Chapter Text
First, he felt rain.
Droplets falling from high above. They washed away matted blood – both his own and others’ – the evidence of warfare marked itself as stains on his wet cheeks. The saltiness of the rain mixed with blood was strong on his tongue. Is this the flavour of war? How bitter and unsatisfying.
Next, he felt the river. Its cold vice gripped him, keeping him frozen where he sat. In the wake of the battle, it was eerily calm. On the still river surface floated myriads of bodies. Fallen soldiers. His comrades.
Then, he felt the yells of the surviving seamen, for the blasting of the cannons rendered and the iciness of the water rendered his ears numb to the world. But their thunderous cries of victory shook the water around him and earth beneath him like an earthquake. They grabbed him from all directions, some crushing him in embraces and others kissing his bloody face.
A muddy Union flag was wrapped around him and he was hoisted up high into the air. Only as he was dragged away from the river bank could he see with clarity the extent of the bloodshed. Grey and red was the river, its water mixed with the blood of hundreds. Smoke rose from the remains of obliterated ships to the heavens above. The sight stretched for miles.
But that nagging dread that had been eating at his spirit, an inkling, now crescendoed into overwhelming despair when his eyes landed on the man whom he had been cradling in the watery grave.
His best friend, lifeless, floating on the river.
Every fibre in his being wanted to break away from the crowd of men parading him in the air and run back to his best friend however no muscle would give way. He was a towel wrung dry of all its will. So, he could only stare as he was pulled further and further away.
Finally, he felt regret. Its ugliness dug itself deep into his stomach and sunk like a stone in the ocean.
Quieter seemed the world around him. Everything faded into almost nothing. But the rain still poured.
Yet when he looked up, he saw blue.
***
The numbness in the Mandalorian’s legs when he gets up from the wooden seat is no more of a familiar feeling since last time he’s been on a train, which wasn’t that long ago. He never figured public transport necessitated this much noise from the masses of folk either.
For that, he’s somewhat thankful that the bounty cuffed to his left wrist is no longer for idle chatter. That punch he gave him two hours back shut him right up. The scrawny man, probably not far off from being a kid, now keeps the conversation for his eyes, looking at the Mandalorian like he’s trying to cuss at him with his pupils. Still doesn’t stop the kid from mumbling something about feeling humiliated as they left the bustling station. It seems that other eyes have much to say, too. Nasty-looking glances shoot in their direction as the Mandalorian leads his quarry to the cold town.
The bounty spits. “I’d rather be hog-tied and dragged behind a mule than be brought back in this fashion. What sort of hunter ain’t got a goddamn horse?”
The Mandalorian doesn’t respond.
Nevarro has an eastern money hue to its new buildings and a blinding glint of government presence like most towns down south with railroads cutting through them. The cacophony of construction is damn near inescapable. The Mandalorian’s surprised that they can work with this much vigour in the biting cold.
And what was once a humble little county jail seems to have had that same money injected right into it. It’s far bigger than he last remembers and has a new coat of blue and white. Not that Sheriff Karga is upset about it; he looks mighty comfortable at his new big desk overseeing the cells. The Mandalorian suspects he’s enjoying the job even more so from the beam on his face when he steps in, the bounty reluctantly following suit.
“Keiran Mahoney. I was wonderin’ when the good ole Liskeard gang would start rollin’ in. Just put him in with the rest of the sorry bastards.” He throws some keys to the Mandalorian and gestures to the empty cell furthest away from his desk.
The Mandalorian does as such, making sure Kieran is secure before removing the cuff and locking up the cell. Soon enough, Sheriff Karga joins him, walking up from his desk with a grin on his face.
The Sheriff shakes the cell door a couple of times for good measure and perhaps to mock the kid, too. Despite his pleased smile, he tuts and shakes his head.
“He ain’t worth all that much – not compared to his brothers in arms. The real money’s in his sonuvabitch leader.”
Mahoney spits at the ground by their feet. “Yew leave my brothers’ names out yer goddamn mouth.”
“Oh, a feisty one. You’ll fit right in with your friends up in Washington.” Sheriff Karga turns and pulls out a stack of cash from his breast pocket, counting it with a delighted grin on his face. “Tell me: was Kieran this talkative on route here or am I being graced with his way with words?”
The Mandalorian looks at the Sheriff and doesn’t say anything.
“Quiet man we got here, don’t we, Kieran,” laughs the Sheriff. He pats the Mandalorian on his shoulder which earns himself a hard glare. “You ain’t got nothin’ to say?”
The Mandalorian holds out his hand, expectantly. The Sheriff laughs again, muttering something or other about “typical bounty hunters” and leads them back to the squad office where he pulls out a small locked box from what the Mandalorian assumes to be his other desk and retrieves the pay.
“Should be all there, hunter. You can check if ya want.”
The Mandalorian takes the wad of cash from the Sheriff and starts counting.
The Sheriff eyes him up and down and his eyes stop on the edged weapon strapped to the Mandalorian’s hip. “Fancy sword you got there. A little old fashioned, but that’s what adds value. Bet it sells five times more than this here bounty you’re countin’.”
The weight of the sword hanging on his left never leaves the Mandalorian’s mind. Always there like a damn parasite. But he gives the Sheriff a look as if to say “it’s not for sale”and continues counting.
“Anyhow,” Sheriff Karga says. “Payment all good? Imma need to hear you say it, friend.”
When the Mandalorian is satisfied it’s the fifty dollars as owed, he puts it into his leather sleeve and then into the pouch slung over his shoulder and only after all that does he speak. He leans into the Sheriff’s personal space and whispers low into his ear.
“You’re not to tell folks that I’m who I was nor that you met me as you see me. You hear me?” He moves back to look right into the Sheriff’s eyes whose mouth is closed tight and then says, louder, “Money’s all good, sir.”
Sheriff Karga stands back, maintaining their tense eye contact, then looks round the office room, and the Mandalorian does the same. There are some young officers who hurriedly hide their eavesdropping and return to scribbling on their papers. One boy’s gaze, eyes green as pastures, lingers longer than the Mandalorian likes. He stares him down until the boy goes back to whatever he was writing. The Sheriff then cocks his head to a door to their front and leads the two into what seems to be his private office.
“Mando?”
“ Sheriff. ”
Sheriff Karga says, quieter, “Where have you been , boy?”
Laughing, the Sheriff sits down at his apparent third desk. This one’s more personalised than the others, littered with mountains of paperwork, trinkets, old bullet shells and unopened letters from Washington.
The Mandalorian stays standing.
“I’ve been busy,” he says.
“A year away and that’s all you got to say to me?”
“I didn’t realise we was catchin’ up.”
Sheriff Karga huffs, astonished. He gives the Mandalorian this exasperated look, mouth slight agape, and it reminds the Mandalorian of the one thing he doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to: people seeing his face. “You ain’t tell me you was a handsome fella under the mask.”
“What I said, Sheriff. Remember,” the Mandalorian warns.
“I know what you said, boy. Ain’t nobody disrespectin’ me by listening in anyhow. I’m just admittedly hurt that you ain’t reciprocating my friendliness given our past. Y’know, I saw you was making the rounds on them papers a while back with your activities further out west.”
“Yeah, I saw them papers too.”
“So you can gather why an old friend may be concerned with your well-being.”
The Sheriff smiles as if he’s got to the Mandalorian, which is annoying because he has. Under that pride, though, is genuine relief. The Mandalorian sighs and finally takes a seat opposite Sheriff Karga.
“I gather.”
Sheriff Karga says once the Mandalorian sat down, “I figure you don’t want me askin’ ‘bout the details of your absence – ” the Mandalorian nods, “ – so I’ll ask this: what’s with the small fish?”
“Convenience. I was on the way here anyhow and needed the cash.”
“Like I said before, the kid’s a small fry. Charles Liskeard is still out there. You could’ve saved some stagecoach drivers an early grave.”
“Liskeard is more trouble than he’s worth.”
Sheriff Karga chews on their words for a few moments. His eyes wander around his desk and the Mandalorian follows his line of sight to those unopened letters. “Lookin’ for cash, huh? You stayin’ in the county long, then?”
Wary, the Mandalorian asks, “Why’re you askin’?”
“At least your paranoia ain’t changed,” Sheriff Karga chuckles. “Lemme be square with you — I need your help.”
Of course he does. “I ain’t lookin’ for charity work, Sheriff.” The Mandalorian stands up to leave but the Sheriff urges him to listen.
“Ain’t no charity work, boy! I’m talkin’ ‘bout a large catch here. Five grand.”
This gives the Mandalorian pause. He looks back at the Sheriff, who’s also stood up tall, and scans his face for any hint of deceit. The Sheriff walks out from behind his desk and into the Mandalorian’s space, hands open and up and voice low.
“I just need you to round up a few more Moffs—”
The Mandalorian’s scoff cuts off the Sheriff. “The Moffs?”
“Yes, Mando, the Moffs.”
“That why you’re askin’ me?
“Maybe...Yes.”
“No.”
“Mando, I’m almost on my knees beggin’ you for this,” the Sheriff pleads. All traces of humour is wiped clean from his face. He looks at the Mandalorian earnestly and it weighs on him even more. “With Nevarro County’s industrialisation, Washington’s tryna deal with every loose end. It so happens that I’m the loosest of ends. I caught wind they’re plannin’ a restructure, and while I may be liked here, people outside this county don’t take too kindly to my folk bein’ employed to enforce the law. Makes relations sour .”
Everything about this already feels sour. “Why can’t the government handle its own business?” the Mandalorian asks.
“The mission is further out West. You know relations ain’t great and the last thing Washington need is to be poking around and startin’ another war to break out.”
This explanation doesn’t exactly quell the Mandalorian’s apprehension. The thought of going back there is almost too much. But the thought of the five thousand dollars whispers desperate temptations into his ear, sewing seeds of doubt towards his better instincts.
“Mando,” the Sheriff’s sharp voice draws him back to the present. “I know the hell that gang put you through. Don’t you wanna get your lick back?”
“Vengeance is an idiot’s game, Sheriff. I don’t got much foolishness in me no more. Besides, the man they had beef with is dead.”
“Then don’t think of it as vengeance. Think of it as simple business between simple folk with Washington on their shoulders,” the Sheriff offers. The Mandalorian hides a huff of exasperated laughter. He doesn’t know if he’s more amused at the Sheriff’s logic or at the fact that he’s considering the offer.
“You do this and you got yourself an extra five grand to your name - whatever that may be,” the Sheriff continues and boy, does he know how to sweet talk. “Better yet — I’ll throw in a house for you. You, your horse and the kid’ll have somewhere safe to live.”
The Mandalorian sighs deeply. Fatigue veils over him like a blanket. As he runs his hands over his tired face, the weight of the last two years’ events stirs an uncomfortable dread in his mind.
“The house’ll be of no use to me. I ain’t got my horse nor the kid no more,” he says quietly as he looks at the Sheriff once again.
Confusion twists the Sheriff’s face but before he can get a word out, the Mandalorian continues, “The five-thousand is enough. I’ll be back in a few hours to discuss the details of this agreement.”
“A-Alright...”
So, avoiding the Sheriff’s gaze, the Mandalorian turns around and grabs the door handle, ready to put space between himself and this town. But with the firm yet non-threatening grip of his shoulder from the Sheriff, he’s stopped in his tracks.
“What happened?” the Sheriff asks.
Eighteen months ago, the worst thing in his life happened – something he’d rather soon forget.
“He ain’t with me no more ‘s what happened,” he says.
The Mandalorian leaves without another word.
***
There is a lot to be said about a man from his patience. It is a virtue after all, one which the Mandalorian is not missing – not by a long shot. But patience can stretch thin.
It’s a few days later when the Mandalorian leaves Nevarro’s main city on his mission. His first point of call, as per the Sheriff’s guidance, is to hit up the Saloon a few towns over. An info-broker whose relationship with local government is less than amiable apparently likes to frequent there. He’s a seedy little man with a snake for a tongue. According to the Sheriff, his greasy black hair is easy enough to pick out in a crowd. The Saloon itself sticks out like a bright, sore thumb in the darkness of Nevarro’s moonless night. Where the rest of the town is deep in slumber, this place breathes a breath of boisterous life that smells of cheap alcohol and lies.
The Mandalorian swings open the doors but nobody pays him any attention upon his arrival. The whole floor is packed to the brim with folk dancing and cheering heartily while the slightly out of tune piano plays a song he can’t quite place. It’s lively, which is an inconvenience. He wonders as he squeezes through the crowd of singing people towards the equally crowded bar, how in the hell he’s meant to find this on-the-run information broker in a place like this. Perhaps that’s why his man came here to begin with. People’s individual faces become indistinguishable in the blur of their dances. They blend into the other like smeared paint on a canvas.
Perhaps he’ll scout from the floor above. It’s got a sort of indoor balcony look to it. And the people up there seem too preoccupied with their fraternising to be bothered to pay him any mind. So the Mandalorian heads upstairs and roams back and forth by the bannister, eyes firmly on the crowd below.
Ordinarily, the Mandalorian is a patient man. Lord knows he’s sat through days of lookout and stalked bounties across states for the sake of not messing up. But now, surrounded by a myriad of drunk people brushing up against him and being far too close for comfort, an itch to bolt festers somewhere deep in his gut.
Time moves laughably slow when you’re the only sober person at a party. Around forty minutes into his lookout, that itch becomes stronger. The crowd has been annoyingly the same. Or maybe in his older age his eyes aren’t as sharp as they once were. He considers testing his luck being in the crowd and picking out the bastard broker, one drunkard at a time. He stands upright to make his way down when he feels a hand on his shoulder.
Instantly, the Mandalorian’s on high alert and he grabs the person by the wrist, whips around to find it’s a woman. He lets go almost immediately and steps back.
“Apologies, ma’am.”
The lady smiles sweet, crooked teeth on display. She’s clad in a simple dress whose blouse is surprisingly white and clean green skirt that’s got no evidence of debauchery. Her fiery red hair falls straight and stringy to her shoulders.
“No bother, Mister. You got a name?”
“No.” The Mandalorian isn’t blind to propositions. He’s got a job to get on with – one he’d rather be done with sooner than later. He starts walking away but she stops him again.
“Hey, no need for that attitude, Mister. I just never seen your face ‘round here before. Normally it’s the same folk who laud themselves in these halls and bother us workers. I was just wonderin’ if you’d be any different seeing how quiet you’ve been since you got here.” The lady speaks with a sweetness like that of her smile. She seems friendly enough but the Mandalorian doesn’t think he can bear the intensity of her gaze. And it’s not just her – it’s everyone. Perhaps it’s why that itch is growing stronger and stronger and his desperation to get out grows louder. Perhaps this is all a mistake. Maybe he should have declined the five thousand dollars and left with the little cash he had left like he was going to.
“And here I was thinkin’ my luck had picked up after the first unfamiliar gentleman,” she sighs, still giving him an honest smile. “Nice blond hair and blue eyes. Carries a fancy sword like yours and just as handsome, as well but he didn’t seem any more interested than you. No bother – I appreciate the silence all the same.”
The Mandalorian perks up at her comment. Surely, It can’t be who he thinks it is?
“What, you ain’t never been called handsome, before?” she teases.
(Sheriff Karga seemed like he couldn't stop drinking in the sight of him. He never realised how intense knowing what he looks like to other people would be. But the Mandalorian is not focussed on that.) “When did you speak to this man?”
The lady looks at him, confused. “Err, ten minutes ago, I reckon. He looked like he was in a hurry or somethin’.”
“Did he leave?”
She pulls out a cigarette from her belt and lights it then takes a deep drag and exhales. She offers the cigarette to the Mandalorian. He declines.
“Did he leave or not?”
“What, you know the man?”
“I don’t have time for this”
The lady chuckles. “Time. You men always seem to be in some sort of rush.” She leans forward onto the bannister and takes the cigarette between her teeth again, inhaling slowly and exhaling heavily. Smoke loses itself in the thick saloon air. “Let me tell you, Mister: there’s no worth in taking things fast. I’m desperate to get out of this shitty town. Imagine how tired I am of havin’ this as my profession, if you can call it that. Everything about here sucks. But being able to find one person, even if you aren’t talkative, and having the space to be quiet for a moment...it means a great deal, even if the rest of it is terrible. I am sure you’ll find your man.”
The Mandalorian looks at her but she doesn’t look at him. She seems to revel in their moment of silence but the Mandalorian’s guts feel otherwise. He doesn’t have time for this.
She decides to rest her arms on the bannister and look down at the crowd. “When you take it slow, enjoy the quiet with someone else, things become much clearer.” The lady points her finger to the crowd and the Mandalorian’s eyes follow it. When they land on her target, a panic flares up inside of him, much stronger than the itch.
“There he is,” she says, pointing to none other than Luke Lars.
Although he has the hood of a black duster over his head, the man looks alert yet weary. Dark circles plague his eyes and from what the Mandalorian can see, it seems that he too is looking for someone. But, most worryingly, he is alone.
The Mandalorian rushes down the stairs with a gust of wind following behind him and crams his way through the crowd right in Mr Lars direction. They collide with a dull thud and Mr Lars looks about as surprised as the Mandalorian feels right now.
“What are you doing here?” Mr Lars asks. He tries to hide it but panic underpins his tone.
“Where the hell is the kid?” the Mandalorian says.
Despite the noise of the crowd growing exponentially louder, the Mandalorian hears none of it. Blood thrums through his ears as worry simmers in his veins.
Luke Lars, a man he thought he’d never see again, is standing right here, considerably far away from the New York he thought he’d be in. It has been eighteen months since they last saw each other, eighteen months since his life changed forever, and eighteen months since the kid was promised a better life.
“This isn’t how I wanted things to go,” Mr Lars says more to himself than to the Mandalorian.
“What do you mean?”
But the Mandalorian’s question is left unanswered as a bulky man shoves past them, knocking them both into a couple of men in front of them. Those men are not too pleased with their once full glasses of beer now spilled onto their shirts. Their faces twist in drunken anger and they lunge forward at Mr Lars and the Mandalorian.
Their attacks are easily dodged but the action triggers a domino of violence. It isn’t a second later before the whole establishment breaks out into a brawl. Smashing glass punctuates fists striking faces. Blood splatters on surfaces. All the while, the Mandalorian and Mr Lars swing punches in any and all directions. From the corner of his eye, the Mandalorian catches a hint of blue as Mr Lars kicks. One silly bastard tries to unsheathe the Mandalorian’s sword from its ornately designed scabbard but he gets a hook right up the jaw with a force so strong that some teeth fly out of his mouth.
The Mandalorian wipes the blood off his face and whips his head around, scanning the brawling crowd for Mr Lars who he finds quickly chasing after a man with greasy black hair scurrying away from the chaos. Without a second thought, he runs after them into the cold night. By the time the Mandalorian catches up to them, Mr Lars already has the wriggly info-broker tackled to the ground. In the scuffle, his cloak had fallen off and reveals he’s clad in a blue military uniform, dirtied by the sand.
In the quiet of the night out on the desert ground, everything becomes so much clearer to the Mandalorian – what he’s seeing and how he exactly feels about it.
“What the hell you’re doin’ here?” The Mandalorian heaves heavily between his words. Mr Lars doesn’t look up at him. His face is like steel as he hog ties the info-broker with his rope, unfazed by the man’s writhing and cries of distress. “ Well?”
“Things weren’t meant to turn out like this,” Mr Lars insists, finally looking him in the eye.
“You’re a long way from New York. You have the only man in this state who has information on the Moffs tied beneath you, and the kid ain’t around,” the Mandalorian says slowly. He treads up into Mr Lars’ space, crouches down and faces him eye to eye and says, dangerously low, “What happened?”
Mr Lars looks away frantically, his eyes darting everywhere. The Mandalorian can see the dread build up in the minute details of his face. And, when Mr Lars opens his mouth again, the Mandalorian’s patience, his itch, his fear – everything – comes raining down.
“The kid...he’s been taken.”