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When the engines spooled down, the first thing Din really noticed was the sound of rain against the Crest’s windshield. He’d known it was raining on Sorgen. He flew down through the driving torrent, unable to see and reliant on his instruments. But the sound of it, the weight of water crashing into the transparent silica was jarring nonetheless. Din could see a flash of lightning far off in the distance and through the trees,
The boom of thunder that followed felt like a weight in his stomach, making his back tense and his fingers shake against the helm.
Din knew the controls of the Razor Crest as well as he knew where all of the catches and buckles were on his armour. His hands moved of their own accord, without thought, turning off the fuel and setting the electronics into standby. The life support system wasn’t required here, so he depressurized the cockpit and felt a slight pop in his ears as the atmosphere equalized near sea level. His recyclers would store fresh oxygen and leach out any stored carbon dioxide.
Opening his mouth to release the strain in his ears was second nature. He could taste the air after a moment, moisture on his tongue and earth in his nose. A few more seconds and- the ship went quiet save the drone of rain on metal. Din unbuckled the restraints and waited for a beat, then two more. Another crack of thunder threatened to make him jump, but he resisted.
Instead, his hands found purchase on the panel in front of him, and the Mandalorian levered himself up onto shaky legs. His first steps were staggered after sitting so long, white-knuckled on the throttle and yoke. Pins and needles made his toes ache, but he moved through it. His head swam with the remnants of a mild concussion, and his vision threatened to spark grey for a moment before he stabilized himself against the back of the pilot’s seat.
Another step, and then two more.
Din made his way down the ladder to check on his bounty. The woman he’d been after rested in place in carbonite. The twi'lek’s fangs were on full display as she tried to bite him a second time as Din forced her into place. Her price was the highest he’d managed to pull yet and more since he planned to bring her in alive. Two other heads sat in bags in the cooling unit, they’d been a little more reluctant, and Din brought them in cold- not that the guild cared.
He limped across the hold and hit the ramp controls. The wind tugged at Din’s cape like it was trying to pull him outside and into the storm. He went with it, unmoored into the downpour. The ramp reflected the dim grey light as it became slick with water. Din almost slipped twice before he reached the bottom, and his boots splashed into the first puddle.
The rain was louder now as it echoed inside his helmet. The beskar sang with every impact, and Din did stumble then. It- hurt. His head pounded, and vision swam like the water was filling up inside his helmet. Din’s movements were clumsy as he reached the treeline, and he let himself slide down against the closest trunk until he was seated in the mud, heedless of his cape and the battered durasteel that made the rest of his suit.
He couldn’t take it. Not a moment longer. Din clawed at the catches and released his helmet for the first time in days. If he’d anything left in his stomach, he would have thrown it up right there on the forest floor. Instead, Din let his head fall between his bent knees with his forearms resting on his thighs. A few battered breaths helped, and he needed to spit to the side just to rid his mouth of the bile that threatened to make him more ill.
Slowly, his breathing evened out again. The cold rain helped to soothe the slight fever he knew he was running. His visor warned him more than once to search for medical treatment, and he’d turned it off. There would be no help until he made it back to the Culvert. He wasn’t rich enough for armour that fit his frame, let alone to carry bacta.
At least the storm seemed to be easing now. Each subsequent crack of lightning was further off, and the seconds between the light and the boom lengthened. It was a good cover nevertheless. Between the distance from any settlement and the rain, Din could breathe long enough to find his bearings again.
When his head fell back against the tree, Din was finally able to open his eyes without the world swaying.
“Huh.” His voice felt rough with disuse, and he had to cough once before he could even manage to whisper to himself. “I’d forgotten what this felt like.”
A smile, his first in a long time, spread across Din’s face. His hair was plastered to his head now, the dried blood on his face was washing off, and he could taste copper as it flowed over his lips and tongue. He slipped off one glove and scrubbed his face with the rainwater, washing it clean.
This time when he closed his eyes against the thunder, the smile stayed. Din breathed in and held it for a moment before releasing a long, slow stroke into the air.
It did not matter that he was shivering, and the rain soaked through his flight suit. It could use a wash regardless, and so could he. The thought almost made him laugh, but he settled for letting his shoulders shake with mirth.
“What the kriff am I even doing out here?”
There was no one to answer his question: not the Armourer or Paz or even Greef. Din sat alone in the world, and when he picked up his helmet and stared into the t-shaped visor, it didn’t give him an answer either. He remembered the day he put it on, so proud to take the Creed and begin to truly uphold the values of his people with his promise. His bare thumb left a streak of red across the beskar, and Din watched the rain wash it away, too. He could recall the words by rote, but he could not remember when he’d last felt rain on his cheeks and in his hair.
The smell of the rain against the staleness of his ancient ship’s air might’ve been the most striking thing if it weren’t for the cold. The Crest told him it was eighteen degrees before he landed, plenty warm enough considering he could barely manage to keep his old bucket of bolts at sixteen, but he found himself shivering anyway.
Water dripped from him in earnest now, off his nose and down his back. Why did this feel so much more real?
His eyes narrowed as he weighed the helmet in his hands.
For a moment, just one, Din considered leaving it there in the dirt. He could walk away from his ship with nothing more than his blaster and battered gear. Someone with his skills, even so young, or maybe because Din was still young, would be able to find work. Hell, he could stack crates or work in a scrapyard if it gave him enough to eat. Twenty-two years might’ve been considered middle-aged for a Mandalorian but perhaps not for a farmer or mechanic if he felt lofty with his dreams.
Din swallowed against the dryness of his tongue and stood.
The helmet slid down over his face and cut him off from the rain just as it walled him off from everything else- from connection and feelings. Each time he took it off reminded him of his father’s face and his mother’s. He could remember their fear. He heard their last gasped breaths amongst the blaster fire echo like the droplets outside his helmet.
It was easier this way when he didn’t need to look himself in the eyes whenever there was a reflection. The Mandalorians didn’t show him pity. They rebuilt him from a snivelling orphan into a wall of muscle and bone- a weapon to wield or a tool to provide, not think.
Thunder shook the air. Din opened his eyes to the more familiar muted tones of his visor’s display. His feet carried him back to the ship and up the ramp. Heedless of his sopping wet clothes, he headed to the cockpit to restart his engines.
His voice was no longer so strained as he said: “This is the way.”