Chapter Text
As he stepped into the Meltdown Café for the third time in several hours, Din secretly vowed never to set foot in that establishment ever again.
He made straight for the doors in the back. The bartender saw this and started to protest, but went silent as Din flipped him a credit.
He stepped into the back room, the noise and light from the bar dimming behind him. There was nothing of significance; a few ratty chairs and a bin for employees to store their things. However, there was a staircase against the back wall. Taking Leena’s word about the second floor, he ascended.
At the top, he found a closed door and muffled voices coming from behind it. He paused for a moment, listening. There were two of them, and he recognized the gruff tones of a non-human species.
Quietly, he pulled out his Amban rifle, looking through the scope. He immediately recognized the bulky figures, even through the fuzzy heat signatures: Trandoshans.
Din sighed, putting his rifle back into its holster. He had counted on guards—crime lords rarely went without—and had intended to knife them. However, Trandoshan hides were legendarily resistant to regular blades, so it seemed he would have to lose the element of surprise.
Drawing his blaster, he took a fortifying breath and swung the door open. The two Trandoshans whirled just in time to see the Mandalorian pointing his blaster at them before they fell, their own weapons having not even cleared their holsters.
When it came to crime lords, Din found there were two extreme sides of the spectrum. Crime lords were either the physically unintimidating who had made their way to the top through sheer cunning, or particularly strong warlords who had brutalized their way into power. Fortunately for him, Gar Dana was the former.
The small man jumped as the door flew open, revealing the warrior armed to the teeth. He grappled for his communicator, but one well placed blaster bolt sent the device flying.
“You’re supposed to be dead!” Gar Dana cried, shrinking back in his chair as if it would somehow hide him from the Mandalorian.
“Where’s my kid?” Din snarled, the sight of the man who had trafficked children, including his own, making his blood boil.
“Wait, we can work this out. I can give you money. I can—”
Din took several steps forward, only stopping when the muzzle of his blaster was a hairsbreadth away from the crime lord’s forehead. “My kid. What did you do with him?”
Gar Dana swallowed, paling visibly as he realized this was not a man who could be bought. “I—I have them sent to a shipping warehouse on the lower levels.”
“You had better not be lying,” Din said, the threat of death lingering in his voice.
“I’m not,” he promised. His hands trembled visibly as he lifted them, slowly sliding a holopad across the desk to the hunter. “The coordinates are all here.”
Din looked down at the holopad, keeping his blaster trained on the man. He opened it, and it didn’t take long for him to find the position of the supposed warehouse, buried deep in the lowest levels of Nar Shaddaa’s Undercity.
“I did what you asked,” Gar Dana piped up weakly. “Please, spare me. I’ll leave this business, I’ll turn myself over to the Republic.”
“I’m a man of my word,” the bounty hunter said, and shot Gar Dana through the head. “But not to men like you.”
He took the holopad and left the corpse behind.
The call came when the overseer was asleep. He grunted in irritation and rolled over, grappling for his communicator. “There had better be a good reason why you’re calling me now.”
“Gar Dana is dead!” the bartender exclaimed from the other end.
The overseer sat up, suddenly wide awake. “What? How?”
“He sent you a child that belonged to a Mandalorian earlier today,” the bartender explained, breathless. “He sent an assassin droid to have the Mandalorian killed so he wouldn’t cause trouble.”
“But?”
“The Mandalorian found him.”
The overseer’s blood ran cold. Like many, he knew Mandalorians were a force to be reckoned with. “Where is he now? Do you know?”
“No, but I saw he took the holopad containing the information to your location.”
Raw fear now gripped at the overseer, but he disguised it beneath anger at the bartender. “Why didn’t you stop him? Didn’t you hear what was going on?”
“I did, but I thought if I said anything he would kill me too.”
“Useless.” The overseer ended the call, tossing the communicator away.
He sat in silence for a while, considering what his course of action should be. He was a Muun, his species well known for their financial prowess, not their battle strategies. He could order the guards to defend the warehouse just fine, but he had a sinking feeling that might not be enough to stop a Mandalorian. However, he realized there were other things he could do to ensure the Mandalorian’s compliance.
He picked up the communicator, calling one of the guards. “Meet me at the holding cells.”
The four children sat quietly, for lack of anything else to do as they waited for something, good or bad, to happen. The silence was only broken when Dera’s stomach rumbled loudly, causing the other three to look towards her.
“Sorry,” she said, blushing. “I’m really hungry.”
“I’m sure we all are,” Baiduri murmured, his tone only holding agreement for once.
“When they give us our daily portions, you three can split mine,” Imral said, stroking one of the Child’s long ears. “Mikkians can go without food for longer.”
“The extra portions should go to him,” Dera said, nodding at the Child. “He needs it more than any of us, I’m sure.”
“You’re right.” Imral looked down at the little one in her lap, her expression darkening. “The three of us have been here a week. How long till they…?” She trailed off, leaving the horror of being shipped off to slavery unspoken.
“Not long, most likely,” Baiduri grunted. “They probably just need to collect a few more for a proper shipment before they do.”
The Child felt a deep sorrow in Imral’s spirit and looked up at her face. Her eyes were bright with unshed tears, her lips trembling.
The Child knew sorrow and pain well. He had known it for the long years of his life before his father had come, and even after, there was still sorrow sometimes, like when Kuill died. However, there was no need to be sad now. His father was coming for them.
He reached towards Imral’s face. He had no words to make her understand, but he could do his best to comfort her. He brushed his claws over the many frills that adorned her head and smiled at her.
“You remind me of my little brother,” she said shakily, and looked up at the others. “He and my parents, they’ll never know what happened to me.”
Baiduri shook his head. “That’s how it is with smugglers. They make people disappear and leave their loved ones with nothing but pain.”
“There’s still hope,” Dera persisted. “My mother has always told me how much Mandalorians value their children. If that child’s father is still alive, he will come for him.”
“I hope so,” Baiduri said, “because soon not even a Mandalorian will be able to find us.”
It took Din a while to find the warehouse. This time, there were few to ask the way, and looking at the shady characters that skulked the Undercity, he didn’t want to. Regardless, he didn’t want to draw anymore attention to himself than he already had. As he passed by the dingy bars and clubs, he felt greedy eyes on his beskar, but he hoped the array of weapons he carried would be incentive enough to stay away.
As he followed the coordinates, eventually the bars and dilapidated housing turned into darker, murkier streets just barely wide enough to allow two humans to pass by each other. However, no one else seemed to be bold enough to walk these paths, and the clank of Din’s boots on the metallic walkway seemed to echo loudly in the silence.
The part of him that sought to protect the Child told him to move faster, to rush and get him before something irreversible happened, but the finely-honed skills of a Mandalorian rose up to meet the urge. Rushing created errors, and the last thing he needed was to make a mistake when his Child’s life was on the line.
After several twists and turns, he saw a new light at the end of the passageway. His coordinates told him he was close, so he went towards it slowly. When he reached the end, he stepped out onto a platform in a massive open space. He went to the railing and saw a large warehouse complex several stories down on the ground.
The coordinates checked out. His Child had to be there.
He was quick to case the place. The platform he stood on wrapped all the way around the walls of the space in a large square, interspersed with stairs that went down to an identical platform on the next story down, entrances like the one he had come from numerous on every level. Off to his left, a large cargo elevator offered easy access down to the floor. Lights shown down from the ceiling far above, just enough to illuminate the space but not enough to easily highlight approaching enemies.
Din slunk off to a dark corner of the platform, away from the entrance he had come through. Through the rungs of the railing he caught movement, and inched forward to get a better few, careful to not let the glint of light off his beskar betray him.
Several heavily-armed guards, likely Trandoshans, patrolled in front of a set of durasteel doors that was likely the main entrance to the building. Din reached up and turned on his long-range audio receptors.
“…shot him through the head,” one said.
“Got what was coming to ‘im if you ask me,” another replied. “I never liked this business anyway.”
“That overseer expects us to fight a Mandalorian? We ain’t that good,” a third said.
Din cursed under his breath. Word had managed to reach them of his impending arrival. That would make things harder, but not necessarily impossible.
He turned off his long-range audio, pulled his Amban rifle off his back, and grabbed seven disintegration bullets, one for each guard. He laid them on the platform and flattened himself down in the shadows, making it harder for them to pinpoint his location. After he started shooting, he had a small window before they figured it out and started shooting back.
He loaded the first bullet into the rifle and took aim. He exhaled, and fired.
The bullet hit its mark with deadly accuracy, rendering the guard nothing but a pile of armor. The rest of the guards reeled back in surprise and panic, but Din ignored their cries, reloading and taking aim again.
This time it was harder, as they had started moving around in a bid to discover what happened, but this would not stop him. He fired again and hit another.
He reloaded and fired, again and again. With their numbers depleted to three, the guards finally noticed the direction the attack was coming from, from high up on the left. But Din, concealed by his high position and the shadowy outskirts, was not concerned by this.
One dared to start running in the direction of the platforms. He made it several yards before he too exploded into a pile of dust.
The remaining two knew better than to try what the last had. They shot wildly in Din’s general direction, but most shots went wide. A couple sparked off the metal of the railing and the walkway near him, but he ignored them.
He fired again, taking the number down to one. The final guard knew he was done for. He dropped his gun and ran to the door, pounding and shrieking to be let in.
Din almost felt pity, but his mercy for those who willingly participated in such evils had vanished the moment his Child had. One final shot, and the last guard was gone.
He grabbed an explosive round out of his belt and loaded it into the barrel, waiting. Sure enough, after a few seconds, the doors hissed open, and more guards came piling out, only to be greeted by the sight of the dust and armor that used to be their comrades.
Din took aim at the open door and fired. The shell hit its mark and exploded, sending bodies and debris flying in a cloud of flame. Knowing the explosive had struck true, he rose and hurried for the stairs.
Can you hear me? he wondered.
The four children in the cell jumped as the door suddenly hissed open. The Muun overseer entered, accompanied by three large Trandoshan guards.
The overseer’s cold gaze swept over them all, finally landing on the Child on Imral’s lap. “That one,” he said, pointing.
“What about the others?” one guard grunted, gesturing to the rest.
The Muun paused. “Might as well.”
“What are you—” Dera’s protest was cut off when a guard grabbed her roughly by the arm, hauling her to her feet.
Baiduri and Imral were grabbed in a similar manner and shoved out into the hall, the Mikkian still clinging to the Child with all her might.
The guards prodded the children along as they followed the overseer down the hall past many other cells that likely contained more children. Imral, Dera, and Baiduri all shared scared looks. Maybe they had been wrong.
After several corners turned, they came to a hangar. Several cargo ships waited there, and the realization settled over the three that were old enough to know.
As they were herded towards the ships, Imral and Dera looked close to tears, and Baiduri’s face was as a stone. The Child’s ears drooped, feeling the despair of his new friends gather around him like a dark fog. They did not know his father was coming.
They were close to the loading ramp when the overseer spoke. “Do not load them yet.”
The guards stopped, and everybody looked towards him, equally confused.
“There is one last variable that must be considered,” the overseer explained. “The Mandalorian will never stop unless we stop him.”
“How?” asked one guard.
“The rest of the guards might be able to stop him, but if they don’t, this will.” He snatched the Child from Imral’s arms, ignoring her cry of protest. The Child let out a wail as he was dangled by the back of his robes in the uncaring grasp of the overseer. “I have a feeling he will not risk harm coming to his own child.”
At that moment, an explosion rocked the building, sending everyone stumbling. The overseer grappled for his communicator with his free hand, roaring, “What was that?”
A staticky response came through. “—destroyed the doors—killed twenty—”
“Get the rest of the guards down there!” the overseer yelled back. “He can’t take you all!”
Can you hear me?
The Child heard his father’s question and lifted his ears. Even as he hung helpless in the cruel clutches of the smuggler, it calmed him. His father was near.
Din marched towards the smoldering ruins of the doors, blaster in hand. His audio receptors picked up voices and heavy footsteps beyond the billowing smoke, which he expected. He allowed the smoke to engulf him and turned on his heat sensors, pressing himself against the wall.
He caught the forms of ten more Trandoshans heading straight towards the smoking ruins, and he readied his pistol. They sped up, attempting to get through the smoke quickly, totally blind to the Mandalorian hiding in the fog.
Ten bolts were fired, and ten bodies fell in swift succession, none of them even having seen the one who killed them.
Din looked around, but he saw no heat signatures close by. He stepped from the smoke and into the warehouse.
The hall he stood in had several intersections, and he checked around each corner with his blaster at the ready, but he saw no more guards. At the end of the hall there was another set of doors, and as he got close to them, he heard someone coming. He hurried forward and flattened himself against the wall.
The doors hissed open and a single Trandoshan hurried through. Din shot him and ducked through the door in one motion.
Now he was faced with another long hall full of doors on both sides, each one having a tiny slit to look through. He went to the first one and peered through, startled to find several young, scared faces looking back at him.
He then realized that all these doors were cells, and one of them would have his Child.
Anger coursing through his veins afresh, he hurried back to the Trandoshan he had just killed and searched his body. He came up with a card that looked like a key and went back to the first door, sliding it into the slit on the side. He was rewarded with a click, and he gently pushed the door open.
The children in the cell, of various age and species, stared at him with fear and hesitation. Some of them looked barely old enough to walk, much like his own.
“You stay here,” he told them, knowing that more guards could be waiting. “Stay quiet. I’ll come back for you.”
He went to every door and unlocked it, repeating his instructions to each group of children. However, he saw no trace of his Child among them all, and fear rose in his heart.
When he came upon the last door, he found it was already open, and the cell was empty. He knew immediately that was where his Child had been held, but he was not there anymore.
At that moment, he heard footsteps approaching, and he swung around just in time to see a Trandoshan round the corner. Upon seeing him, the Trandoshan made to fire, but Din was faster. He shot the guard in the leg, and he crumpled with a pained yell.
Din was on him in an instant, pressing a knee hard into his chest and his blaster trained right between his eyes. “Where are the children that were in that cell?” he growled, gesturing to the empty room behind him.
“H…hangar…” the Trandoshan gurgled, his eyes wide with horror.
“Which way?”
A shaky claw pointed the way the guard had come from.
Din shot him and rose quickly, his heart pounding. If they were in the hangar, he had only a matter of minutes.
Two corners later, he ran into three more guards in front of another set of doors. He sighed and cracked his neck, ready to take them out.
Upon seeing him, one charged him while the other two started firing. He did his best to dodge the blaster bolts, a couple pinging off his armor. He waited until the Trandoshan was almost upon him before blasting a stream of flame in his face.
The Trandoshan roared in pain and surprise, stopping just short of the Mandalorian. Din grabbed him and shoved him back towards the other two, causing them to stop firing as they tried to avoid hitting their flaming companion. That was all the time Din needed, and three more blaster bolts ended it.
When he stepped into the hangar, he was fully prepared to leap aboard a ship. He was not prepared to see his Child dangling in the clutches of a Muun, the muzzle of a blaster pressed against his head.
Din’s blaster was aimed at the Muun’s head in an instant, but he seemed unconcerned.
“I would be careful of my next move if I were you, Mandalorian,” said the overseer. “This is your child, is it not?”
Din did not answer, his breath shuddering in his lungs. He was vaguely aware that there were three more children being held off to the side, but all his attention was focused on his Child and the gun being pressed to his head.
“Drop your weapons, or the child dies,” said the Muun.
The Child whined, stretching out tiny hands towards his father. The sight broke Din’s heart as he desperately considered his options. He could tell by the Muun’s stance and words that he was no headstrong young fool like Toro Calican had been. Even if he was able to pull one over on him, he didn’t want to risk the life of his Child.
Dera, who had stood in awe the moment the Mandalorian had entered the hangar, felt her heart drop. She didn’t want him to give in, but his child’s life was at stake.
“My patience is wearing thin,” said the overseer.
“If I do,” Din said, barely able to keep the rage and despair from his voice, “you must not hurt him.”
“I wouldn’t dream of hurting one such as this,” the overseer said, lacking all sincerity.
“Hut'uunla!” Din spat, but he found he had no option but to comply. He would figure this out somehow. He let the blaster drop from his hand.
Dera lowered her head. They were done for.
The Child wriggled helplessly in the overseer’s grasp, reaching outwards. His father was so close yet so far, and he felt the darkness of despair rolling off him.
As soon as the blaster clattered to the floor, two remaining guards rushed from the shadows. They grabbed Din roughly, forcing him to his knees, and looked at the overseer expectantly.
“Kill him,” the overseer said. “His armor and the child will make a great profit.”
“No!” Dera screeched, attempting to rush forward only to be grabbed by a guard.
Before Din had time to react, a knife plunged into his side where a gap in his armor was. He roared out in pain and fear, and started struggling with all his might, but the Trandoshans’ grips were too strong. They forced him flat on the floor, and he felt a blaster pressed between his helmet and his armor on the back of his neck.
Dera, Imral and Baiduri forced themselves to look away.
Spare my child, he prayed.
Then, the Child screamed, a sound the likes of which Din had never heard before. He cried out in response, the sound cutting him deeper than a knife ever could.
Dera stumbled into Baiduri as the claws holding her were suddenly ripped away in a great rush, and she gasped at what she saw.
Suddenly, the weight holding Din down vanished. A shadow passed overhead, and he looked up just in time to see a body fly through the air and hit the wall with a sickening smack. He looked towards the children and saw the bodies of the Muun and the guards tumbling to the floor like ragdolls.
The three children stood shocked and unaffected, clinging to each other as they stared at the tiny bundle on the floor. Din’s heart nearly stopped at the sight of his Child lying deathly still. He started to haul himself up, but the gash in his side screamed at him and he crumpled again.
Imral rushed forward, gathering the Child in her arms. Dera and Baiduri followed swiftly, anxiously looking over the little one.
Din willed his body to move, his mind now focused on the one thing that mattered. He managed to push himself up, getting both feet underneath him, and half-ran half-stumbled towards his Child.
“Ad’ika,” he rasped.
The three children saw the Mandalorian coming and decided to back away, gently depositing the Child back on the floor. He made it to his Child and nearly fell again as he knelt down, gathering him into his arms.
“Ad’ika,” he repeated, suddenly finding it hard to talk around the lump in his throat. The Child’s eyes were closed, and for a moment he feared the worst. He ripped off one glove, holding it over the Child’s mouth, and he could have cried when he felt the faint puff of air brush over his palm. He sagged over the Child in pure relief, leaving him trembling.
“Mandalorian?” a small voice said off to his right.
He looked up, remembering only then the three children who had been there as well.
“Will he be alright?” the blue Mikkian asked.
“Yes,” he croaked, looking back at the Child. “He’ll be alright.”
Before the conversation could go any further, a sudden groan caused everyone to tense. Everyone looked in the direction it had come from, and saw the Muun was stirring.
Din stood, the Child still in his arms. “There are more children in the other cells,” he told the other three. “Go gather them and wait for me.”
“But—” Dera started, but Din interrupted her.
“Go,” he said. “I’ll take care of this.”
Dera opened her mouth to protest, but Baiduri pushed her and Imral towards the door.
“Come on,” he murmured to him. “I don’t think we want to see what’s about to happen.”
Din waited until they were gone to approach the fallen crime lord. The Muun saw him coming and reached weakly for a blaster near him, but a heavy boot came down on his wrist, stopping him. Din applied more pressure and something cracked, causing the Muun to cry out in pain.
“Hut'uunla,” Din snarled.
The Muun stared up at the beskar-clad warrior, unconscious babe in one hand and blaster in the other, and could only utter one word: “Mercy!”
Din leaned down close to the Muun’s face and hissed, “You would not spare my child.”
Din found a large group of children waiting for him in the hallway. As he approached, they all turned to him expectantly. Now that the adrenaline and anger that had kept him going was gone, the weariness that was starting to creep in made it hard to think.
“Alright,” he said at last, “how many of you have homes to return to?”
Every hand in the room went up.
Din was silent for a long moment. In truth, he had expected some if not a majority to be orphans.
“The smugglers liked to take children from good homes,” Baiduri offered. “They are healthier and wouldn’t die as quickly in the spice mines.”
Din almost got angry all over again, but he restrained himself. “Well, now we need to figure out how to get you all back to your homes.”
“We could use one of the ships they had,” Imral piped up after a moment.
“Okay, who knows how to fly a ship?”
Baiduri raised his hand.
“Really?” Din said, sounding more incredulous than he meant to.
Baiduri nodded. “My father was a fighter pilot. He taught me well.”
“You think you could fly all over this planet?”
“Wouldn’t be the first time.”
“Alright,” Din said, feeling oddly relieved that he wouldn’t have to load fifty kids on the Razor Crest, “let’s get you all on a ship.”
The children offered him thanks in several languages, some of which he knew and others he didn’t. Some even hugged him, which he awkwardly endured, pretending not to notice the warm feeling in his chest. They filed up the gangplank of the largest cargo ship, and fortunately no one noticed the corpse of the Muun shot more times than necessary hidden in the shadows of one of the smaller craft.
The red-headed girl had been looking at him the whole time with an expression of awe, and Din knew she wanted to say something to him, but was likely to shy to do so unbidden.
“What is it?” he asked at last, tilting his helmet towards her.
She blushed, quickly lowering her eyes to the floor. “Sorry, I’ve just never seen a Mando’ade in real life before.”
Din stared at her, wondering if his knife wound had been poisoned. “You know Mando’a?”
“Bits and pieces,” she said. “My mother taught them to me.”
“She is Mando’ade?”
“No, she says she isn’t anymore, not since the Purge. She never took the Creed.”
Din nodded. “But she taught you about us?”
“Yes,” she said, lifting her head proudly. “She told me how you all were great warriors and how much you valued your children. When I saw him,” she nodded to the Child, who slept on in Din’s arms, “with the Mythosaur pendant, I knew a Mandalorian would come and save us.”
Din felt a strange sense of pride at her words. Even in the land of criminals, the values of Mandalore still prevailed. “Well, I think the little one did most of the saving. I nearly got myself killed.”
“You did what you thought was best for your child.” Her brow furrowed in thought. “What…what did he do?”
“He can do…things,” he said lamely, looking down at the Child’s peaceful countenance. “He can do sorcery when he wants to. I haven’t figured it out yet.”
“Oh.” She frowned. “I’ve never really heard of that.”
“What’s your name?”
“Dera.”
“Dera, when you get home, you tell your mother that the Way of Mandalore is alive and well. Can you do that for me?”
She grinned widely at him. “Yes I can!”
Imral hurried over, a frown appearing on her face when she saw the Child still slept. “He’s still not awake?”
“No,” Din said. “He probably won’t be for some time.”
Imral reached out and tenderly stroked one long ear. “I know we didn’t know each other for very long, but I’ll miss him.”
“He’ll miss you,” he offered awkwardly.
“It’s time to go!” Baiduri yelled from the gangplank.
Imral gave the Child one last look before hurrying off to join him.
“Ret'urcye mhi!” Dera said with a smile.
“Ret'urcye mhi,” Din returned, unable to resist a smile himself as he spoke the words so many had forgotten.
“Take care of him!” she called over her shoulder as she ran to join the others.
Din watched as they went up into the ship, the gangplank rising. A hatch opened in the ceiling of the hangar, revealing a tunnel that would likely take them straight to the surface of the planet. The engines kicked on with a roar, and he backed up as the ship started its ascent. He caught sight of several small figures waving at him from the windows, and he raised his hand in farewell. The ship rose, and he watched until it was out of sight, the engines fading.
A small noise caught his attention. He looked down and saw the Child had awakened, chirping at him with a large smile on his face.
“Ad’ika,” he said fondly, “let’s get out of here.”
By the time he made it back to his ship, the knife wound was paining him greatly, but he was more concerned with his Child’s wellbeing. As soon as the hatch closed, he set the kid down and started checking him over.
He was relieved to find that the kid was relatively unscathed, and he sat back with a sigh. “You’re more resilient than you look.”
The Child squeaked in response as Din started stripping himself of his armor. He let out a groan as he peeled the undersuit away from the knife wound, slowly lowering himself to the floor.
The Child frowned, hearing his pain, and waddled forward, hands outstretched.
“Oh no you don’t,” Din said, gently pushing the tiny hands away. “You’ve done enough sorcery for one day.”
The Child stuck his lower lip out in a pout that was clearly mean to manipulate him.
“Come on, this isn’t my first knife wound. I’ll survive.” He pulled his helmet off, setting it on the floor beside him.
The Child came forward, leaning against his leg as he watched him pull off his undersuit, baring his chest. Din gingerly inspected the wound, wincing, but schooled his expression back to neutral when he looked over and noticed the concerned expression on the Child’s face.
“I’ll put some bacta on it and it’ll be fine,” he assured the kid.”
After a few minutes of applying bacta and haphazardly bandaging the wound, Din leaned back against the wall, sighing as the fiery throb of pain started to dull. The Child, sensing his father was done, clambered into his lap, leaning against his chest.
“Ad’ika,” Din said, bringing his hands up to cradle the small form to him, “I think that was the longest ten hours of my life.”
The Child chirped, listening to the steady beat of his father’s heart beneath the warm skin.
“I’ll never leave you again if I can help it,” Din promised. “I know you probably never want to come back to this planet again, but there’s one more thing I have to do.”
The Child did not protest. Wherever his father went he was happy to go.
A pleased expression flitted across the Evocii’s face as Din tossed a Barbadelan tentacle onto the table between them.
“Two days,” the Evocii said, nodding. “You did well.”
Din remained silent.
“Your payment.” The Evocii took a large bag of credits from one of his guards and handed it to the Mandalorian. The bounty hunter accepted the bag, but it seemed a small payment for all the trouble he went to.
The Evocii cleared his throat. “Mandalorian.”
Din looked up. He had not expected anything more from them.
“Word has made its way around the planet that one of your kind seemingly destroyed a child smuggling ring single-handedly.”
“What of it?” he grunted.
“Nothing,” the Evocii said. “I merely wanted to commend you on a job well done and thank you, provided you were the Mandalorian in question. My nephew had vanished, and he reappeared two nights ago, telling the tale that many other found children told.”
“I’m glad your nephew is safe,” Din said, “and for your sake, I was never here.”
The Evocii nodded in understanding, and handed him another large bag of credits.
“What’s this for?” he asked.
“A thank you from my family and likely many others.” The Evocii paused. “Mandalorian, might I know what motivated you to hunt down such a terrible organization?”
“I have my reasons.”
The Evocii and his guards watched, mystified, as tiny green hands reached out from beneath the Mandalorian’s cloak, grasping for the jangling bag of coins. The bounty hunter let the bag fall into the little fingers, and the hands and the bag withdrew into the cloak with a faint squeaky giggle.
“Of course you do,” the Evocii said at last, pretending like nothing had happened. “You have my thanks, regardless.”
Din nodded and turned to leave. When he was outside, he moved his cloak aside, looking down at the Child holding his bag of credits with an impish grin.
“Womp rat,” he murmured, shaking his head with amusement. “You’re worth far more than a bag of credits.”
The Child squealed, shaking the bag.
Din ran a gentle hand over his head. “Let’s get out of here.”
And so the hunter left Nar Shaddaa, his Child with him, successful in his hunt.