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starfirette · 4 years

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Every Which Way: Chapter One

The Way Off Aniri

➡️a/n: a new series! Woohoo! Shoutout to https://www.fantasynamegenerators.com/ for inspiring the names of the people and planet. There is possible false information regarding Mandalorian culture, so don’t bitch to me about it. I know I said posting was at 8 but I am too anxious. @interwebseriesfan24 is my lovely beta so go follow her and maybe even read her fluffy AF star wars fanfics!!! For more info on the OCs included, visit my OC page.

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Aniri is a planet where a monarchy reigns supreme.

The Anirian King has submitted a request to the guild, which suggested that he wants a man dead for making threats against the court; Karga just had suggested his best fighter take the job, just as non-explicitly as the king had been.

And Din has never been one to reject a job; especially if the pay seemed unreal.

To eliminate one man, the court was offering half a million credits and ten pounds of ruthenium.

Happy and boasting, Karga contacted the Anirian council and relayed that his best hunter would be taking the case.

The Mandalorian was given a tracking fob as well as a quick run down of Aniri.

In Karga’s own words, Aniri is not nearly as fluffy and dreamy as the public galaxy might think. These perceptions were coined by Anirian councils to distract suspectors from their supposed sympathies to the Empire as well as their cruel, unjust government. Karga had heard rumors that the current princess, Emelea, had been going on a rampage simply because her parents would not stop her.

With great consideration, Din reviewd these rumors. While he set a course to Aniri he told himself that he’d never actually been to the planet. Karga was not the only person to have said such things about the planet, but there were several offending accounts claiming Aniri is a wonderful place to live. People live their lives, no matter how a planet fairs. As far as Din knows, the planet was globally unified a century ago.While he’d never actually been to Aniri, he knew better than to listen to silly rumors, especially when every person has a different account.

Arrival to Aniri did not give Din any trouble. The atmosphere enterance gave the Crest zero problems.

Din touched down in a grassy plain about half a mile from the main palace, which was surrounded by large steel gates. On the landing plot were a large number of court members and palace guardians.

With a short greeting, Din followed the guardians into the palace, where the royal family waited to greet him.

The King is Josiahn Weslyn. He is shorter than Din, and pasty white, with thinning hair washed pure of color. His wife, also his first cousin, is Melvanne Weslyn, a taller woman, but with the same thin hair colored a muddy brown. Both she and her husband have no eyelashes and beady eyes.

Their children are equally unattractive.

The triplets are Melv, Riz, and Emelea. Melv and Riz are boys, tall as their mother but with darker eyes that are wreathed with heavy grey bags. Their heads share the same waves of suffocated amber that rolls down their necks. The strangest of the bunch is without a doubt Emelea; she is the tallest of her family. Her sunken black eyes stare deeply into Din’s helmet. It seemed certain to Din that she could see past his helmet.

His bones felt exposed to the princess, who did not blink as she stared. The wind tousled her dirty blonde hair before she finally sank into a deep curtsy, in sync with her two brothers.

Din greeted them with a cool nod of his head. “I am here to complete your task,” he said. The modulator of his helmet maximized his aversion to the strange bowing of the children.

Josiahn paid Din’s near invisible discomfort no mind as he gestured for his guardians to part and allow Din to come forward.

“Our Mandalorian savior,” Josiahn proclaimed, clapping his hands together.

“Our Mandalorian savior,” his family echoed.

“Please come with us.”

One by one the court members turn on their heels to return inside the palace. Their hems swished an inch above their heels, waving around a golden emblem wrapped around the ankles of their customary pants. As for the palace, it is quiet and cold. Din’s boots scuff against the concrete floors. The walls are devoid of decor. Every window has a set of large shutters to keep the sun out.

The only light comes from torches lit along the grey walls.

Bristled servants scatter in the shadows like swamp mice. They do not dare to murmur gossip. Not one of them stops to stare at the Mandalorian armor with awe, but it isn’t out of courtesy—it’s as if they’re too scared to be noticed.

Most maids wear dull scraps of potato sack-like material. Even that, though, isn’t what Din finds strange. Every maid bears thick makeup like paint. The lines and patterns which adorn their face have no pattern, and no meaning whatsoever. The glimpses of color he sees are the ugliest shades of yellow or green.

The makeup can’t be a popular trend.

Din recalls the warnings given by Greef Karga.

Journeying down the palace made Din feel smaller and smaller as the ceilings gradually became higher and higher. When Din was a mere speck of metal among the stone fortress, he was given a seat in Josiahn’s study. The children remained standing near Din’s given chair. Emelea’s hands rested on the shoulders of his armor, making Din feel suffocated. He resisted the urge to shake her away to not disrespect the family. Both of her brothers stand watch beside their sister.

The king and queen sat on a bench behind their desk. Din had never seen such a set up before. He’s seen many governors and monarchs and they never did business beside their partner. But Melvanne seemed perfectly used to this arrangement. Her left hand rested on the table, while her husband mirrored this with his right hand. They reached for their own pens but in perfect synchronization. On a piece of parchment they began to write. Joshian wrote the first half of the contract while Mevanne wrote the second. Their pens met perfectly in the middle, leaving not even a blot of ink. They slide the contract to Din, silently gesturing to him to read it.

With a surge of shock Din found that they’re handwriting is perfectly identical. It looked as if one person had written it out. Aside from that the contract is curiously short.

The chosen Mandalorian will return the peasant man Kais Korren to the palace dead or he forfeits the bounty of 500,000 credits and ten pounds of ruthenium. The chosen Mandalorian will not be given more or less. The chosen Mandalorian will be the chosen hero of Aniri.

“Do you agree to the terms?” The king asked.

Din hesitated to agree. These terms are not Guild regulated, but if they contacted Greef Karga, then surely they know the actual rules. This contract must be for their own personal relief.

“Agreed,” he finally said. The tracking fob was slid across the desk by the King, and as Din looked at the slow blinking light with an unseen grimace. He couldn’t imagine what sort of threats a man could be making to warrant drastic measures. A tracking fob, half a million credits, and not to mention pounds of ruthenium. If the Armorer does not see the ruthenium fit for armor plating he will simply sell it and donate half the earnings to the foundinlings of Mandalore. Although it’s no secret Din, himself, is broke. His jobs barely carry the amount of fuel for his ship, let alone upkeep. What money he gets he sends half away to care for the foundlings. That is his Way, the Way, that he has devoted himself to. And it does not bother him. He isn’t easily bothered.

But this planet—this planet bothers him to his core.

The fob leads Din to the village about five miles from the kingdom capital.

It’s a quiet village, serene with its grassy farms and tall trees. Unlike any other village Din has been to the people are quiet. Among the markets there is only necessary chatter. Bystanders that come and go don’t speak, and they certainly don’t look at Din.

Most people have similar reactions upon seeing a Mandalorian. Some children point and jump with glee. Mostly, however, people avoid him but point him out with admiration or shock.

This village is different. Because he stands out, people fear him, as if they fear anything out of the ordinary. Villagers begin to squirm when they sense Din coming closer, but they try their best to ignore him. Din has done similarly as a child, when he thought there were beasts in the darkness of his bedroom. He would force himself to not look, thinking anything there would just leave him alone if he didn’t make eye contact.

Fob in hand, Din moves through the village. There are no distractions, no obstacles.

It did seem too easy.

The fob frantically beeps each step he takes north. Villagers part with no hesitation as Din treks on, his palms sweaty beneath the leather and sun.

At a small house, the fob burst into a panicked blip, the red light flashing bright under Din’s thumb. Kais Korren is here.

The passage to the house is a lame excuse for a garden, with dead soil withered weeds.

Between being a Mandalorian as well as a bounty hunter, there is no room for pleasantries like knocking. The door creaked open and Din allowed himself to go in.

The house is just as plain as the palace. The only life of it darted past Din in a blur, screaming for his father.

A family of three, soon to be four judging from the mother’s belly, gathered tight in a corner.

They looked truly tired. The rags of their own clothes seemed almost too heavy for them to be wearing. Din said nothing as he displayed only the tracking fob. With slow movements he set the fob down and simply asked for them to bring Kais Korren forward. The family’s compliance did make everything easier.

Kais himself was a tall man, but thin. His graying hair in thick tendrils was tied back at the base of his neck. His eyes, sullen, silently thanked the family for opening their home to him. Kais did not fight Din as Din cuffed him and led him out of the house, going out beyond the village to a field where no one would bother them.

Kais Korren’s body was identified by the king himself in a steely room that could only be described as a morgue. The involvement of the king baffled Din more and more. Most high ranking men and women have people to do such bidding; the “dirty work.”

But King Josiahn wanted to see the corpse himself.

With a nod to the morgue director, the body was rolled away, and Josiahn turned on his heels to look up at Din.

“Our Mandalorian savior,” he said, clapping his hands. He sounded strangely happy, and yet there was not any emotion in his eyes; not even a sadistic smile weighed over his non-existent lips. “I’m honored to be in the presence of the best bounty hunter in our parsec. You have truly proved your worth. Your rewards are awaited in the dining hall. We humbly invite you to our celebration as our dinner guest. We are aware of and respect your culture. While you will be our guest of honor at the feast, a meal basket will be packed along with your money and ruthenium. Would you please join us? My daughter has become fond of you and insists she would love to have a Mandalorian at her party.”

Emelea has not been near Din for longer than half of an hour. Recalling her strange face did not settle well with Din’s stomach.

But to keep amiable ties with the Anirians, Din accepted the offer. He thanked Josiahn for the respect of his Creed, as not many do. Even within the Guild he is bullied relentlessly about his secretive nature; he’s been called hideous despite being unseen. He’s been called a prude despite his long hours spent in his bed wishing he had a woman with him instead of his calloused hand. Admittedly he would have declined if Josiahn hadn’t mentioned his respect for the Mandalorian creed.

The Way is Din’s life. He wouldn’t have it differently.

Din was escorted and announced officially into the vast throne room. Grandiose tables line the room and in the center is a wide circle of red paint.

As Din became announced those who sat at every table rose to their feet and broke into a thundering applause. Each crack of their palms struck Din’s chest as he felt suffocated. He felt watched. He felt weak, and small, despite the armor that weighed on his tired muscles.

Each step taken over the concrete floor jolted in Din’s chest, egging on the headache that sliced into Din’s eyes. The very center table had a chair set out and decorated with wreaths of plain flowers. Emelea made herself seen in an instant, taking Din by the hands and leading him to his chair.

Over the rumbling applause Din could hear Emelea speak. “I’ll feel much safer knowing you’ve gotten rid of that man for us!”

She had a light in her eyes Din could only describe as weird. She is weird, plain and simple. Her colorless hair is tied in a large knot on the top of her head, and dark makeup is brushed over her eyelids. She coerced him into the chair while Josiahn chastised her.

“Keep your hands to yourself,” Josiahn snapped. Emelea immediately pulled away from Din. She had to be at least twenty years old. It churned Din’s stomach that Josiahn had spoken to her like she was a child, and it made it all the more disturbing that she simply giggled and apologized bashfully. She sat by her mother when Josiahn bid for her to scurry off.

“I apologize for my daughter,” Josiahn murmured near Din’s ear. Clearly Din is not the only one who has noticed Emelea’s strange behavior.

Emelea had turned into an entirely new person in the hours Din had been gone. Before, she’d been silent and vaguely terrifying. And now she could not stop staring at him from her mother’s side, like a schoolgirl in love.

As the applause faded out, Josiahn brought forward a couple of his court members who were to present Din with a number of presents.

The basket of dry meat and fruit had been neatly tied up in muslin napkins.

Small girls dressed like fruitcake offered ribbons and tiaras made from flowers.

Din could not bear to reject any of the gifts, especially from the children. He was given more small things than he knew what to do with. Eventually the hall of people that seemed to adore him for simply murdering a man began to wear the Mandalorian’s patience thin.

“Sir,” Din finally said to Josiahn. “I’m flattered by the lengths you and your people have gone to, but a simple thank you would have sufficed.”

Josiahn offered a small nod. His bug-like eyes drooped to avoid what would have been Din’s stare. “I am afraid we have kept you longer than you would have liked.”

He waved his hand to a guardian who is quick to come to Josiahn’s chair. “Would you do the Mandalorian a great favor and bring his food and reward to his ship.”

The guardian nodded, a lack of vocal confirmation filling the air as he strode away.

“Guess who’s back!” Emelea sang, suddenly flitting before Din’s chair. She pranced around, swaying the loose hems of her pants around her feet. “Strange thing to be given. Ruthenium, I mean. You could do with something better,” she adds with a curling grin. “I want to thank you again,” she then said, blinking for the first time Din had seen all day.

“It’s nothing to thank me for,” Din said flatly, the monotone modulator clearly keeping Emelea in check. She wavers on her toes like she wants to do more, to say more, but she doesn’t when she becomes reprimanded by her father. The two stared at one another, not in a way a parent and his child should. It was a challenge. A challenge that Josiahn lost as he looked away first.

“Well, Mandalorian, did you have fun with us today?” Sheer delight gleamed her buggish eyes. Something about Emelea is very wrong. How would Din have enjoyed his day here? He murdered a man and then got paid for it, so it’s not something to be excited about. Although she might have been trying to make him feel guilty.

Just something about Emelea is off. The entire family is off.

There is a sudden clamor at the front of the hall as the doors are pushed open to reveal an entire gallery of court guardians. They march in, carrying with them a figure draped in loose rags and crude face paint. From the distance Din sees the guardians throw the young woman into the center of the red circle he had seen before.

Emelea turned on her feet to look at the growing stream of madness. All of the court has now scrambled to their feet. They flock to the rim of the red circle. Some mock while others whisper and point.

Din struggles to understand.

He takes to his feet and walks into the madness.

In the red circle of paint is you. You aren’t much different from the other servants Din has seen. You wear the same crude looking face paint and rags.

Josiahn’s voice could not raise loud enough to silence the crowd that rages like an angry mob. Feebly, Josiahn demands, “What is going on?”

A court guardian responds: “Defection.”

Josiahn had nothing to say to this. Emelea overtakes her father’s spot. Her voice booms throughout the room, silencing the mob in a split second.

“Execution,” she said, “is the price of defection.”

Her eyes lock down on her father. “Isn’t that so?” She asked her father, mockingly.

Din couldn’t tell what had snapped in Emelea. She doesn’t look like the giggliest girl who had been fawning over Din just ten minutes ago. She’s wildly livid. As calm as she tries to be, Din can see she is practically foaming at the mouth.

Emelea turned to Din. “You must do it,” she says quietly. “My father will pay you handsomely. Though it is nothing to lose a servant girl.” Emelea spat the lowly title as she sneered in your direction.

Din’s heart fell down to his stomach. He could see the raw fear that festered in your eyes as you trembled on your knees.

“Emelea,”a voice booms.

Riz pushes through the crowd. A split second of relief. Din hoped Riz would calm Emelea down.

The two siblings held a silent conversation, staring at one another.

Emelea broke it off with a nod.

Riz drew out a long sword, brandishing it for the crowd to see.

Din dove into the red circle, standing before you with a hand resting on his blaster.

“This is our way!” Riz cried. He shows the sword off to every person in the crowd. His eyes, wild and wide, zeroed onto you. “She would defy the way of Aniri.” He pointed to you with the tip of the blade.

Josiahn did nothing. He said nothing, but Din could see the resignation in his eyes. “Why should she be killed?” Din demanded when Josiahn failed to speak up. “What has she been accused of?”

“She tried to leave the palace, sir, and without her makeup.”

What the fuck? Din thinks.

Emelea fumed at the words. “A Mandalorian would not understand the laws of this planet. She’s bound to this palace, bound to be my faithful servant.”

Din raised his chin. “She can be easily bound to another, couldn’t she? I agreed to help you with a man who threatened your court,” Din said to Josiahn, ”but a young servant girl leaving the palace without wearing makeup is hardly a cause for her death.”

Riz shook his head. “She is bound only to the royal family.” Riz gripped his sword, knuckles pale. “Well, father?”

Josiahn swallowed. He leveled his eyes with the Mandalorian’s helmet and, in a soft breath, he granted the servant to him.

Riz grunted. In a single swish of his arm, the blade slashed through the king.

Din couldn’t hold back the gasp of shock as Josiahn crumpled face first to the floor. The outcry was fast and sharp for anyone that regarded Riz as a villain.

Riz’s sword dripped with the blood of his slain father. “Mandalorian, considering you are new here, allow me to explain. Long ago, before Aniri became civilized, the battling clans would brawl within this red arena. The one to slay their opponent would earn the right to rule for four full years. It’s an ancient law, but one that has never been dissolved. And as I have already disposed of my mother, I see no reason why I should not be regarded, now, as the king, with Emelea as queen. Emelea had slain Melv the moment you left the palace to bring Kais to us. And while she had hoped you would stay to serve her in any way she pervertedly pleased, I can see that you have chosen this disloyal whore over me.”

Din’s heart pounded in his ears. Karga was right. The rumors about the court, especially Emelea, are true; and they are much worse than anyone has heard. The palace ran like a cult and Emelea, a crazy, ruthless nut, is now in charge.

As Emelea sauntered forward like a villain, Din drew his blaster and shot.

A wound blossomed on Emelea’s shoulder and she sank to her knees with a loud cry of pain.

Riz, now the only family Emelea has left, runs towards Din with his brandished sword. There’s no hesitation on Din’s side; he brandishes his forearm, shooting licks of fire from his wrist, emitting shrieks from the onlookers. Riz became enveloped in flame, and he rolled on the stone floor frantically to save himself. It hadn’t worked, and his body burned on as Riz laid dead.

Emelea shrieked. Her screams are like a beast’s as she scrambled to her feet, clutching her shoulder. “Kill them!” she screamed. She pulled at her hair and shrieked and cried.

The court guardians that remained at the scene stuttered in response. Half of them visibly questioned where their loyalties now lie. The other half remained too stunned to pounce immediately. Din struggled to pull you up as you stared in horror, your tears now dry by the heat of the dead prince’s corpse.

Running back to the Crest would have been easier if you were faster. You tripped and stumbled. Din doubts you have ever gotten decent exercise. You’re struggling to breathe before you’ve even escaped the palace.

Din can see in your eyes how tempted you are to just give up; to stay put and let Emelea do away with you in whatever cruel way she would. Before you could open your mouth to say the words, Din scooped you up into his arms. You latched your arms around his neck, struggling to stay secure as he took into a sprint. You’ve never felt wind over your face this way before. You’ve always watched ships and speed bikes come and go, but the luxury to ride them was reserved only for court members.

Your strange savior ran fast; in a whirl of strange and stranger courses you’d been whisked away by him, a man of metal that ran fast as a speed bike.

He took you to places you’d never seen before in a matter of a minute and you don’t even know his name.

Beyond the palace gates where he set you down and took on the court guardians that attempted to stop him. You’d never before seen the front gates, or the vast columns of trees. Awestruck, you stumbled out of the doors and into the grass.

Din tugged you along once more, urging you to go a little farther. His ship was close. You could see it, and it was unlike any other ship you’d seen before.

“Go!” Din demanded. You ran as fast as you could. You felt light, free, scared and giddy, all at once, even as gunfire rings out behind you.

Your rags of clothing fumbled your escape. You tripped over yourself again.

And that was it, you realized. That was the last of your freedom.

A court guardian lifted you into his arms, prepared to drag you back to Emelea.

You had only seen the ship once, and it hadn’t been enough.

Across the field Din struggled to fight off his own number of guardians. You writhed in your captor’s arms, calling out for help in a hoarse voice.

Din’s helmet raised to attention. He could see you struggling. All of his strength surged as he used the remainder of his fuel to spray fire in the air. The guardians flanked back, watching in horror as their fellow fighters burned alive.

Din ran to you, like no one ever had before, and you were unsure if you should feel glad or scared as he tumbled to the ground with your almost captor. Once more in Din's arms, you were being flung onto the ramp of his ship.

“Get in!” Din shouted as he shot at oncoming guardians. You clambered up the ramp, cutting your hands over the ragged edges. Din comes behind you to hurry things along. You sink into Din’s arms as he drags you inside. He firmly sets you down, only saying, “Stay there” before he rushes to the cockpit.

His adrenaline spiked hands shuddered as he fires up the engines of the Crest. The rumble of his ship is literal music to his ears. Din did not bother to gauge anything else as he forced the ship into a full exertion of motion. The Razor Crest lurched as it lifted off the ground at an alarming speed.

You strained to find balance as the entire world fell from under you.

Colliding with every panel as the ship lurched out of the atmosphere sent you into a sobered state of pain.

As the hum of the engine gets louder, you feel yourself becoming more and more frightened.

Your unknown fate, which lies in this stranger’s hands, topples through space as the ship whirls and spins, leaving you to do nothing but brace yourself in a corner. Your vision blurred with every moment that passed. The rampant heart that beat in your chest threatened to burst free and fly through space all on its own.

Some kind of siren went off as the walls of the ship shook. Distantly, you know the ship is being shot at. Breathing is becoming a struggle.

Your memory skips out on everything since that moment in the hall. The vague voice of your hopeful-savior is clear in your mind, but your surroundings have been washed down to plain palates of color. The blazing prince, a muddled yellow and brown splashed with the fiery licks of orange; his sister who screamed as she bled now remains faceless in your mind.

You crawled over the floor as it rumbled. You feel like debris in a tornado as you struggle for cover. The racking of metal pierces straight through you as you feel the looming threat of explosion closing in on you. A flat whistle is rising in your ears. There is no balance point for anything, not anymore. Were the rumors true? Does gravity not exist beyond the atmosphere of Aniri? Would the walls of the ship be stripped apart, leaving you victim to space winds, black holes, and freezing, endless darkness? The idea frightens you into a frenzy of hysterics.

You tumble across the panels. You go head first into a wall. It knocks the vision out of you. It’s difficult to tell how much time passes.

Sitting blind and gripping the sharp grooves of the ship, you brace your body back to fight the ship’s desperation to throw you around. Your neck twinges with pain of strained muscles.

You narrowly dodge debris that rolls around the ship.

Using the walls as your guide, you search for safety.

Inside of a strange vault, filled to the brim with weapons, you lock yourself inside. Your breath is uneven, so ragged it hurts. Pinned up against guns and other strange arsenal isn’t helping the feeling of impending doom, but at least here you’re safe.

You stay hidden until your legs hurt.

You can feel the paint dripping down your face in thick streams of sweat.

The ship ceased to rumble a while ago, but the nauseating pain in your stomach is still set firm like stone.

You know once you emerge from the weapon locker you’ll be apprehended by your strange savior.

You know what he is—a bounty hunter. He killed that wanted man on Aniri. He killed them just for money. He surely wouldn’t save you out of the kindness of his heart. He knew running off with you would cause a stir. They’d followed you off planet.

You know what Emelea and Riz are like. Melv was kind, but weak. He had been the sickly triplets of the bunch. Kind he may have been but he was easily overpowered by siblings.

They followed you off the planet. You, a servant. You are their property. They’re going to war over a stolen girl, and given Emelea’s absolute insanity, you can only guess how it will end for you.

Even if Emelea doesn’t make further attempts, you are still in the hands of a stranger. A bounty hunter; a killer. He could use you for anything he wanted. Leverage to get ransom from Aniri, sell you to the Empire to be a slave, or he could keep you for himself. You’d be dead or worse either way.

You gripped tight on a blaster before carefully opening the door.

The ship rumbles in easy silence. No fire or smoke leaks. Just silence.

Did...did he outrun them?

You stepped out. The metal under your bare feet is unlike anything you’ve felt. Servants were not permitted shoes because they had nowhere to go but around the palace. You’re used to smooth concrete.

Your slippery palms grip the blaster with sloppy form. You’re unfamiliar with weaponry and rely mostly on what you’ve seen to defend yourself. Aim, pull trigger.

In such a close range you could surely kill him, but piloting the ship wouldn’t be as easy.

You tiptoe around, heart hammering in your chest. The metal floors creak behind you.

You whirl around with a sharp gasp, pressing the gun into the metal armor of the man who saved you.

You tried to shoot but his hand wrapped around your wrist, bending you in such a way that the gun fell from your fingers into his hand. You started to struggle.

“Hey, hey, hey,” the Mandalorian says sharply. He sheaths the blaster in a holster on his hip and then holds you firmly by the shoulders. “Calm down,” he says.

The modulator of his helmet highlights the details of his voice. Surprisingly deep but sharp, you find.

You can't help but continue to struggle in his hold. He only has you by your forearms but he's incredibly strong. Or at least stronger than you.

"Calm down," he repeats again. "I am not going to hurt you."

You are desperately hoping that's true. Palpitating, your heart disagrees and screams at you to fight and run.

The prospect would fail you no matter what. You're weak in general, more so now after the chaos you've gone through. Above feeling scared, you are dreadfully tired.

The Mandalorian man cautiously leads you to a lumpy mattress pushed against the wall of a smaller room. "Sit," he says, a gloved hand gesturing to his bed.

Your heart thunders away as you do. You grip the skirt of your rags and sit obediently, staring at your hands.

Tears dripped down your face, tumbling off your chin.

"What are you going to do to me?" Those are the first words you've said in a while. The crackling of your voice makes you cringe; your number one weakness is your vulnerability and right now you're the most vulnerable person in the galaxy.

"You need rest," The Mandalorian says quietly. He digs around a little closet. He hands you a folded white shirt and towel. You're beyond puzzled at the gifts and behind tears you manage to send him a questioning glance.

"Wouldn't you like to freshen up?" He sounds puzzled. You debate the idea. Hesitantly, you nod.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he repeats. This time it sounds gentle.

Genuine.

"You can wear this for tonight," he continues. He places the shirt and towel in your arms. You had never been given something for you. Not this way.

"Would you like to shower?" The Mandalorian then asks you.

You look up through your dirty bangs, unsure what he means.

"Bathe," Din corrects himself.

You nod. As unsure as you are you begin to give into the looming feeling of safety.

Ushering you into the refresher in silence is beyond awkward.

Din gives a quick rundown on how the shower works. When water came from the showerhead your eyebrows lifted to your hairline.

"Curiouser and curiouser," you murmured to yourself. You run the top of your hand under the stream to test it out. To your disbelief the water is warm.

You look to the Mandalorian, shock written all over your face.

Din tries not to chuckle at your expression. He can see that you're rather pretty even under the sweat, dirt, and paint.

"I'll leave you alone. Take as much time as you need."

Din shuts the door after himself, leaving you in the steamy refresher. You hang your things on the hook. You're beyond excited to wear something other than your itchy rags.

You discard the rags to the floor and step eagerly into the water.

It's amazing.

You look at your feet, watching the dirt and paint whirl down the drain to never be seen again.

While "showering" might be new, you at least know how to wash yourself.

You use a bar of soap to lather bubbles in your hands. Scrubbing away the vomit-green foundation is beyond satisfying.

You wash your hair, taking your grand time. The bubbles gather in your hair like a fluffy cloud. It's hard to remember there is a world outside of the shower where you massage your scalp for a decent ten minutes.

By the time the water has ran cold, you have exhausted the possibility of washing any untouched body part. You feel butter soft, hair silky smooth.

You pat yourself dry with the towel your savior had given you.

It's then that you struggle to not burst into tears. The sight of your crumpled uniform overwhelms you. You huddle into the corner, gripping onto the soft linen the man had given you.

Dabbing tears away with your inner wrist, you tell yourself to stay calm.

You slip on the shirt.

He is bigger and taller than you, so the shirt covers all of you to your mid thighs.

You look at your reflection in the foggy mirror.

You don't recognize the girl that looks back at you. No loose rags cover her curves and no thick paint masks the face she is so unfamiliar with.

You can see all the pigment in your skin. Your eyes are slightly red, but filled with hope. You detangle your hair with your fingers before you gather enough courage to go out.

You slip into the cold air with your old uniform and towel bunched in your arms.

You scan up and down the narrow hall. You wish you knew your savior's name.

"Hello?"

The answer is footsteps that lead away from the cockpit.

He still wears his heavy armor, helmet included.

"How do you feel?" He asks after a tense moment of silence.

"Clean," you say sheepishly.

You’re still slightly concerned with your well being. You look up to his helmet, taking a conscious shuffle back. "I should thank you properly," you murmur.

"There's no need for it," the Mandalorian says quickly. His tight voice is incredibly nerve wracking.

"What are you going to do to me?" You finally asked the one question that's been on your mind.

He tilted his head back. You imagine he's surprised from the way his body seemed to stutter.

"Nothing you're thinking, I can say that," he declared. "Technically you...you are mine now. The Anirians will be looking for you. They made that clear. It's safe to assume you have no family off planet?"

You must have looked surprised because he quickly tries to apologize for overstepping a boundary.

"I have no family," you say. "None at all. I was born into the servant ranks."

"I see." He visibly thought about what to do. Even though his face remains unseen you can tell he's debating all of his options. "If you're tired, you can sleep. If you're hungry, help yourself. Do as you'd like around here, at least until tomorrow."

You don't know how he keeps track of time here. The question isn’t nearly as pressing as what’s happening tomorrow.

You clenched your stomach when you asked what happened tomorrow. You prepared for the very worst answer.

“I’m taking you somewhere safe.” His response didn’t make much sense. He turned on his feet to head back to the cockpit, but you reached after him. Your touch must have startled him as he flinched. You recoiled. “I-I want to ask why you did it.”

He doesn’t answer your question.

“I’ll be here if you need me.”

You retreated to the little bed. It’s lumpy, but soft. You sink right into it, timidly covering yourself with the thin blanket.

You rest your head against the pillow.

This must be his bed.

This must be what he smells like; metal tang mingling with his soap and just him. It’s difficult to describe since it’s not really a thing. It’s just him.

Sleeping could have just been blinking. Your eyelashes tickled your eyelids as you opened them, seeing the world only as a pillow. You had cuddled it during the night, and you can’t say it was bad, since it smelled nice and was a real pillow.

You roll over to your back, feeling the start of a headache instantly form behind your eyes.

On the small bedside table are new clothes. Well, you find it’s actually just a new linen shirt and an oversized leather jacket. You are a bit surprised to see that. After all, your savior doesn’t seem like the leather jacket type.

But it’s very soft, so you figure it’s old.

You shrug into the clothes, grateful he didn’t simply wash your rags and have you wear them again.

Although it is a peculiar outfit as far as outfits go. The brown leather jacket does a good job of keeping you warm and your hands at least reach the outside of the sleeves. But the shirt is sort of short. Oversized, but short.

At least shorter than what you’re used to. On closer examination you’d say you have at least two inches between your kneecaps and the hem of your shirt-dress. You just zip up the jacket to avoid any mishaps. Strangely enough it makes a cute-ish outfit.

Then again you’ve never actually had any other outfit before. You’d probably think anything would be cute.

You come to the conclusion that you’re stalling going out to meet your savior. You’d slept peacefully and gotten new clothes, so you’re kind of expecting the entire thing to be revealed as a trick.

You open the door with the thought that you could always run back to the weapon locker and grab a pistol. Your hope for a silent start to your first day is smashed when you run into him less than a full minute of being on your feet.

You awkwardly stared into his visor, stuttering a quiet “Good morning.”

He didn’t exactly reply the way any other person would.

“How are you feeling?”

The crisp edge to his voice cuts your ears. He’s awfully fear inducing.

“I feel alright,” you mumble. “Thank you for the clothes.”

He nodded, not making a sound that could be mistaken for a “you’re welcome”. Instead he straightens his helmet, the T of his visor looking somewhere behind you. He says, “I have set a course to Nevarro.”

You nodded right back. “I would guess that’s a planet,” you say, trying your best to sound serious. Who could take you seriously, though? Makeupless, tired, with less than combed hair, and you don’t know anything about the galaxy you live in.

“It’s going to be where we live. For now. At least until I can find somewhere safe for you.” His words took your breath away. It’s mind blowing to imagine how many planets are out there. Which planet will you live on? What would you do? Just live, breathe, all without being in the service of anyone else?

You bobbed your head softly, a quiet yes on your lips, but excitement gathering in your chest.

“I’m going to have to thank you again,” you murmur, sweeping your bangs out of your eyes. “I’ve never been shown such kindness from a stranger. I am Y/n.”

The soldier bowed his helmet in response. “You don’t have to thank me, Y/n.”

You half expected him to tell you his name in response. You should have known better, however, considering his entire identity depends on mystery. Before he could leave, you asked him, “What should I call you?”

A slight falter in his footsteps makes you regret the question. He visibly thought as he tilted his visor down. Is he staring at you? His feet? The way the leather jacket hangs off your limbs?

“You can call me Mando, if you want,” he finally suggested, his words sounding so broken apart that you wonder if he is physically malfunctioning beneath the helmet. You decided to just stick with Mando rather than force him to socialize and talk more than he already has been.

The day passed by uneventfully, but still blurringly fast. You have nothing to do, but that is a thousand times better as opposed to your usual schedule of cleaning around the Anirian palace from dawn to dusk. You never had the luxury to feel bored before today. You passed the time by cleaning up around the ship while Mando remained ever stoic in the pilot chair.

You grew used to his ever looming presence. You have an idea of him in mind that you can’t be too sure of. He watches you constantly, occasionally handing bowls of soup to you without a word. He thanked you before bed for taking the time to clean but insisted you don’t do it again. You’d taken that with a grain of salt in the wound. For a brief moment you felt embarrassed; you must not seem like a real person to him. Just the poor Aniri girl programmed to clean and stay silent.

Mando must have seen this thought in your eyes because he stopped you from going to bed to say a few words.

“Thank you,” he said. His voice always cuts through your chest, right to your heart. “I appreciate everything you’ve done, but I want to say that you shouldn’t feel obligated to take care of anything.”

You tilt your head up, peeking at his helmet through your bangs. “I don’t know how else I can thank you,” you sheepishly admit. “Cleaning is my only real talent.”

He didn’t laugh at the half-joke, instead he shifted uncomfortably on his feet. The tang of his armor you could taste on your tongue, and you can just imagine how it would twine with the smell of him.

“If you’re hungry then I’ll bring you food, to the bedroom.”

“Wouldn’t you want to eat with company?” You asked.

His long pause is deafening. “It’s alright,” he finally says, voice lowered to a soft lull. “Y/n,” he said. Your heart pounds when he says it. “I’m going to take care of you.”

You nodded. “I know,” you mutter. “I really, really wish I could thank you enough.”

“You can thank me by getting rest. We’ll be at Nevarro in twelve or so hours.”

You retreated to the door to your little bedroom, before turning back to look at Mando one more time. “Where do you sleep?” You asked.

“The bedroom,” he replied. “But it’s yours tonight, once more.”

You don’t argue as Mando turns away, returning to the cockpit where he would no doubt be the rest of the night.

You shrugged out of the leather, draping it across the small night stand where a glass of fresh, cold water greeted you.

You have never been cared for.

You have never been given anything so luxurious in your entire life.

Mando had now given you his bed for two nights in a row, and you would have felt guilty if you weren’t struck by your sudden change of lifestyle. You crawled onto the mattress and sunk your face into the pillow, breathing in the smell of him.

Just him.

>> next chapter!

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