Me, Myself and Mandalorians: 1

One


“So, you’re after fame and glory, eh?”

The old man with the long grey hair leered at the young man across the table from him, a half-finished mug of lum gripped in his meaty hands. His eyes were soft and bleary from the effects of the alcohol, and he swayed slightly in his seat, making the young man across from him shift in his seat uncomfortably.

“Yes, yes, I’m hoping to catch on with a mercenary outfit or perhaps a bounty hunter, perhaps see if they can teach me a few things. Got to learn how to handle myself!”

The old man chuckled to himself, and the youth smiled nervously. He was very obviously out of his element, his new clothes, boyish looks and nervous body language marked him apart, and a few of the other patrons were eyeing him, some hungrily, others interestedly, others still with a practiced eye. He’d come here hoping to do exactly what he’d said, but now he was here, it looked like the advice his father had given him weeks before had been correct, and that he was just wasting his time on another immature little adventure. This time, however, his naivety looked like it might get him mugged, or worse, killed.

He took another delicate sip from the mug of lum in front of him and forced back a grimace of disgust. It was vile stuff, but everyone else in the bar seemed to be drinking it, or some variant of it, and he’d gotten it to try and blend it. It hadn’t worked particularly well, especially when the laughing barman had demanded some proof of his age before he’d served him. The old man leaned in towards him conspiratorially, beckoning him in closer.

“Hey, kid, d’you want to meet a Mandalorian?”

He gawped at the man. Everyone knew of the reputation of the warrior race, of the old histories, how they tried to conquer the galaxy several times, coming close each time before being turned back by the Republic and the Jedi, and about how dangerous they were. Having the opportunity to meet one of them was something that he’d never dreamed he’d have, and now this man in front of him was offering to do just that.

“Yes please, that would be great,” he replied, forcing back a grin.

“Follow me, then.”

The man heaved himself up to his feet and, gesturing to the youth to follow, limped his way across the cantina, weaving around tables and patrons, dodging past servers and sliding past drunken customers. He stopped before a side-booth, big enough to seat four people comfortably, but in it was sat a single man, shrouded in a black robe and hood, a small dark bundle on the seat beside him. The youth glanced back over his shoulder. He’d been a bit dubious at first, but considering in this packed cantina, this one man was sat alone in a large booth, he could believe the man must have some kind of reputation.

Somehow, the level of conversation around the booth dropped a few decibels, almost in anticipation of what would happen between the odd group. Ignoring the dip in the hubbub around them, the old man dropped heavily into the seat opposite the man and pulled the youth down into the seat beside him.

“Noa, ol’ buddy, nice to see ya again,” said the old man.

“Bell,” nodded the figure in a low, quiet voice. A serving girl swept up and placed a small glass of something onto the table in front of Arkaan, and he slid a few coins into her hand before turning back to Bell. “What do you want?”

“Got someone here who’s eager to meet a real, live Mandalorian. Noa Arkaan, meet, errr, what’s your name again, kid?”

“Jayshan Ferditude,” stumbled out the youth. “My friends call me Jay though.”

“I’m not your friend, adiik. Is this some kind of a joke, Bell?”

The old man grinned.

“Just being a friendly neighbour, vod. Besides, I’m doing the kid a favour.” He leaned in towards Arkaan. “He’s after fame and glory. Wants to become a bounty hunter or something. Maybe you could give him a hand?”

The glass rose to Arkaan’s face, the contents disappearing somewhere in the shadows under the hood before he returned the glass to the table, empty.

“I just spent two weeks forcing money out of families who couldn’t afford to put food on the table because they borrowed money from the wrong people, before I told those wrong people that they were osi’yaime and didn’t deserve the pleasure of my company. Had to shoot my way out, and apparently the CSF is in an uproar over it and wants the head of whoever it was blasted their key witnesses to a high-profile corruption case. So this had better not be some shab'la joke because it really isn’t funny.”

An awkward silence descended over the table, and was somehow echoed by the relative silence surrounding the booth, with some of the more obvious eavesdroppers quickly turning away as it became obvious what they were doing.

Jay took another sip from his lum, forced back another grimace and glanced at the bundle at Arkaan’s side.

“Are you…are you really a Mandalorian?” he asked, his heart in his throat.

Arkaan sighed. His hand went to the bundle and lifted what looked like a piece of cloth, revealing a dark helmet with the infamous T-visor. Jay leaned forwards and up, straining to see, and gasped when he saw it.

“That answer your question?”

“Yeah…so what’s it like?”

“Me’ven? What?”

“What’s it like, being a Mandalorian?”

Arkaan just stared at him, making Jay feel like the man’s eyes were boring deep into him, despite not being able to see them. In fact, all he could see of the man’s face was his chin and the hair that covered it. Beside Jay, the old man, Bell, was stifling laughter, his nose buried in the glass of lum he’d been nursing. Finally, after a few long moments, Arkaan spoke, his voice as hard as beskar.

“Why don’t you ask your friend here, if you’re so eager to find out.”

“What?” Jay frowned, turning to look at Bell. “You’re a Mandalorian too?”

Bell burst out laughing, slapping the table and stopping all conversation as he howled with glee, the joke too good to continue any longer. Angry, Arkaan looked around, staring at all the other patrons in the cantina, daring them to meet his gaze and finding not a single one brave enough. He noticed a few others staring at the young man, however, and narrowed his eyebrows. There was potential trouble brewing, trouble he really didn’t need, and it was probably time he made a hasty exit. A few of the more dangerous-looking ones had already left, and he was pretty sure a few would be waiting outside for them.

“I’m leaving,” he announced quietly, grabbing his helmet and bag from beside him. Turning his back to the cantina, he quickly whipped the hood off, giving Jay a glimpse of a heavily stubbled jaw, angry set eyebrows, brown hair and strange eyes before the helmet was jammed onto his head. Arkaan turned back to the cantina, giving it a long slow look before he put his head down and made for the exit.

Dropping a few coins onto the table, Bell pushed Jay out of the booth, wiping tears out of his eyes.

“C’mon, kid, let’s get out of here.”

Still confused, Jay went along with it, allowing the older man to push him all the way out of the cantina, emerging into the dark night outside. Casting around, there was no sign of Arkaan, and Bell swore under his breath. Far overhead, the busy air lanes of Coruscant continued obliviously, the never-ending traffic creating a faint, almost eerie glow. Down here, in the depths, far from the lofty heights of the Jedi Temple, the Senate Building and the towers of the rich, light didn’t penetrate too deep, making it a haven for those not wanting to be found. Even the Coruscant Security Force didn’t venture this deep, and even when they did, it was in force and in full armour and with a specific target in mind. Gangs and crime-lords ruled down here, and if you weren’t carrying some sign of your affiliation with any group, you were considered prey. Even the armour of a Mandalorian only bought you so much protection.

It was surprising to Bell that the kid had managed to make his way down here without getting himself mugged and killed already, and it would be a struggle to get him out again in the same way.

Bell paused.

Why was he helping the kid get out? He didn’t owe him anything, he had no real connection to him, nothing to tie him to Jay or even to want to help him, so why did he find himself pulling him out of a cantina in pursuit of a man he’d introduced to the kid as a joke?

Movement out of the corner of his eye made all of his thoughts a moot point, and he pushed Jay behind him slightly as four humanoids stepped out from the shadows of an alley opposite the cantina. Their leader, a human standing in front of a Devaronian, grinned from underneath the hood he was wearing and gesturing at Bell.

“We know you, Mandalorian, we wish you no harm. Step away from the child and we will not pursue you”

“You want to talk to him, you do it through me,” replied Bell through gritted teeth. This looked bad; the other two, a Rodian and a Twi’lek, both had their hands hidden behind them, no doubt concealing weapons of some sort. The human had a blaster pistol on his hip, whilst the tip of a knife glinted from beneath the cloth wraps the Devaronian wore.

“One last chance, old man, we don’t want to hurt you. All we want is him.”

A shadow moved behind the Rodian, and a heavy, gauntleted arm swung, catching it behind the ear and dropping it with a heavy thud. The Twi’lek turned, hissing, a vibro-knife humming into life in its hands, but before it could do anything, a bright flash lit up the alley and the Twi’lek fell back, a cratered, smoking hole in place of its face. The remaining two turned, the human going for his pistol and the Devaronian dropping into a knife-fighting stance, but both froze when the barrel of a rifle extended from the shadows, held in an unwavering one-handed grip, pressing itself against the human’s forehead.

“Don’t,” came a quiet, electronically filtered voice as Arkaan stepped into the light.

“Is not your fight!” squeaked the red-skin, twisting slightly.

“It is now, di’kut. Run before I waste more ammunition on your sorry shebse.”

“I’m warning you,” began the human, his hand beginning to move towards the pistol again.

The alley lit up again, and the human bucked, his head a smoking ruin. The Devaronian squeaked again as the body crumpled, and found himself staring down the smoking double-barrels of Arkaan’s rifle, the muzzles still glowing slightly.

“Start running.”

He took off, his footsteps echoing along the long passageway, and Arkaan lowered the rifle.

“Thanks,” started Bell, but Arkaan interrupted him.

“Don’t. Let’s just get out of here before we figure out what to do with your little friend.”

Arkaan turned away, cracking open the double-barreled rifle, swinging the two barrels down and pulling two smoking capsules out of each barrel, one above the other, before replacing them with another pair from a pouch on his belt.

“What’s that?” asked Bell, noticing the strange weapon.

“A little something I’ve been working on. Jay, take his pistol.” Arkaan indicated the dead human.

“What?”

“Take the shab’la pistol! We don’t have all day! Take the holster too, and the belt if you need it. Bell, check the others.”

A flick of Arkaan’s wrist and the rifle snapped back together, and he slung it on his back by the strap whilst he rummaged through the Twi’lek’s pockets. He found nothing useful but a few credits, which he took, leaving the rest on the body. The others yielded similar results, and two minutes later, the trio was gone, disappearing down the alley and into the shadows like nothing had happened.



***



An hour later, the three of them were sat around a fixed table on board Bell’s freighter, the Dead Ringer. The small dock it was parked in wasn’t far from the cantina, but they’d taken a roundabout route, taking double-backs and going up and down stairwells and elevation shafts. Jay had gone along with them almost numbly, not knowing what else to do. He’d been surprised to see the vessel; expecting to see a relatively small ship, the sight of the fat, almost bloated looking Dead Ringer has almost thrown him completely, especially the sight of several other crew members milling around both inside and outside. In deference to the captain, the mess area had been cleared for the three, and the only signs of life on-board were a ringing sound from the engine room as one of the crew worked on maintaining the engines and a ‘droid cleaning some plates in a sink in the corner.

“So why were those di’kute interested in you, Jay?” asked Arkaan. He’d taken off the cloak and helmet, and had also removed his gauntlets, gloves, with the majority of his webbing and weaponry sat on another table next to them. For the first time, his face was fully visible to Jay, and he looked nothing like what he’d expected. Short, dark brown hair framed a slightly flushed, light-skinned face, with intense green eyes staring out from under a heavy brow. A few scars marred his otherwise unblemished face, including one that extended down his cheek and onto his heavily stubbled chin. He sat opposite Jay, with Bell lounging on a chair at the end of the table, rocking back and forth on two legs, one arm thrown over the back of the chair.

“I don’t know,” replied Jay. The pistol he’d taken was sat on the table in front of him, and he was staring at it, almost in shock.

“They could’ve just been tweakers, looking for some money for their next fix, Arkaan,” said Bell.

“No,” he replied. “They weren’t shaking, their eyes were clear, they had back-up, and one of them had a blaster. Plus, all they asked for was the kid. That’s too well organized for a couple of spaced out tweakers, and if they were just after cash, they would’ve just shot both of you. What’s your name again, kid?”

“Jayshan Ferditude.”

“I don’t recognise the name. You piss someone off? Got a rich family?  Know anyone who’s wanted?”

“I don’t…I don’t know.”

Arkaan leaned forward and spun the pistol around until the barrel faced Jay, and stabbed his finger into the trigger guard, staring into Jay’s eyes.

“Lie to me, and I’ll shoot you myself. Answer the shab’la question.”

“My, my father, he runs some shipyards, he’s very rich, but he cut me off, I have no money, he hates me!”

“They don’t know that,” hissed Arkaan. “Those clothes, they’re too rich, the way you act, it was obvious you didn’t belong in that cantina. All it takes is a little research and they’ve got who you are. Where are you from, anyway?”

“Right here, I was born on Coruscant, same as my father, his father, and his father before him.”

“Wait,” leaned in Bell, eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Your father owns shipyards on Coruscant?”

“Yes, he does,” replied Jay, confusion on his face.

Bell whistled softly. On a planet where the most precious commodity was space, even that above your head, renting and leasing was common-place, and very often the only viable option to be able to even afford to live and work there. So to be able to actually own properties meant that whoever it was must either be a part of a company, a high-end government official…or extremely rich.

“What shipyards?” asked Arkaan, catching on and glancing at Bell.

“I don’t know,” he replied. “I never asked, never visited them. I didn’t really care, to be honest. But I think they orbit somewhere over one of the polar regions, and I think he owns the rights to the Senate building docks.”

Arkaan shook his head. This was some serious money they were talking about, and the attack was making more sense.

“You need to go home, kid, and stay there,” said Bell, echoing Arkaan’s thoughts.

“I…can’t,” he muttered. “I’m completely disowned, not welcome there any more. I can’t go back, even if I wanted to.” Jay looked down, staring at the pistol. What the other two men took as shame and a little nervousness from admitting it was in fact him trying to cover up the fact that he was lying.

His father knew fine well where he was, and they’d parted in amenable, if somewhat sad and disappointed, terms. He’d expected anger, threats and to be locked in, but all he’d gotten from the old man, was a sad glance over his glasses and an understanding speech. He’d given him some cash and an account filled with money and a few frequencies added to personal comm, in case he needed some help. But Jay was determined to make it on his own, determined to get out there and exist off his own steam, not off the back of his ancestors, and if that meant nearly getting himself killed, then so be it. These two Mandalorians weren’t at all what he’d expected, but they could be helpful. Their suggestion that he ought to go home didn’t help his plans at all, and he got the feeling he might need to work hard to stay with them.

“Well, where have you been staying?”

“Only got thrown out this morning,” Jay mumbled, head down, his face turning a light shade of red.

Arkaan pursed his lips and Bell rubbed his forehead in frustration. The younger man looked across at Bell, raising one eyebrow.

“Got any openings on the Ringer?” asked Arkaan quietly.

“I’m sure I could find a job for him, but I couldn’t pay him. You’d get food and a bed, but you’d have to work, help out around the ship. Manual labour, that sort of thing. You up for it, kid?”

“I could do that, yes. And don’t worry about paying me, I’d just need somewhere to sleep and something to eat. Past that, I’ll survive.”

“Well, alright. We’ll find you a bunk later. Any gear you need to collect from somewhere?”

“I’m wearing everything I need.” Jay shrugged.

Bell activated his comm, and a few minutes later, another crew member arrived and led Jay away. Arkaan and Bell sat in silence for a few long moments, neither really sure what to say to each other. They knew each other the same way all Mandalorians knew each other; through experience and meeting each other along the mercenary and bounty-hunting circuit, but neither would count the other as a good friend.

“Why are we doing this?” said Arkaan quietly, raising an eyebrow at Bell.

“Not enough charity in the universe, I guess.”

“That’s a load of osik, and you know it.”

“True,” chuckled Bell. “I don’t know. Maybe the kid reminds me of someone at his age. A kid in need, kinda lost…”

“You were an adoptee, huh?”

“Yep. Not all of us were born into this life, Arkaan.”

“I know, vod. Look, I need a favour.”

“Don’t you think I’ve done enough favours for you for one day?”

“I need to get back to Manda’yaim.”

“That’s one hell of a favour. Mandalore’s a long way from the Core, I can’t afford to just be making that kind of trip for one passenger, especially one that won’t be paying, which is why, I assume, you’re asking instead of booking passage.”

“Nope, I can’t pay, but I’m sure a trader with your skills can find a cargo that needs taking out that far besides me.”

Bell sighed and stood, putting the chair back into place and gripping the back of the chair.

“Alright, I’ll see what I can do, but only because of what you did for me back on Ord Mantell. I’ll go see what I can rustle up. You stick around, I’ll be back in a few hours.”

Bell turned to go, but Arkaan stood quickly, gently tugging his arm so he turned slightly.

“Thanks, vod. I appreciate this.”

“Yeah, well, thank me when you’re on home soil.”

The captain turned and walked out, leaving Arkaan stood on his own in the mess hall, the empty chairs, benches and tables around him almost staring back at him in their solitude. He snorted at himself before walking out of the mess, gathering the bundle of armour and webbing as he went.




***



Two days later found the Dead Ringer in hyperspace. It had taken Bell most of that time to rustle up a piece of business, which turned out to be a cargo of farm tools. It didn’t take up too much space in the hold, but had considerable weight, which, due to the age of the Ringer, meant the low boxes were stacked in columns of two and spread out along one side of the hold.

“Ironic.”

“What?” asked Jay.

“The one trade Mandalorians are most known for being at almost complete odds with the most popular trade on Mandalore.”

Bell stood with his arms folded, one hand stroking his chin in amusement. Beside him, Jay looked at him, confused. Seeing the look, Bell laughed and slapped the young man on his back.

“We’re farmers, Jay. Ever heard of Jango Fett?”  

“Yeah, bounty hunter? Supposed to be the best, or something.”

“Yep, one of them. His name, Fett, comes from the Mando’a word, vhett. Means farmer.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Wish I was. Galaxy’s most dangerous hunter is a country bumpkin.”

Bell winked at Jay before walking off, and the young man just stood there for a few moments. The last few days had been an odd mix of boredom and fascination. The Dead Ringer was old, very old, and it showed throughout; patches of rust, leaking pipes, groaning metal and some parts of the ship just plain falling apart. What time he hadn’t spent dozing on his bunk had been spent doing what could only be described as hard labour, first with helping out in the engine room and fixing various loose parts, and second with getting the incredibly heavy boxes into the cargo hold, which hadn’t been easy for the now-six man crew. He’d tried to get to know the others, but they’d been distant, not even offering introductions, and he got the feeling they were doing it on purpose, that he was only there temporarily.

He sighed to himself. Arkaan at least had exchanged words with him every so often, but it was probably more out of boredom than anything else. The other Mandalorian was staying in a passenger area, with his own cabin, something that Jay was somewhat jealous of, but he had no intentions of saying anything, for fear of sounding ungrateful. The two warriors had pulled him out of a sticky situation, and he owed them that much.

Something moved behind him, and he turned quickly, almost jumping.

“Why so jumpy?” asked Arkaan. He was dressed in just a pair of tattered shorts and t-shirt, with a towel draped over one shoulder, and, unusually for wandering around the bare-metal walkways of the ship, was barefoot.

“Uh, nothing, just didn’t see you there.”

“Right. I’m going to take a shower. Maybe you should get some rack time, might do you good.”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

Jay wandered off, still looking like he was lost and in a daze. Arkaan shook his head and carried on walking. Beside the crew quarters was a communal wash-room, into which Arkaan headed. It had sinks and a pair of cubicles with a shower nozzle in each, both of which ran off a timer system, giving you a minute of tepid water, then another minute for you to lather, then another two minutes to rinse off. Off to one side, two more cubicles contained toilets, both of which were empty at the moment. Arkaan hung his towel over one of the shower cubicle doors and decided to make use of one of the toilets.

As he did so, the sound of a spurt of water from one of the showers came through the door, and Arkaan frowned. Finishing what he was doing, he opened the door to investigate, and found the room empty. One of the shower nozzles was dribbling water, and he ran his fingers under it for a second, almost to confirm to himself that it was real. It shut off after a few more seconds, and he shrugged to himself, putting it down to another one of the quirks of an old ship.

He quickly stripped off what little clothes he was wearing and stepped into the other cubicle, hitting the button to activate the water cycle. Lukewarm water splashed onto his chest and he leaned forward into it, running it over his hair and face before pulling back, shaking his head and wiping off the excess water with his hand. He turned around into the cubicle, his back to the nozzle, blinked away water and froze.

“What do you want?” he growled.

“It’s nice to see you too, cyar’ika.”

“I’m not your cyar’ika any more, remember?”

“My, my, so touchy?”

A hand snaked down between his legs and he smacked it away angrily.

“What the hell do you want?” he asked again, going nose to nose with the naked woman in front of him. She was shorter than him, and her green eyes twinkled with amusement, matching the sidelong grin on her face. Like him, her hair was wet and stuck to her scalp, but it didn’t detract from her looks, and Arkaan found himself forcing his eyes to stay on her face and not on her shower-soaked body

“You mean a girl can’t just stop by and visit every once in a while?” she teased, running a finger down his chest.

“Leave me the hell alone.”

“Oh, come on, you can’t tell me you don’t enjoy my little visits.”

“This is the fourth time in two weeks, and I still haven’t gotten a straight answer out of you. If you want something, get it over with.”

“Very well,” she sighed, planting her hands on her hips. “The boy. Keep him with you.”

“What, Jay? Why?”

“Because I say so.” She gripped his cheeks in one hand and kissed him on the lips, slowly, before sinking down to her knees.

Arkaan closed his eyes.

Water spat onto his face, and he snapped his eyes open in surprise, quickly looking around. He was alone in the washroom, and in the cubicle next to him, the cycle shut itself down, cutting off the water supply as the water flowed in his own shower. He glanced down at his body and saw it had been soaped up already, as though he’d been in the shower for several minutes already. It was already beginning to disappear under the steady stream coming from the nozzle, and he shook his head, clamping his jaw shut hard in anger, making his teeth click together.

Not again.