idea of who the Mando’ade could be. If it was who he thought it was Din would be hard pressed not to burn the city down to find him. Then opportunity appeared in the form of a weasel—or rather a weasel-looking human in a Baggarty uniform rushing down the almost unoccupied lane wedged between two reinforced complexes. Nothing but trash compactors and bio-locked fire exits down here, one of which the Mando’ade was shadowed beneath the overhang of.
If a man was trying to get to work, having realized he was going to be very late, Din suspected that an entrance well away from the heavily guarded service docks and main thoroughfares to be the preferred choice. Six hours into his stake out, and his suspicions had proven correct.
Din was almost sorry to knock the man unconscious. Then again, he did work for traffickers. This thought gave the bounty hunter enough reason to tighten his captive’s restraints with more force than necessary. And when the door not only required a PARtag but a fingerprint as well? Well Din was more than happy to relieve the man of both.
More luck, the weasel had a high enough clearance to get Din through the service corridors and into the laboratories beyond.
“Xenogenetic specialist, what in all haran is that?” the hunter muttered, looking at the PARtag as he slid through a grid-like office block.
It was the third-cycle off-shift. Like most of the city’s other factories and power plants, the laboratories cycled through thirteen-hour shifts. Din had watched the Baggarty staff’s comings and goings for more than two days before deciding to set his trap. Labs were bound to have projects that needed constant monitoring, but the off-shift didn’t require the full rack of employees milling about. Made Din’s weaving in and out of the hallways and rooms easier.
And when the odd person did cross his path, he dispatched them as swift and silently as a Mand'ade knew how. Instinct inferred that discretion was the better part of valor for now. Besides, there were plenty of supply closets to stow himself or others away in. Din was, however, going to run out of room for his new collection of fingers.
The hour passed and Din was no closer to finding what he needed. What he knew had to be there. The ticking of time pressed into the back of his helmet like a warning. He’d been lucky this far. That luck could just as easily run out.
Eventually, someone was going to notice that many missing bodies.
Din Djarin was not prone to panic. Panic made you sloppy. Desperation and doubt, on the other hand, were old friends. They liked to slap him when he least expected it and right now it was ringing in his ears.
Maker, he was going to find that fucking goat after this and hang him up by his fat fekking toes. No one gave a false tip to a Mando’ade and lived to brag about it. It was just bad for business.
Din rounded a corner in the labyrinth when—“Osik.”
He backpedaled, quickly to crouch down behind a cubicle. The four uniformed guards hadn’t seen him, thank feck, but they were headed his direction with a purpose. Somebody must have finally noticed that Karl and Joh hadn’t come back from the crapper. Quietly, Din wove, turning around the corner he’d just come—some unadorned, utilitarian hallway like the rest of this part of the perimeter block. He needed a door, and he needed it locked behind him now. Din’s eyes scanned for options. Seven doors. Two labeled. Three obviously opening to storage or supplies. That left the one in the center right with no markings, or the one on its other side labeled ‘The Hemmer’—which meant absolute fekking crag to Din.
Whatever it was, it didn’t sound good, nor conveniently empty.
“Haar’chak.”
He cursed under his breath, and chose the unmarked door. Scrambling with a paired PARtag and finger, he managed to drop them both trying to see the identification. Lunging for the thumb as it rolled away, he smashed it against the door’s biometric sensor just as the marching of heavy boots sounded around the corner. Falling backwards into the room, blaster poised, the door slid shut with a snap.
A soft gasp behind Din sounded as the low light sensors caught his movements and flickered on. Within seconds and a swift twist of his boots, the Mando’ade had his blaster leveled, charged, and pointed at the source. Years of training alone steadied Din’s hand. Dank farrik, he was glad for that as his mind finally registered the image before him.
Dark eyes, space black, were wide and staring. A child—barely a meter high topped with a poof of inky curls—was strapped to a chair in the center of the cramped room. Machines and wires wove all around, were attached to the kid. A faint heart beat quickly on the monitor for all to hear as the boy's bright orbs grew impossibly wider, taking in the imposing figure of a Mando’ade in full baskar.
Din had never seen so long of lashes, or a human so pale and small. The boy looked no more real than a doll, even with a blaster aimed at his ashen face. They were silent, the odd pair, before—
“You’re a Mandalorian.”
Well the kid certainly got right to the point of things.
"Yes, I am. And who are you?” Din replied, quickly lifting his hands up in ceasefire before holstering the damn blaster.
He was never more thankful for a voice modulator as the words were garbled from his mouth. It wouldn’t do to frighten the kid more, not with the painful grit grinding in Din’s throat.
He could always go back and take the rest of the fingers.
The question to took a moment to register in the boy's mind. Perhaps he’d sensed the bounty hunter’s intentions or—by the kriffing forge— maybe he realized he wasn’t in immediate danger anymore, and like a switch the boy’s strange calmness shattered. His face scrunched up, mottling his skin from pale to red, and became bountifully wet with a hiccupping sob as fat tears rolled down round cheeks. Against the weight of wires and machine sensors, bird-thin arms stretched out far as they could reach.
Towards him.
Towards Din.
The child was desperate for Din Djarin, of all people, to hold him.
That white-hot fire burned quiet against his ribs as the bounty hunter rushed forward. Swiftly and meticulously, he detached the boy from his seat. They couldn’t afford some alarm sounding off because a fist crushed one of the machines no matter how tempting the prospect was. The boy just cried, patient and eerily silent after the first wail, as little hands grabbed and gripped at Din’s armor. Too impatient to fiddle with the last buckles, Din cut the boy’s restraints with his knife and lifted.
The Mando found himself full of shivering, crying, clinging kid. A deep ache, one he'd tried so often to forget, eased a little with the sudden sensation of being needed again. He couldn't help but rub up and down a barely clothed back. They'd left the babe in thin hospital rags. Even with baskar on, Din recognized overheated limbs.
A fever?
Din removed a glove to confirm as his helmet's sensors whirred with data points.
What kind of fekking monsters made a sick kid sit in a cold room in the dark? Rage resurged from the low simmer inside him, a righteousness that had arms tighten and a body sway. He rocked the child to keep himself occupied. To keep the Mando’ade present and far from revenge.
Focus. Now is not the time. Later.
Din tried to salvage his scattered thoughts. The reality of stealing a kid out of this place—this single child being a confirmation that there may be more—Well, he knew he wasn't going to get a second shot. Din would have to get them all now if there were any more to save.
If he didn't...if he didn't—
Only when the kid had settled in to hide his face in the space between Din’s neck and shoulder did he deign to finally speak.
“What?” Din asked, unable to understand the muffled sounds. The little one heaved a great big sigh, coming to a decision. He pulled his head back, putting some distance between them to catch his reflection the bounty hunter's helmet.
The kid spoke, barely above a whisper, entreating the Mando’ade to understand—“Ben. My name is Ben, and I knew you would come save me, Din Djarin.”