Archive of Our Own ^beta

He’s seen them, watched them, since childhood. Arrogant, cowardly, cruel, corrupt - believing they made the rules because of their uniforms, relying on intimidation by numbers and violence (real or implied).

That the Tribe had come to his rescue when he had broken Guild Code so blatantly was not unexpected - they are Mandalorian, and are bound by Creed to aid one another, no questions asked.

HE is a Mandalorian - he’d been a Mandalorian long before he’d become a Bounty Hunter - that is his identity, who he is, all he is. Outside the Tribe, all others call him by his Creed - “Mandalorian” or “Mando” - no need for names, no need to know who’s under the helmet: faceless and nameless because one is many, and many are one.

We are legion.

It doesn’t change the fact that he’s now on the run, though. With a tiny green charge who had first saved him from the mudhorn, and whose initial delivery to the Client had enabled him to have a brand new suit of pure Beskar armor made, and then whom he’d thrown his reputation as a Hunter away for.

"When one chooses to walk the Way of the Mandalore, you are both hunter and prey."

They’ve always been hunted - run out of their homes, targeted for their Beskar and deadly skills and warrior culture which made them a threat to anyone who ran the risk of crossing even one Mandalorian.

To cross one is to cross them all.

Creed or not, he now no longer has access to the Guild for work and protection - being a member had meant rules under the Code, meant that things like permits and payment were taken care of by Karga. He’d have to go it alone now, take off-the-books work - become a mercenary.

He doesn’t like the idea much, too many bad experiences (with non-Mandalorian mercenaries, though he’s also heard talk in the covert of many clients attempting to stiff the others who did such work). Mercenaries are notorious for lacking any code of conduct, doing anything for money. Clients who employed mercenaries could be some of the worst scum in the galaxy. At least the Guild had had rules (which he’d broken - repeatedly - for the child, but it was justified. It’s just a child - it doesn’t deserve to die, doesn’t deserve whatever horrors the Imps had planned for it).

He didn’t quite know how to go about finding work now, wasn’t exactly known for his ‘people skills’ (was there such a thing as a ‘friendly neighborhood Mandalorian’?), but he’d just have to make it happen somehow. He had living expenses - more than before, given the child - and fuel was expensive.

Better to lay low for a bit first while he planned his next step. Every hunter in the sector would be on his trail, so he had to throw them off the hunt and bide his time until they found other, bigger marks.

"Patience requires discipline, but it differentiates hunter from prey."

A gurgle, and he turns. Those big eyes immediately hone in on where his own are, and he wonders if the child can see through his helmet.

Would that be a violation of the Way?

It waves little hands at him in that awkward, uncoordinated manner, cocks its wrinkled head and makes another soft sound.

Is it hungry?

Does it…need to use the vacc tube?

How did little ones do it? Did they just soil themselves? He’d heard some people talk about something called ‘diapers’ before - was this child wearing one?

He can’t imagine the Nikto mercenaries helping to clean it, though he’s quite certain that Imperial doctor would have done what he could. He himself hadn’t bothered to check on the child’s bodily functions before - but if it ate (a live frog, no less) it had to have bodily waste, right? Did it eject waste at specific intervals, or on command? He couldn't really smell anything resembling organic refuse, but then again they were both covered in dirt and dust and sweat.

Maybe its body converted waste into air? Or into that odd power it had demonstrated?

The child gurgles again, and he turns back to the console, checks the settings - as fast as possible to as far away as possible - then swivels while rising.

It’s so small, so light, so fragile.

He holds it close with one arm while he slides down the ladder, props the child on a ledge then cocks his head slightly as he peers at it.

Did it eat human food? He didn’t have any frogs onboard, kept the interior of the Crest clean and free from dirt and pests (he didn’t need some rodent biting through the wiring and causing him to die a stupid death in the middle of nowhere).

He remembers seeing a hint of teeth before, so he assumes the child can eat something a little more substantial than mush (though it had swallowed that wriggling frog whole - where did it keep the food? It was so small).

Maybe he’d just make some soup.

“Stay.”

Another gurgle, little hands flapping, then he turns and moves to prepare the meal.

He almost bowls the child over when he turns around, because the little one had somehow climbed down from the ledge and snuck up behind him.

Big, glistening eyes stare up at him, and he can’t find it in himself to scold the kid.

It’s just a child, doesn’t know any better.

He side steps easily, places the bowl of soup down on the ledge before striding over and picking the tiny creature up then seating it next to the bowl.

“Drink.”

Is the bowl too heavy? Is the soup too hot?

It peers in and sniffs - the bowl is as big as its little face - then grasps the edges with its three-fingered hands and tries to lift the bowl.

Luckily he was watching, and he’s fast when he needs to be. He grabs hold of the smooth metal just in time to prevent the child from having a soup shower.

“Careful.”

Luminous eyes blink at him, before the child coos and releases the bowl, tiny green digits grasping at air in his direction.

Looks like he’ll have to feed it.

It can’t take care of itself, yet it was powerful enough to lift that mudhorn in order to protect him.

As he gives the child slow sips, watching to be sure he doesn’t spill any liquid on that odd sack it wears, he wonders again at what had happened that day - when he’d been ready to die on a deserted desert planet, covered in mud and armed only with a single knife against a rampaging horned beast.

Had the child done it because he’d saved it from the droid? Likely - he remembers the soft, muted sound it had made when he’d holstered his blaster after shooting the murderous robot.

But…how had it levitated the beast? He’s never seen anything like it, never heard of such abilities, and the Outer Rim had all types.

Was the child possibly from the Mid Rim or Inner Rim? Had it been kidnapped, taken from its family and spirited away to the lawless frontier and held for ransom?

There was no way to know, though. There were too many worlds, too many sectors and planets. He couldn’t go searching each one - it would take too much time, and cost too much money.

Plus, heading to the Core meant New Republic. The despotic Empire might have fallen to the then-Rebels, but the situation for people on the ground - common folk without money or connections or their own private armies - hadn’t changed.

People in power preached ideals while playing games of thrones in their fancy viper pits, while people like him lived the reality and consequences.

Every day was a battle to survive, especially as the Outer Rim became more and more dangerous, Imperial remnants and warlords and criminals taking up residence in the frontier and filling sectors and planets with their cruelty and corruption.

A burp, and a giggle. The child has finished the soup and is waving its little hands at him.

“Good job.”

It coos, eyes seeming softer than before.

Does it understand words? Or maybe just his tone?

Now, though…

It had eaten. Which meant it might need to empty its waste tank. Or whatever that body part was called for its species.

Right.

He’s a Mandalorian, a battle-hardened hunter, was touted as the most famous bounty hunter around (before he'd gone and broken the Code). This is just a child that can barely toddle.

Setting the bowl down, he steels himself.

He can do this. It’s just a baby, and he can’t have it soiling itself and causing a mess in the Crest or giving itself some sort of infection.

But no one had taught him how to look after a small life form - only trained him to be able to look after himself, drilled him in how to fight for his own and the Tribe’s survival.

Gingerly, he touches the thick fabric the child is wrapped in. He has to find out how to remove it.

Little hands and a wriggling body don’t make it easy for him though.

“Stay still.” Immediately the child stops moving, blinks up at him. “I need to clean you.” He pauses. “And your clothes.” No need for the child to get some sort of infection or disease from dirty fabric.

He gets another soft sound, but the child stays relatively still but as he finds the ties and buttons and buckles, and he tries to remember how it all goes so he can accurately reverse the process later.

It’s so very, very small.

Defenseless, frail, weak - sitting there on a ledge shivering slightly in the chill air, clad only in what looks like a padded cloth wrapped around and under the lower part of its torso.

What good was strength if not to protect those who couldn’t protect themselves?

Mandalorians are known as warriors, famed for their fighting skills, considered bloodthirsty and efficient killers, but they would never abandon a helpless child in need.

Even if they have no idea how to change a diaper.

He inspects the cloth, notes that it’s not only wrapped firmly but held in place with some sort of clip - he assumes the folds are what keep any odors in, unless there’s some sort of equipment included - and takes the plunge.

The smell makes him jerk back, and then those big eyes look close to tears and he feels terrible.

It’s just a child.

“Sorry.” Wide eyes blink once. “Just…not used to this.” He doesn’t think the kid understands, but it coos and he supposes maybe it does, somewhat. Then its little hands are covering its little nose as he tries not to breathe as well.

He remembers the way it had looked at him, when he’d sat dejected and frustrated in the skeleton of his gunship after the Jawas had stripped it; recalls the way the child had seemed almost worried for him, concerned because he was upset and wondering how it could help.

If such a helpless creature had wanted to help him anyway - despite being unable to feed and clean itself - how could he not reciprocate when he was in a position to do so?

He manages to hold his breath all the way until he drops the soiled diaper (which he’d carefully carried by pinching the edges), the brown coat-sack thing, and a rag he’d used to give the kid a cursory wipe into the wash, hastily closes the cover and presses a button to let the machine get to work as he exhales and inhales. Thankfully the previous owner of the Crest had installed equipment that could clean any fabric (including removing any sort of impurities, organic and synthetic) - the Ugnaught had even helped him tweak it so it would work faster than before.

The child is a handful and a half while he wipes it down with a wet cloth, wriggling and giggling and grasping and just generally extending the time spent on the cleaning process but he can’t find it in himself to be upset. It seems to enjoy the touch, enjoy being near him (though maybe that was because he'd abandoned it to Imps once before - the memory of that forlorn cry and those doe-eyes close to tears still makes his chest twinge with guilt at his sin), and it's smiling and cooing as it gazes at his helmet.

When he’s wiped it dry, he carries it with one arm as he grabs the now-clean (and dry, thank technology) diaper and coat, before beginning the difficult task of putting the little one back into its clothes. He might need to trim its nails eventually, since those sharp edges get caught on fabric a few times, but that's a task for another day (does he just use his knife on them? Or does he need to sand them down?).

He’s sweating a little at the end of it - because as soon as he has one short arm in a sleeve and turns his attention to the other arm, out wriggles / slides / pops the earlier limb from its sleeve, waving triumphantly - but he thinks he’s done a good job of making sure everything is in place so the child doesn’t somehow manage to disrobe on its own when he’s not looking.

As he inspects his handiwork one last time, because it never hurts to be sure, a tiny hand grasps his finger - those green digits can’t even wrap completely around his index finger - as the child gurgles happily.

“You’re welcome.”

Now he’s having conversations with a babbling baby.

He needs to eat and clean himself and rest, who knows what awaits when he finally drops out of hyperspace. But first, he has to make sure the child sleeps because the little one can’t ever seem to sit still.

Unless…

The ball seems to hold the kid’s attention. He cradles the child gently with his left arm as he ascends the ladder, unscrews the ball - he hears a coo - and passes it to outstretched hands. Immediately the little one is fascinated, turning the metal sphere this way and that, completely absorbed in the light that reflects on its shiny surface.

Maybe he hadn’t considered the details when he’d decided to infiltrate the Imp facility, when he’d decided to run away with the child, but it wasn’t actually that hard to take care of the kid.

Feed it, clean it, give it the ball when he needs it to stay still and not get underfoot (though he’d have to check now and then to make sure it didn’t actually swallow the silver sphere).

Seems simple enough.

He heads back down, puts the kid on the same ledge as before and then scoops out the rest of the soup for himself. Settling himself down next to the kid, he sips slowly while making sure to keep his face as covered as possible.

It’s not like it matters. The child is completely entranced with the shiny ball in its hands.

The bassinet had been tossed in the trash by the Imps, and he hadn’t been able to retrieve it when he’d escaped. So he’d have to make another one somehow, maybe just an empty box padded with cloth for now to keep the kid protected since the safety harnesses on the seats in the cockpit were far too large for it.

How long would it take to grow? If it was this small at 50, maybe it’d need another 50 years before it was able to walk and talk? He’d be dead by then, probably - from battle or some affliction with age (because it's not like he has the luxury of or interest in caring for himself the way some of the wealthy do). Who would take care of the kid then?

He really hadn’t thought this through at all. His impulsiveness, penchant for acting on the spur of the moment, were known and disapproved of among the Tribe. Though he tried to rein it in as much as possible, conduct himself in a manner becoming of a Mandalorian, still sometimes he could be as foolish as a Foundling.

He doesn’t regret saving the kid from the droid and the Imps, not one bit. But now he’d have to figure out how to raise it on his own, at least until he could find a good home for it.

Traveling in a spartan ship, getting into gun fights, attempting to mud wrestle hostile beasts...that was no life for a child, especially one so small. True, it had powers he didn’t understand, but it was so very weak and fragile, and was still being sought by the Client and the Guild.

He’d need to find sanctuary - somewhere to leave it, with someone better suited for raising it - so it could have a safe, peaceful life.

'Safe, peaceful life'?

Was there such a thing, out here in the frontier?

"If you want peace, prepare for war."

That was what he’d been taught. Weapons are his religion, the battlefield is his home. Mandalorians are only at peace once they've died a warrior’s death.

The fighting between warlords, the Imperial remnants scattered across the Galaxy with their own agendas, the bandits and criminals seeking profit and pleasure by taking from others…

It didn’t matter whether it was the Empire or the New Republic, in the end. Out here, it was every man for himself.

Unless you were a Mandalorian, then it was all Mandalorians for each other.

That sounded wrong.

He’s not a monk, had ignored Karga’s invitation to the Twi’lek healing baths simply because he wasn’t comfortable around the other man - but he hadn’t outright refused or been rude about it, because he didn’t need to give anyone in the Guild a reason to target him.

And then he’d gone ahead and snatched a little green baby, and promptly made himself Public Enemy Number One.

I’m an idiot.

There’s a reason he still hasn't earned his signet, after all. He’s impulsive and rash at times, poor at dealing with others, and has been told on many occasions (sometimes with fists instead of words) that he has a ‘smart mouth’ and 'cocky attitude'. (He doesn't think he's cocky though, because if he comes across as confident in his ability to hold his own in a fight it's generally because he's quite sure he'll win that particular fight - especially against Stormtroopers who can't hit the side of a bantha).

Paz Vizsla had held a knife against his throat easily down in the covert, while his own had barely reached the older man's armored chest (he blames his lack of reach for that, because the other is built like a mountain).

Karga had talked him up to the client for a higher payout, and also because others in the covert hadn't joined the Guild (so he wasn't being compared to more skilled Mandalorians), and hunting was a dangerous profession which meant few of them consistently made it back alive and whole.

Though a lot of times it’d simply been his Beskar and sheer, dumb luck that had enabled him to live to fight another day.

‘Best in the parsec’, my ass.

He didn’t even have his own jet pack, hadn’t been deemed worthy enough for one by the Armorer.

His weakness frustrates him now and then, even though he usually just focuses on proving and improving himself because he’s grateful they’d saved him and taken him in; while he knows what he has to do to become a warrior of standing among the Tribe, sometimes he’s just too impetuous and has a tendency to act first and think later. (Though he’d at least tried to come up with a plan on Arvala-7, unlike the droid).

"Stillness speaks to strength."

The Armorer, senior Mandalorians, they had the ability to stay so still they seemed to absorb the very light and sound around them, pull everything into themselves while not moving a muscle, take control of their environment and everyone in it simply by breathing - ever watchful and aware, ready to strike at any and all threats quickly and decisively.

He lacks that skill. He still fidgets a little, moves his head to look or react, never quite knows what to say or do outside of battle so sometimes (maybe a lot of times) he says and does things he shouldn’t.

In his defense, it's not like his vocabulary is limited to “this is the Way” (unlike some of the other Mandalorians, though maybe they just didn't want to talk to him - this former Foundling who came and went freely while they hid underground, who took Guild jobs for Imps and Underworld alike).

But he’s still not exactly a social butterfly. Maybe it’d be easier if he was - if he could make conversation like that Mythrol he’d captured.

Really?

Alright, maybe not like that Mythrol he’d captured.

Get a grip.

His mind is wandering, and he’s rambling to himself internally. This is not the Way. He knows it’s just because he’s tired and a little lost since he has no idea what to do now - no job to focus on, a child to care for, and nowhere to go - but this behavior is unbecoming of a Mandalorian.

Just more reasons as to why he’d taken so long to raise his standing in the Tribe, why he’d endangered the covert with his rash, brash actions when he already owes them so much.

A thunk rouses him from his thoughts, and he turns. The child had fallen asleep while he’d been ruminating, the ball having slipped out of its little hands and fallen onto the ground. Rising, he moves quickly to pick it up before it rolls somewhere he can’t reach.

Nap time, then.

Holding the child as carefully as possible so as not to jostle it awake, he carries it to the bunk and places it gently on the mattress, listening to soft breaths and watching a small mouth open and close slightly as a tiny nose wrinkles on occasion.

It would need a blanket, to replace the one thrown out by the Imps, but he’d deal with that later.

For now, he needed to clean himself, his clothes,  his armor, and his weapons. Then he needed to get enough rest before they dropped out of hyperspace.

And after that…who knows.

This is the frontier, after all.

##

A/N 1: Some creative liberties taken (and references to Anonymous, Spiderman, and GoT - including the Red Viper and the Mountain). I hope Mando isn't too OOC - wrote this mostly because I'd been wondering about the stuff that isn't shown like bathing and laundry and diaper changes (coz he’s a single dad so it can’t be all “pew pew rawr”). Appreciate any feedback and/or insight into the Mandalorian culture and the overall settings / characters, so I can update accordingly.

A/N 2: "If you want peace, prepare for war" (Latin: Si vis pacem, para bellum) is an adaptation of a statement by Publius Flavius Vegetius Renatus, from De Re Militari (4th or 5th century AD). The actual phrasing is Igitur qui desiderat pacem, praeparet bellum ("Therefore let him who desires peace prepare for war.") -> Source: Wikipedia.