Chapter Text
The facility was thrown up with haste, much like most buildings erected under Imperial occupation. Every single one of them was the same. Grey, and full of mind-numbingly identical hallways. This was both a conscious design choice, and a result of following the same default architectural plans. It was easy to lose one’s self in those halls. They twist and turn, the same doors leading to seemingly nowhere in particular. No windows, no identifiers, just never ending halls that eventually lead to a specific location. A mess hall, a hangar, or, say, a prison.
In the pitch black of an Imperial holding facility, a Mandalorian meets a member of the Alliance.
Their lodgings are beside each other, dark, confining little excuses for cells. One might even have thought the cells were once broom closets, but that would be pushing it. The cramped space contained two important features: a vac tube installed on the back wall, and a cot that wasn’t any more than a metal shelf jutting from the wall. What could be considered luxuries was the presence of toilet paper, thin, but there, and a pillow made of a fabric irritating to the bare skin.
Thankfully, the Mandalorian never suffered the feeling on his face, for he slept in the helmet. Despite the pitch darkness, and the lack of any footsteps outside the door, he took no chances. Wouldn’t want to anyways, if the way the pillow’s fabric caught on his gloves was any indication. Currently, he stared up at the ceiling, attempting to situate himself so his limbs hung off the edge of the cot in the most comfortable way possible.
It was nearing nightfall when he was captured and shoved into this dark alcove. In his defense, he’s on his third night without sleep, chasing a slippery bounty. A long list of avoidable mistakes left him weaponless in a cell with no feasible means of escape. He could hear the Alor now, her biting comments on each individual error, the scowl on her face visible though her words alone. Din was deeply aware of how even his imaginary Armorer’s remarks were followed by the harsh clanging of metal.
She would be so disappointed in him. He has let the entire covert down. They relied on him for life-giving credits, and he was behind bars for an unknown amount of time. It was likely he would never leave this place, unless to leave this mortal coil and ascend to the Manda, or if he was granted some miracle in the near future.
“Dank farrick--! ” He grunted, slamming a fist against the wall. Cursing himself, this facility, the whole kriffing galaxy--
“Now I’ve been in here for a hot minute,” a faint voice said. “But if I were to wager a guess I’d say it is pretty late at night, so could you keep your voice down?”
Din stilled in his cot, taken off guard by the disembodied voice. It almost sounded like it was coming from below him. Hesitant, he rapped his knuckles against the wall.
“Are you deaf?” The voice returned. Male, probably human, and an accent he couldn’t quite find it in himself to place. And, by the sounds of it, quite tired. Would this be his miracle, or curse? Who was to tell.
The Mandalorian rolled over, forgetting himself in his own exhaustion and catching his fall before he hit the floor too hard. Sticking his helmet under the cot, he misjudged the distance between himself and the wall, hitting his helmet into it with a clang. There's some quiet shuffling from through the durasteel, and what he thinks might’ve been a curse. Reaching a gloved hand forward to feel against the wall confirms his suspicions.
“There’s a vent.”
“Yes, you are very observant-- wait, why do you sound like that?”
“Helmet.” Din answered simply, feeling around the edges of the vent. It was far too small to be of much use, just wide enough that he could maybe stick his arm through if he removed his vambraces. It was bolted tightly to the wall just like everything else in the cell.
“They let you keep it?” The voice sounded wide awake now, the drowsiness leaving his voice and evening out his accent. Outer Rim, obviously. Din was guessing Fest.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Would you like to ask?”
His neighbor must’ve decided to ignore his remark. “Did they leave you with anything else useful? Anything they might’ve forgotten?” There's shuffling of boots, and suddenly the voice is louder, closer to the other end of the vent. “Knife? Anything that could be whittled down? Anything at all?”
“They took my blaster and vibroblade. The knife I had in my boot ended up in some stormtrooper’s thigh, and I used the last of my flamethrower lighting one up. My whipcord has been damaged for a few cycles--”
“What?”
“If I could’ve used my whipcord I might’ve distracted enough to get away, but it’s been jammed and I can’t just get it fixed anywhere--”
“Who-- hold on. Who are you? ”
“Most call me Mando.”
“Mand-- like Mandalorian--? You’re a fucking Mandalorian?”
Din chooses not to answer. Let the man in the cell next to him draw his own conclusions. There's such a long pause that Din thinks that maybe the man had fallen asleep on the floor, and that maybe he should return to his own cot.
“Mando,” The man says, so softly Din barely picks it up. “Mando… what day is it?”
“Not sure.” That's the shortened version of ‘I haven't slept in days’ and ‘who even cares the exact date when you live day-by-day anyways’.
“You’re a man of few words huh?”
“Sure.”
“Figures. Do you know the time? If you had to guess.”
Din thinks for a moment. The Imps surrounded him in the alley when the sun was just beginning to set. He was subdued and dragged kicking and screaming to this particular facility. If he were to break out, he’d be able to make it back to the Razor Crest just fine. It was once he entered the vast Imperial hallways that he began to get turned around. He sat in his thoughts for some time before getting frustrated and making first contact with his neighbor. Between then and now, a few hours had passed. Three, maybe four?
“Not too familiar with this planet’s cycle, but I’d say maybe twenty-two hundred? Give or take.”
“Okay, so I was pretty close. The cells stay dark to fuck with your perception of time, and meals aren’t on a set schedule. It’s hard to keep track but I’m trying my best.”
“How long?”
“A week. Maybe. Like I said, hard to tell.”
Din only grunts in response, and thankfully his probably-from-Fest neighbor already decided their conversation was over for the night.
“Rest now, Mando. First meal comes early, and you never know what comes with it.”
Din doesn’t ask what that last part implies, but he has the right idea. Heckling from bored stormtroopers most likely. Interrogations are on the table, though with the fight Din put up he imagines they’ll let him rot in the dark a bit before pulling him out. Let his mind slip, lose some time. Weaken on whatever food he’s provided, which is assumedly not much. It can’t be much worse than what he's been sustaining himself on back on the Razor Crest. He settles back onto the cot, staring back up at the ceiling as he was before the surprise conversation. He decides that his neighbor asks far too many questions, and may be a bit aggravating, but not an enemy. He merely wanted information, and was taken off guard by the fact Din was a Mandalorian. He was keeping track of time, and estimated a week of imprisonment. He got excited at the idea of Din being left with something to be used as a tool.
So far, his neighbor wasn’t completely insufferable. He had a head on his shoulders and naturally wanted out. Most importantly, he was here for a reason. The Imps wouldn’t waste the rations and cell space on just anybody. The man in the cell beside him was worth their time. He had information, or was dangerous. Probably both. And he was in a blackout cell next to a Mandalorian. Interesting.
Din closed his eyes, just beginning to drift when he heard the words from the vent. They were barely a whisper, unintelligible as anything other as sounds if not for the helmet’s enhanced hearing. Quietly, with little more than a rustle of his cape, Din pressed at the side of his helmet. Text appeared over his visor, spelling out his neighbor’s private mumblings.
It was common in many cultures and religions to speak the names of those lost. It was present in Mandalorian culture as well, with names being given so sparingly, it's important for their holders to honor them after passing into the Manda .
Ni su'cuyi, gar kyr'adyc, ni partayli, gar darasuum. I’m still alive, but you are dead. I remember you, so you are eternal.
To speak the dead’s names in solitude, usually before sleep, was sacred and very private. Which is why Din switched the text off as soon as he realized what he was reading.
Still, he read enough to see names that began with commander , and sergeant . Din’s neighbor honored his fallen commanding officers, and assumedly his brothers in arms. Suddenly Din grew a respect for whoever muttered the names on the other side of this wall.
Without much warning, Din finds himself thinking of the wrinkled, splotched hands of his grandmother. Her hands would shake, and yet she made every piece of clothing he wore. He thinks of his mother, who taught him how to braid her dark hair. She liked the purple fruit that would sometimes come to their village from one of the traders. He thinks of his father’s smile, and how he had a gap in his teeth. He thinks of how hard he cried when he lost his first tooth, and how his father sat him on his knee and showed him his own mouth. Quick to reassure that it was okay for him to lose his teeth, because he was young and they will grow back bigger and stronger.
He does not remember their names. Not for the life of him
Quietly, so he knows his helmet’s vocoder wont pick it up, he whispers Din because it’s the name they gave him and it’s the best he has to offer in memory. They were not Mandalorians, they didn’t ascend to the Manda when they passed. But he would honor what little name he can provide anyways.
Those who passed into the Manda that he does know, slip off his tongue easily. His buirs who took him in as their foundling. They died far too young, leaving Din without parents a second time, but he knows their names, knows what few lessons they were able to teach him in that short time. How, most importantly, they taught him what it was to be Mandalorian. They were foundlings too, formidable warriors held in high regards amongst the other Mandalorians. They gave him a home when he needed it, and language when he couldn’t communicate. They were endlessly patient and kind. They gave him stability when he needed it the most, they gave him the opportunity to swear the Creed. And they gave him Djarin.
True sleep finds him for the first time in days.