zesty_pinto | "The Mandalorian"

Fan fiction. Star Wars fan fiction, at that. I'd feel embarrassed about working on this if it wasn't for the fact that I had this plot planned out for the last few years. The only thing holding me back was a lack of information on Mandalorian culture. Someone finally(Finally(FINALLY!!)) gave me some information on what I needed to know and now I've been working on it for the past few weeks as a repast.

You could feel the heat of the orange-white star sear right through the heavy metal roofs as it blared at the hangar doors mercilessly. It was always a clear blue-white day outside, but it was always cloudy with oily smog that swam down to your shoulders under the artificial atmosphere of the ironclad colony that veined the desert planet. Taizok was not a hospitable planet, even for a Zokian. Historically, it was a planet so plagued with harsh conditions that it was where bandits would hide their ships from Republican patrols or local patrolmen too greedy to be bribed and still make a profit. It was a planet that became a city from the labor of bandit slaves, ruled under a bandit king, and even centuries to this day is still a den of bandits.

For those that still kept the tradition alive, there were many places you could go, but only one place if you weren’t a Zokian and wanted a place that wasn’t so infernally hot, and that was “The Pit.”

“The Pit” was just that; two miles below the surface and a mile and a half below the normal Taizokian settlements; a natural sinkhole in the surface that was so deep that it was cool enough for even people that could not live in that heat. Someone took advantage of it and it became a tavern for people who wanted to hide away, or for those who want to hire someone hidden away. “The Pit” was one of the better places to hire a bounty hunter because of that.

Around the lake-shaped bar of “The Pit,” it was an atmosphere flooded with loud neon and quiet voices and polite trails of smoke, where patrons of different races but equally bad reputations sat around. Genok sat, clenching/fisting the cheap blue sandglass mug of brew. His four-fingered palm grasped the half-full mug and he mused at it with a philosopher’s stare before pushing it back to his grotesque lips and gulped the dregs down. The rest that ran against his lips was wiped into the sleeve of his meaty left arm and part of the large knife holster that hung on him like jewelry. He then tapped the scuffy metal plate on his chest and erupted a short belch before he squeezed the mug as though it was a fruit. It jiggled for a bit, but like all the others, cracked and crinkled into teeth-like shards that attempted to bite into the hard leather of Genok’s squeezing fist, but only crushed themselves instead, until Genok gave another satisfied smile, like before with a hand clenched full of blue sand. It was the fifth one this day.

His ear twitched at a sound of disorder. The sound of conversation was suppressed as though an Empire patrol was coming here. Empire soldiers never came to Taizok, however, so Genok fixed his yellow-gold eyes and saw a figure in armor step in. He knew the armor easily by its plated design, the faded dark green tone to it, the vizor-shade of the helmet. Mandalorian armor was not something anyone saw any day, and even if someone saw it, they knew it belonged to only one person.

“The nerve,” Genok’s words grumbled under, preparing. Bounty hunter Boba Fett was a well-known name in the world of his trade and even outside of it; it was enough for him to be used as a slave of the Empire. Genok didn’t believe in the Rebellion, in fact no one here believed in the Rebellion, but no one wanted to be an Empire lackey either. Not without the right price, but only the dog of the Empire himself, Boba Fett, could get that sort of luck and that only made him even more hated for it.

The bounty hunter took his quiet steps off the shaft and stepped up to the bar, sitting down. An insult slapped him in the face: the hunter did not even carry his famed jetpack with him, but carried a simple cloth pack instead, and wore a pulled-back cloak as though he was someone important. It was as though he had nothing to fear about being here, even though Genok still remembered the time Fett stole one of his prized bounties years back, and there was a blaster by his belt with a loose trigger that Genok’s thick hand reflexively gripped.

“Fett.” Genok barked. “Dog of the empire.”

The bounty hunter did not respond. It was as though he did not even listen, or want to listen. Genok could not hear the crowd become quiet, but the feeling in the air was mutual.

“Fett!” Genok stood up, his mammoth figure normally twice that of Fett, now three times as high as he stood up and the bounty hunter sat down. Now he turned to look at him, look up at him through the featureless visor of his helmet. You could not read whether he looked at him with fear, anger, or apathy, but it all looked apathetic through that helmet, and that only made Genok’s hand pull out the blaster. As he looked over the bounty hunter, his armor looked even more insulting; he only had a blaster by his side and what looked like a broken lightsaber.

The bounty hunter stood, and Genok pointed the weapon “Get out.”

“Where is Fett?” The bounty hunter replied. In Corelleon, at that. The blaster arm went limp.

“Where is Fett?” The words echoed through Genok’s mouth, in Corelleon and then in the Zokian tongue he was used to. It sounded so strange that it made him think twice for a moment. The hunter then asked again, in that Corelleon tongue:

“Where is Fett?!”

It was not Boba Fett.

-but Genok did not like the stranger’s tone.

The blaster hand tightened and aimed to the forehead of the vizored helmet. That armor was strong, but a blast straight on would easily strike him hard enough to make him flinch, making it easy for two or three shots. Not even the armor could stop that, let alone an impersonator of the notorious bounty hunter.

The figure did not flinch, did not move in that armor except to reach with his arm. If he reached for the blaster, the trigger would have been pulled, but it was for the lightsaber, the broken device that could not even be held the way you would expect a storybook Jedi to; the pathetic thing was limp at the end so had to be held in place with two fingers over it. Genok smiled as the Fett-imposter poked it against the metal chestplate he wore, a piece that he knew could take a blaster rifle shot at point blank.

“It will take more than a broken lightsaber to kill me,” Genok sneered back in Corelleon.

As his finger squeezed the trigger, Genok’s last sensation was of a searing heat that stabbed straight through his metal chest.

He switched off the handle and the red spurt of light slid away. The noise in “The Pit” no longer held words, but the sound of chatter: the chattered clicks of blasters, crossbows, throwing knives, clenched teeth. The helmet did not move, but it could see enough. The lightrapier seared on again, and the corpse was pulled up as a shield: but he had not touched the corpse.

The lightrapier was a clever device, one that required clever fingers; ones that could grab a venom spitter’s neck and make sure that it would not twist and snap back at the culprit that held it. The neck of the rapier, the short stub of metal that forced the red blade out between his fingers, danced in fan-form waves with the influence of those quick fingers. It snapped back blaster fire, bit back thrown blades, and shattered arrowheads. Whatever the rapier did not catch was from the other side of the Mandalorian, but it was his new friend that mistook his lightrapier for a lightsaber that was the shield, held by the invisible pull of the Force that could be felt through that fist. The body jiggled and revolted against the shots, but it did not do anything more but follow the Mandalorian who did not even stare directly at the body, or the lightrapier’s humming whip, but ahead. An elevator was behind him, and he stepped back quietly against the raging anger of blaring fire.

An elbow bashed back the button to go up. The large figure he pulled in front of him. A spatter of green blood splattered a mess against the edge of his helmet, too close. A bounty hunter clad in leather, a bandolier of thermal detonators, and a large spear charged. The Mandelorian’s fist released and forced a motion up, and his friend’s already riddled body now adorned the sharp head of the spear.

The newly free hand now went for the blaster. Two bounty hunters lost their shooting arm in a twitch of a moment before the shaft door opened. That was when the Mandalorian noticed the thrown body dropping with the spear and crumpling on itself when the hunter pounced for him but quickly jumped back at the approach of the rapier’s edge. The hunter was quick, most likely someone used to catching quicker prey from the way it dodged the red edge of the rapier’s dance. It was a shame that his comrades’ ricocheted fire could not be as predictable for the creature and the hunter flinched back enough to let the blaster give it four shots..

He took three more quiet steps back as the open door began to close. The one that lunged for him began to reach for a thermal detonator, but a shot to the hand quickly stopped that before the door was safely shut.

The rapier’s blade was turned off and replaced like the blaster. There was no need for it in the Zokian city. Even if they caught up with him, the blaster fire only made them targets in Taizok. The only law foreigners were given in Taizok was the promise of slavery if a weapon was fired in the city, and Zokian slavers were fiercer than the outside atmosphere, let alone the Zokians that would make a few extra credit selling their legal livestock.

Do you have the report?

The Mandalorian would have spat if he could. His helmet stared into the shaft door.

“Master, I was – waylaid.” Distaste touched his voice halfway in-between his words. He hated hesitation as much as failure.

Your incompetence is worse than your ability to lie. Do you or do you not understand the importance of being here?

“I understand Master.” Submission was in his voice.

Then we will leave now and you will save your anger for something more useful than a bounty hunter.

The elevator stopped and the shaft opened. The cool air from “The Pit,” or what was left of it, was now replaced with the greasy heat of the Zokian city, but it did not effect the Mandalorian’s silent steps as he continued to move forward, continued to look ahead, continued to think of Fett, and continued to plot.

Poddo’s Droid Shop was one of several on Taizok but the only one run by a droid itself, which might have been illegal if it was not on a planet known for its illegal activities. Poddo’s model came with the pride of being an independent prototype during the early part of the Trade Wars and one of the few droids that did not shut off during the end of the Clone Wars. It did not change anything about its skill in combat, though; its double-bladed spark spear still rested within easy reach of the droid even though it was obvious it also added a few more piecemeal features into its frame to make communication even easier.

The Mandalorian stepped into the alcove of the shop, the visor glanced around at the typical protocol droids, repair bots, navigators. Then the helmet turned to even see two sphere of what must have been very old and very illegal battle droids, but it was also obvious they were not for sale when he could see the translucent glow of their shielding betray their otherwise dead appearance. They were on and ready to fire at any would-be thief or robber. The Trade Federation that made them was gone, but their combat droids were still fearsome to anyone that dared to think less of them. The Droid shop was relatively free of would-be thieves or anyone else; the reputation of those droids were obviously known on this planet.

“Welcome to Poddo’s.” The mechanical accent of the droid clung to a voice that was slow and patient. “What may I help you with?”

The Mandalorian did not look around, but stared back at the unblinking red stare of the droid’s gaze. “A house cleaner.”

The droid could show no emotion, but the glinted tap of its piecemeal fingers against its metal thigh was a sign of impatience “Don’t insult my patience, sir.” It said the last part with a suggestion of tired mockery. Zokian home cleaning was a sacred ceremony for what few holidays there were on this planet.

“Don’t you have something? Something in a dark corner?”

Paddo did not say anything, but stared back with unblinking red-lamp eyes. It did not tap its fingers anymore.

“I suppose you think I would browse for you? I did not program myself for archiving, foreigner.” The droid kept its open palm out.

The Mandalorian reached to the purse by his belt, and removed a few hard credit coins, jingling them in his hand to suggest how much there was before he dropped them into the droid’s open hand. Poddo quickly closed its hand and then stowed it into a storage box on its back with calculated efficiency.

“I believe some checking may be possible. You will follow me. Touch anything if you want to lose your hand.” Saying this, the droid’s legs went to life, whining and whirring to an automated door in the back, but not before turning to one of the combat droids to say, “Operation 32.” The combat droids uncoiled, revealing spider legs suspending a range of six laser cannons ready to fire. The droids did not speak, but anything with that much firepower did not require it.

The room behind the droid shop was as full of cluttered parts as it was droids. The sounds of welders and loose electricity was a rempant noise. There were multipurpose droids and mechanics, some not even droids, worked away. The helmet turned to notice some of their experiments and noticed one was another combat droid, while the other was some sort of mechanism still attached to a large turret that was probably as illegal as that combat droid. Poddo continued to walk down and the Mandalorian followed the droid until they reached another door.

What was inside must have been Poddo’s personal quarters. It was small and efficient, something that may have been confused for a large closet with better lighting, a charging plant, a desk with a few data files lying around it, and two cushioned chairs by each side of that desk, both to make the person who sat in it feel more comfortable, and to make them feel more comfortable by not having to stare up at the droid. The Mandalorian did not wait to be told to sit down. Poddo went behind the desk and stood straight up as he stared back into the blank features of the Mandalorian’s helmet.

“You will tell me what you want with information on the Empire.” The droid’s mechanical tone could not hide the curiosity, perhaps to measure how useful the information was, or perhaps to see if it was worth more to sell this person out. It was not undone, especially foreigners in that sort of armor.

The Mandalorian did not even flinch in reaction. Poddo did not show care, he did not need to, did not bother programming himself to; instead, he watched the only thing of the Mandalorian’s that did move; his hands. They reached to his belt. In reaction, the ceiling turrets whistled high into life and stared their weapons straight for the sitting figure. But the man did not pull out a weapon, or a thermal detonator, but a small black cube that was carefully placed on the top of the desk.

Poddo knew what it was, and bowed in expectation. A blue image quickly shone into the reality bearing the corpulent body of a Gargon. Its two-mouthed face and single eye stared placidly at the bowed figure. It wore robes that appeared dark in the appearance of the blue-schemed image, but both the droid and the Mandalorian knew it was the true jet black of a Sith Master.

“Rise,” the voice audibly commanded in stereo. The droid stood as though it was ready for combat.

“Who do you serve?” The harsh electronic fuzz that interfered with the voice did little to hide its ferocity.

“I live to serve you, Darth Gelna.” Fear might have been in those words, or blind obedience towards its creator.

“Then you will tell me what you know about what happened to Sidius’ protégé.”

“He reportedly escaped safely from the Death Star, sir.”

The one large eye closed into a tight squint, the vision expressed hard smirks in its lips, but not ones of total disgust. “Jedi are worthless after all, apparently.”

“The last known reports have said that he is currently on the flagship Executer returning to Coruscant.”

“Sidius’ will not be pleased, thankfully.”

“So we will go to Coruscant?” The Mandalorian’s voice was ready, overeager. There was nothing here, after all, other than heat and worthless bounty hunters.

“Fool, you would never survive a direct encounter with Sidius… yet.” The correction made was not a hopeful one. “I will want you to destroy his ‘valuable’ apprentice first.”

“Darth Gelna, my master, if I may speak, I-“

“-you will not.” The single eye did not stare at the droid, nor did it seem to care for the caution in its electronic plea. “Darth Vader is nothing more than a weak little boy who never understood the true power of the Sith, let alone his tame master.”

"Where will they move then?"

The holographic figure of Darth Gelna remained still, a flickering statue of contemplative blue sheen. Finally, it remarked.

"Droid, how many other models are there?" The image meant other Trade Federation models.

"Forty-three, my lord. Two bounty hunters, twelve sentries, and the rest service models."

"How many are still in the service of the Empire?"

"Twenty-three, my lord."

The right lip did not remark, but it was the one to the left that could not conceal the fade of a smile against its corner.

"I see. Then you will tell me what you find. Until then, feel free to peruse my worthless apprentice."

The Mandalorian tilted his face away as though he did not hear it as he lounged against the chair. The droid began to show reverence to the slacking man, but then the Sith raised a three-fingered hand up quickly to correct him.

"You will not show him reverence. He has no potential except to aggravate Sidius. Even a wide-eyed jedi pup would cleave him in two before-"

The sheening red hum of the lightrapier revealed itself in the Mandalorian's hand. In reaction, Poddo mechanized instinct drew the shockspear. Overhead, turrets began to bloom cannons. The Mandalorian hesitated.

"-he would have a chance to draw that rapier."

The Sith did not even make an inflection in mid-sentence.

The Mandalorian's helmet stared, continued to stare at the image that did not bother to look back at him with any of its several hair-like eyes as he then added another bitter spitting motion with the right mouth.

"Worthless," were the words that came out.

Poddo was silent, but the red featureless lights of its eyes continued to vibrantly stare in anger back at the Mandalorian. The turrets whined angrily with the charge of laser noise. While the right mouth formed into a sneer, the left continued to quietly pocket a half smile.

"You are still worthless."