Chapter Text
This time, he didn’t dream at all, and the morning found him somewhat rested. He rolled over in bed, pulling over the wrinkled sheets. There was no sound but the quiet buzzing of his holo alarm clock. The time was almost six minutes past what it should’ve been. His door slid open with a sudden whoosh, and Kenobi entered, all dressed up and ready to go. Obi-Wan approached the bed, regarding his friend with a beaming grin.
“Seems like you’ve slept well,” he observed. “Comparatively, of course.”
“Yeah.” Qymaen was sitting by then, trying to scratch away a sudden itch in his hair. He hadn’t untangled or washed his dreads since before they’d left Coruscant, which was starting to seem like a mistake. Kenobi noticed it too, judging by that familiar twinkle in his eyes, but then he must’ve remembered he had mercy and kept it to himself.
“You should start getting ready. We’re about to make our landing, and the masters want us prepared.” He turned to the door but stopped. “You shouldn’t think about last night. Give yourself some space. You’re safe.” His voice was different, kinder. Qymaen finally raised his head to get a good look at him. They locked eyes.
“I know,” Qymaen said with a sigh. “No point in dwelling on it when we’ve got work to do.”
“That’s the spirit!”
The door closed behind him. Qymaen’s head dropped back down. The itch just wouldn’t go away, no matter how much he scratched it. Even when he stopped touching it to focus on getting dressed, it just wouldn’t leave him. It kept calling to him, seeking his attention despite his best efforts to ignore it, and when he finally relented and touched his hair, it only made it worse. The dream went much the same way.
He was dead or dying, blood in the sand, a blaster, Kenobi and a severed hand. The memories brought a light headache with them, far too faint to truly hurt, but enough to send shivers down his spine. Water didn’t help, nor did washing up; the face in the mirror looked just like him, but it was somehow different, duller, with a sick, fearful glow reflected in its eyes. Staring at it, he could almost see the edges of the mouth quivering to form a grin. He fled from the bathroom before the apparition could take form.
Qymaen joined the others, having dressed in haste, still smoothing over his robes when he found them. They were all there, even Captain Madakor and the silver-haired pilot. The Dark Woman stood tall in pure black, shoulder-to-arm concealed by a falling cloak. Her eyes turned to Qymaen when he entered, but she made no other sign of recognition. Master Qui-Gon was beside her, but his eyes never once strayed from the translucent blue image floating just above the table, a hand concealing his frown. He didn’t seem to see him coming in. It stung to be ignored.
Per usual, Obi-Wan was the first to address him when he joined them.
“The situation is worse than we thought,” Obi-Wan leaned in and whispered.
“Rather, the InterGalactic severely limited our sources of information.” The Dark Woman’s voice was low and even, but Qymaen could still distinguish the faint outline of disgust she’d allowed to leak out. “I doubt the Banking Clan expected them to send a Jedi, let alone four.”
“Quite likely,” Qui-Gon murmured, still scratching his beard. He finally seemed to acknowledge Qymaen, giving him a small smile. “Take a look at what the orbital scan has produced, padawan.” He gestured towards the holo-map, which flashed to life, expanding from the previous image to every corner of the table. Qymaen’s eyes wandered the rocky cliffs, endless woodland and grassy plains until they spotted the issue, or rather a score of them; settlements in the form of tiny rows of houses sprayed across the map were missing entire chunks of the ground, with buildings shrouded in a holographic rendition of smoke. That was only the beginning; rows of trenches, ransacked strongholds choked up with the dead, warriors in armour flying across the sky, Hellfire droids rolling down hillsides, drowning their enemies with explosive fire. It almost, no, not almost, it looked just like war.
Qymaen found his mouth agape and had to will himself to close it.
“This is hardly a tax dispute,” he managed to whisper, receiving a grave nod of acknowledgement from Qui-Gon. “How did they manage to hide all of this from us? From the Senate?” That was when he zoomed in on the flying warriors, and his eyes widened with slight disbelief. “Are those… Mandalorians?”
“Cold hard credits can be more powerful than the Force,” the Dark Woman said solemnly. “And yes. Those are Mandalorians.” They were told to expect Iotrans and battle droids, maybe some low-life mercs, but Mandalorians? It may be too much for just four Jedi to handle.
“Sir and Ma’am,” Captain Madakor cut in, “while we’ve detected no dedicated anti-air weaponry, it’s still paramount that we avoid being shot at. What shall we do?” She had the voice of a career officer, which she’d been for many years; she was pushing forty, straight as an arrow, and almost looked like she’d been born in uniform.
“Follow standard protocol,” Qui-Gon said, “announce our arrival and request landing permits.”
“And if they don’t allow it, sir?”
“Then we’ll have to invoke our warrant. Can you fly us through fire in case it comes to that, captain?”
The woman gave a single sharp nod. “I’ve dealt with pirates in my time.”
“Good. Then we have nothing to worry about.”
“But master, wouldn’t their violence jeopardise our mission?”Obi-Wan asked. “How can we talk to them if they’re trying to kill us?”
“Mandalorians respect strength. If it comes down to it, we’ll have to show them what Jedi are capable of.” He banished his frown and flashed them both a grin. “But I doubt it’ll come to that. The Force is with us, padawans, and we have nothing to worry about.”
The Dark Woman was silent.
“We’ll look for their leader once we land. Remember, we don’t want anyone to get hurt. Avoid combat unless absolutely necessary.”
***
The explosion knocked Bo off her feet as mud sloshed in all directions. The impact still rang in her ears as she rolled over and dragged herself behind cover. Others were hiding there too, their otherwise colourful armour now in various shades of brown. With the rest busy returning fire, one masked warrior looked down at Bo.
“Are you alright?” the voice came out filtered by the mask. The warrior offered her hand.
“Worry about yourself, sister,” Bo said as she slapped Satine’s hand away. Bo-Katan of Clan Kryze didn’t need her sister’s help, or anyone’s help, but hers especially. The pain didn’t stop her from getting up by herself.
“You lost your blaster,” Satine noticed. If only Bo-Katan’s glare were visible, it would’ve melted her sister’s visor. Satine didn’t seem to notice, or care. She was crouched with her back against what remained of the wall, reloading her rifle. Without looking, she pulled a pistol from its holster and tossed it at Bo, who caught it with ease. “No word of thanks?”
“I would still have my old blaster if not for you,” Bo hissed back at her sister before taking position beside her, peaking over cover just enough to fire a few half-blind shots. Satine didn’t respond at first, just kept lying on more and more fire. “Mind I remind you that you led us into this ambush, alor,” she left an intentional bitterness in her voice.
“I couldn’t have predicted this,” Satine argued, voice even but with an edge to it, an unspoken threat milling in the air. This was Satine’s first command, and they both knew the consequences of failure.
“Yeah,” Bo agreed, reloading, “but I did, and I told you to interrogate the locals, but you wouldn’t listen.”
“They could’ve been innocent.”
“But they weren’t. You’re too soft for this, sis.”
“Shut up and shoot. E chu ta!”
Bo opened her mouth to argue, but the following series of explosions made her ears ring even louder than before, making that impossible. A pair of Hellfire droids rolled down the hillside on their dual-wheeled bodies, releasing innumerable rockets into the unsuspecting ambushers below. Bo’s visor shielded her from the bright light, and she saw warriors of shadow flying through the smoke. Then the ashen woodland erupted into flame again, earth and trees and bodies exploded into the air, as blood sprayed the smoke-choked sky; a hundred and more candles burned beneath a portrait of a god, like Kad Ha’Rangir, that god was war.
And then they were dead, and Clan Kryze was once again victorious. But their victory came at a steep price, at least for Satine. Bo and her sister stood with their squad as the warriors descended before them, spitting smoke from the ends of their jetpacks. Both of the sisters bowed their heads as soon as the first and chief among them touched the ground.
Gashu Kryze, clad in amber, gleaming Mandalorian steel and a visor pitch black as the void of space, a white streak of the distant sun shone against it. A heavy cloak of fur and scale adorned his back from shoulder to shoulder, held firmly by the body of his jetpack. He’d sown it himself from the hides of various beasts he’d hunted down from across the Galaxy. He was the undisputed leader of Clan Kryze, more than a commander, a patriarch, for a Mandalorian unit was a family, regardless of blood. Yet to Bo and Satine, he was more than even that; he was their father through both clan and blood.
Both of the sisters removed their helmets; Gashu didn’t. He regarded them through the black visor, reflecting their faces like a mirror. The sisters looked a lot alike; tall with sharp faces, bony cheeks and a rather pale complexion, though where Bo’s eyes were a dirty sea of green, her sister’s were a piercing blue, light as a clear sky. Their hair was different too, one an auburn red and the other a perfect blonde. Bo kept hers held back by a hairband so as not to interfere with her helmet, while Satine preferred to simply cut hers to ear-length, curly, though almost boyishly short.
They both waited for their father to speak. And he did, eventually, but not before glancing at the village ruins and the sorry state of their squad; they were dirty and dented but alive. Still, even without being able to see his face, Bo suspected Father wasn’t very happy about the whole ordeal.
“Send word to the Banking Clan, Karin. Tell them the locals are getting too bold.” He turned his back to the two of them without a word, opting to address the orange armoured warrior to his right instead. “While you’re at it, resubmit my request to the Director. The job is steadily getting out of our pay grade.” He made a step forward, then he stopped and slowly turned his head over his shoulder. “As for you two…” he paused on purpose, letting their fear linger for a brief pause, “you should’ve known better than to walk right into a trap. You could’ve died. I’m disappointed.”
Bo was quick to interject. “It wasn’t my fault!” She stepped forward with clenched fists. “If you’re going to punish someone, punish the leader.”
Satine merely went along with a solemn nod.
“I will bear whatever punishment you see fit, father.”
Tranquil as ever, Bo thought bitterly as she watched Satine act the part of a humble subordinate, when Bo knew what she was really like, how much she strove for glory and recognition.
It seemed father was about to speak when Karin’s device began to beep..
“A signal from the far quadrant, Alor’ad. Shall we?”
“Wait for me in the city. Your punishment will wait for when I return.”
With a roar of their packs, the Mandalorian warriors’ jets blew fire and disappeared through the smoky haze, leaving the sisters and their squad still standing in the mud.
***
“So, this is Baramorra? Doesn’t look like much to me.”
“I do agree with you this time, Qy,” Obi-Wan replied, frowning at the spherical lamps and the tall waving trees. “Hardly seems like an appropriate target for a bunch of battle-hardened mandos.”
Surprisingly, the landing permits had come in clean, and the Radiant VII found itself resting on the local landing bay- or rather a flat lot of land covered in concrete with a waist-high brick barrier for a ‘wall’. At least the Radiant wouldn’t be lonely; four other ships were spread out like scattered beads along the track, though they didn’t look particularly large or imposing, and none of them screamed ‘Mandalorian’.
It was dark, and the four Jedi made their way across the ‘city’, if one could call it that. A shanty town surrounded by trees and distant mountains, with barely any buildings higher than two floors; even the damn road was made of mud.
Not to mention it was pouring rain.
Qymaen liked it, though; he’d always loved the rain. Despite hiding his face under a heavy hood and being cloaked almost down to his boots, which he wore begrudgingly, he was already drenched by the time he left the bay. He didn’t mind the rain running down his hood and splashing at his feet, and even half-smiled at the sweet scent of grass and rain carried by the wind. Qymaen liked the rain, though he wasn’t quite sure why; perhaps he just enjoyed the look and feel of it, or maybe it reminded him of home, though it was best to forget that place, would make things a whole lot easier if he could…
Four Jedi robes wavered in the wind as their wearers mucked through the mud towards the closest source of light: a spacefearer’s tavern, a familiar sight on every planet with a spaceport of any kind.
“We should be able to find directions there. Might even stay the night,” Qui-Gon had to raise his voice to outmatch the rain. He stopped them at the door. “Remember that we’re not here to start fights. There might be mandos there, so be on your best behaviour.”
“When are we not, master?”
“It’s not you they’re worried about, Kenobi,” Qymaen cut in before he winced, realising he’d spoken out loud. Master Qui-Gon shook his head.
“We aren’t worried, just making sure.” He was about to enter, but he stopped and looked over his shoulder. Qymaen turned around to see. The Dark Woman stood in place, wind billowing her cloak as it morphed with the night, leaving what little he saw of her face and wisps of white hair to levitate like a wraith in the air.
“Are you not going with us?” Qui-Gon asked, to which the Dark Woman shook her head.
“I have a bad feeling about this. I would like to investigate on my own.”
Qui-Gon looked at her for a moment, then he chuckled to himself.
“Snooping about is hardly conventional for a diplomatic mission, but I would be a hypocrite to stop you. If you feel that is right, then that is its will. May the Force be with you, Master.”
Qymaen watched the Dark Woman return a smile. “Perhaps it is the will of the Force, or maybe I am just an eccentric old woman. Either way, may the Force be with you, Master Jinn.” And with that, she whirled around, her cloak billowed, and she vanished in the night. Even the rain ceased pelting against her frame.
Qui-Gon went through the door, leaving Obi-Wan and Qymaen to stare at nothing.
“Did she just… disappear?”
“Yeah,” Qymaen sighed, “she does that from time to time.”
The bartender was a large, barrel-chested man with almost enough hair to pass for a Wookiee, though a very sick and pallid Wookiee. He didn’t smile or even try to meet their eyes and answered Qui-Gon’s questions with eerie subservience, and yet…
“Where are the Mandalorians?”
“Not here, sir.”
“Are all of them gone?”
A shrug.
“Do you know when they’ll be back?”
“No.”
“Have they been kind to you?”
A shrug.
It went on like that until the Jedi Master had no choice but to pry out the answers with the Force. That hadn’t told them more than they already knew, though: the Mandalorians were there, they were harassing the population because the government owed the Banking Clan a debt, and they had trouble with a local resistance that didn’t like seeing their government go bankrupt.
Qymaen found the man timid for his size, and his patrons were much the same way. Small men, big men, an alien or two; not one of them returned his gaze, or as much as lifted his head. The whole bar reeked of fear, twisted branches of emotions growing like a tumour in the Force.
After a while, Qui-Gon brought them to a table with a couple of drinks. Jedi weren’t forbidden from the consumption of alcohol, but it was generally avoided. It didn’t stop Qui-Gon from getting them each a light cider to ‘blend in’ better, though Qymaen doubted it was truly necessary. They chose a table off to the side by the stairs, lying halfway out of reach of the bar’s dim glowlamps.
“That wasn’t quite as fruitful as I’d hoped.”
“At least now we know what we’re dealing with, master,” Obi-Wan replied, eyes on the door. “Though I doubt we’ll have to wait for long. We have been quite bold with our questioning.”
“If we can’t come to them, why not let them come to us?” A bit of cider seemed to improve the Jedi Master’s mood. “Though we’ll have to keep watch. We’ve exposed ourselves, after all.”
“Do you still think they’ll do us harm?” Obi-Wan asked. “Even after they’ve let us land?”
“We’ll have to wait and see.” Qui-Gon finished his drink and set it down before pushing the chair back. “The two of you remain here; I will watch for Mandalorians on the roof. Perhaps they’ll even come down to talk.”
“I don’t trust them to play nice,” Qymaen said, watching Qui-Gon climb up the stairs. “They sent no one to greet us. Didn’t even give any instructions when they approved our landing.” No one had the planetary government in mind when it came to the landing permits, though it was their legal right to grant them; the Mandalorian defences were the ones to reply, though their message was as bare-bones as they got.
“I suppose they could be waiting to ambush us. But who would be fool enough to attack a diplomatic convoy of four Jedi? That’s hardly reasonable.”
“Nothing about this situation is reasonable. Why Mandalorians? Why would the Banking Clan hire Mandalorians? They don’t work for cheap.”
“I think your master had the right idea, Qy.” Kenobi finally took a sip of cider; he was a slow drinker who savoured the taste. “This place reeks of conspiracy.”
“I just can’t think of anything about this place worth anyone’s attention.”
“Maybe the core is covered in kalkite?”
“In that case, we’d be dealing with the Trade Federation or whomever, not the Banking Clan. Maybe the Mandalorians are broke?”
“The Hutts would pay them more for standing around…” Kenobi smiled, and his eyes lit up as if he’d just discovered fire. Subtly, he made a gesture at the door. Qymaen’s hand moved to touch the rim of his blade: a pair of Mandalorians just swaggered in as if they owned the place.
Well, maybe swaggering was the wrong word in this context. They were practically swinging side to side as if they’d just finished an exhausting shift at the mines. They had their helmets off, and Qymaen could see they were women. One had hair like gold, the other like amber. The ginger was the first to notice them, followed quickly by the barrel of her blaster pointed squarely at Qymaen’s face.
So much for peaceful negotiations.
“Jedi,” she hissed like a snake. He recognised the sleek, silver weapon as a WESTAR-34. A long time ago, Master Windu had drilled various blasters into his head, and he’d hated him for it, but- powerful bolts, effective at close range, dallorian construction, absorbs more heat than a standard blaster, impervious to furnace fire, and partially resistant to plasma- the lessons came back to him in a flash, just as blue light flashed across his face.
“Put that weapon away, lady,” Kenobi’s voice, full of warning. The young Jedi was already on his feet, having assumed the opening stance of Soresu in the blink of an eye.
“You first, Jedi,” the redhead replied, almost glowering. She saw Kenobi raise his free hand and scoffed. “And don’t you dare try your tricks on me.”
Qymaen found himself surprisingly calm. His eyes shifted over to the blonde, but her eyes were on Kenobi, as if Qymaen was already accounted for. That bothered him a lot more than the blaster pointed at his face.
“By all common etiquette," Kenobi retorted, painting a cocky smile across his face, “ladies must go first.”
That turned out to be the wrong thing to say to the redhead, at least. The Force wasn’t necessary to feel the tension rising in the air; even the local patrons could sense it. They were already scurrying outside, smart enough to get out of the way of a fight. A passing glance at the bartender revealed he’d crouched behind the counter to hide. Distantly, Qymaen remembered Qui Gon, but then the agitated ginger pushed the WESTAR into his half-opened mouth, and he lost his cool.
A lot of things went down in a couple of seconds. First, Qymaen summoned the Force to him with a flick of his wrist. His hand shot out with an open palm, straight at the Mando’s weapon-hand. She lurched back, green eyes wide, as she tried to move her trigger finger, but all senses in her hand had readily deserted her. Her mouth fell open as the pistol slid from her grip, her fingers frozen in place. To give her credit, the shock didn’t stop her from swinging with her left. The armoured fist found his head, his skull cracked, and he fell to the ground with debilitating injuries. Or rather, that is what a brief flash of precognition showed him as the ginger swung to attack. Qy pushed his feet against the floor, falling back with the chair, and, propelled by the Force, he landed on his feet, green fire blazing in his hand.
Their squabble had not gone unnoticed- a different, wilder kind of fire erupted from the blonde’s vambrace as soon as the fighting began, but Kenobi was as fast as his opponent, and she was sent flying towards the door, bringing the fire along with her. The Mandalorian was not so easily cowed, however, and more fire erupted, this time from her jetpack, slowing down Kenobi’s Force push as a WESTAR-37 hopped into her hand.
Several shots were fired and deflected- stray projectiles ricocheting everywhere, exploding a lamp on the ceiling and sending molten shards to rain down on the battle below. Qymaen was too busy with the ginger to care. He’d always hated blaster deflection, so he tried to prevent his opponent from attacking in the first place. She could hardly hope to hit him if he never gave her the opportunity. She fled from his attacks with one limp hand, unable to use the wrist-launcher on her left without fingers to trigger it. Good, Qymaen thought as he pushed her towards the stairs, she was almost done for when-
“Cease fighting,” a cold, stark voice boomed and echoed, breaking their fight at once. Even the Mandalorians felt shaken, and all four of them turned towards the staircase as the Jedi Master descended. He didn’t even ignite his blade; he didn’t need to.
“Master,” Obi-Wan dropped his head. “We didn’t mean to cause trouble.”
Qui-Gon gave him a nod of approval and shifted his focus to the Mandalorians instead. It was then that Qymaen realised they were around the same age as them. Shame suddenly flushed through him- their epic struggle suddenly felt like the squabbling of children. He suspected Master Jinn thought so too- this was no calculated ambush, just a misunderstanding born from overeager youth. He didn’t drop his head, but he retreated to stand with Kenobi as Qui-Gon approached the two women.
“I am Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn, and these Jedi Padawans are with me. Emissaries of the Republic.” His voice suddenly became harder, sterner, colder. The voice of a disappointed teacher finding his students smoking deathsticks. “I trust Mandalorians to act honourably, not to assault peaceful messengers."
Bullseye, Qymaen thought- Master Jinn had found his mark. The blonde had the grace to look away in shame, but the redhead…
“There is no shame in hunting Jedi,” she replied with a scoff. “And we are no friends of the Republic.” The effects of Qymaen’s little trick had worn off by then, and he saw she was massaging her dominant hand, trying to shake them off completely. She met Qui-Gon’s eyes head-on, though she had to lift her head to lock eyes with the man. She had guts- Qymaen had to give her that.
“Drop it, sister,” the blonde said softly, but the command in her voice was hard to miss. Qymaen shared a look with Kenobi. They could both tell the battle was over, and turned off their blades. Qui-Gon nodded silently to the blonde, and she nodded back, eyes now in focus. “Come, Bo, we have a report to make.”
“I-” the red one, or Bo, seemed reluctant to leave a fight unfinished. She lingered for a moment longer as her sister turned to leave, bumping her shoulder on the way out. She seemed to be looking for a reason to stay, then her eyes settled on the blaster she’d dropped a minute ago.
“I’m not going anywhere without my weapon,” she said, locking eyes with Qy, as if to challenge him. Perhaps he would’ve accepted it, had Qui-Gon not been there. Instead, the young Kaleesh merely smiled and tossed the WESTAR at her with the Force. The Mandalorian winced as she struggled to catch it. But she did, and it soon slid back into her holster.
“Kill yourself,” the redhead- Bo- hissed at him, before she went after her sister.
Kenobi nudged his shoulder lightly.
“She reminds me of someone, you know,” he whispered as a grin returned to his face. No matter how hard he tried, Qymaen couldn’t think of a witty remark to respond with.