Chapter Text
Urk. He hated this place already.
Din took another step, trying to avoid the foul smelling pools of unidentified liquid that pockmarked the floor of the cave he was wandering. His boot squelched in something that made his lips pull into a grimace, and he sighed loudly enough that his vocoder picked it up.
A hollow sort of chuckle echoed from nearby, coated in a metallic tinge. Boba.
The both of them were in the nitty gritty of the mission. Slavers had tried to escape into the vast, cavernous system on this planet. Din's been in dozens of caves. The claustrophobia never gets him though. Perks of growing up in a sewer, one might suppose. Still, it's disgusting down here.
Boba was never one to give up, though. Especially after seeing just how large the operation these hut’uuns were trying to get away with under Boba’s nose.
As with the last ten or twenty, or fifty, missions, Din was giving his all. He had to, to distract from the empty sort of pit in his chest. A suspiciously Grogu shaped pit. Giving him up to Skywalker and thinking that'd be the last he'd ever get to see of the child, well, it broke Din. He’s been taking on mission after mission after bounty in the hopes of wearing himself out enough to pass out and forget.
One can only cry themself to sleep so many times before it starts to really get old.
He knew he wasn't the child's buir and his mission with the kid was over so it really was best if he tried to distance himself from it all, but… ka'ra, drifting aimlessly from place to place in those first few weeks after he lost the kid was painful. He caught himself waking up panicked when he couldn't find Grogu nearby and missing him like a limb. He couldn't deny he'd gotten extremely attached. It was better for the kid that he was with someone of his kind. Someone who could help him. But kriff, if it didn't hurt like a shabuir. Everything ached all the time in a way no physical wound ever had.
Boba had taken his sorry self in and he and Fennec had tried to get him on his feet. He took on some bounties to get them off his back, and upon discovering that throwing yourself into work is a wonderful distraction, began to overwork himself to death. On top of this, the Darksaber was burning a hole in his belt. He couldn't get rid of it if he tried, and by the Manda, he tried .
He shook his head, willing the thoughts away. He had slavers to hunt.
Boba finished analyzing whatever it was he found on the far side of the tunnel, and he crossed back to Din’s side. “I reckon they’re just ahead. The blood is fresh, and there’s a lot of it. They won’t have gotten much farther.”
Din nods and unclips his blaster from his belt. “Lucky us. The tunnel seems to open into a cave up there.” He says, gesturing with his free hand. Din can practically feel displeasure radiate from Boba.
“We’re in the bottleneck.”
“Not easily defensible. The set-up leaves us vulnerable.” Din says, nodding in agreement. He pauses for a moment, thinking.
There are a dozen ways this can play out, but Din needs a pick-me-up today. “Guns blazing, then?”
Boba scoffs and bumps Din’s shoulder with his own, the sharp clear sound of beskar on beskar ringing for a second. “ Obviously .” He says, tone dry. “As if there was another option.”
Din smiles beneath his helmet. Boba was truly the best.
The mouth of the tunnel was just big enough for the two of them to burst through, vambraces up to protect their throats and blasters out and ready. The HUD in Din’s buy’ce immediately flares with four heat signatures. Easy.
Boba’s gunning the one trying to hide and Din’s got the one trying to run. They drop, one dead and the other screaming. The third slaver makes a stupid dash towards Boba and tries to take him hand to hand. The fourth slaver is moving towards Din.
Din tilts his head sharply, turning off the heat tracker to get a good look. Years of bounty hunting let him analyze the figure in a heartbeat.
Baseline human, likely. Broad but lacking any useful muscle. No weapons outwardly visible, but hidden knives or smaller items possible. Holding a- actually, what is that? Some kind of- no-
Din can’t even identify the thing. It’s not any weapon he’s ever seen. It looks like a glowing crystal?
The color is impossible to pin down, and Din doesn't realize his hand has faltered, blaster no longer aimed up as he stares at the thing, transfixed. It’s mesmerizing. It’s… it feels- When Grogu used jetii magics-
“Mando! Get down!” He hears Boba shout from across the cavern, just having dispatched the third slaver.
Din shakes his head, trying to snap out of the horrible pull of the object in the fourth slaver’s grip. He wants to grab it. He wants to listen to it. The Dha’kad vibrates beneath his cape, and if Din didn’t know better, he’d say it felt angry.
The slaver is still approaching, but slower now. His gait has a confident, cocky sort of air to it. “Yeah! What now, Kriffer?? That’s what you get for-” A blaster bolt rips through the slaver's chest. He has a split moment to clutch at his chest, look confused, and use his last bit of strength to fuck up Din’s day by throwing the unidentified thing directly at Din.
Boba shouts something that his vocoder distorts into nonsense before throwing himself at Din. He shoves Din away from the thing, but just a second too late, and the both of them tumble into a suddenly pitch dark void.
Din holds onto consciousness just long enough to think, ‘ well, that was cheesy ’, before he doesn’t think any longer.
---
When Din awakes, it is surprisingly, (or maybe unsurprisingly) , to the sight of a cell.
One wouldn’t expect lowly slavers to have access to a facility like this. Manda, this operation must have been much larger than Boba saw. Three stone walls, mostly unmarred besides some slight scuffing, and a metal door. The door looks solid, but Din traces the hinges, handle, and other such weak points with his visor, cataloging and forming half a dozen escape plans on the spot. Captivity didn’t suit him well.
Besides, his covert taught him all sorts of escape maneuvers. …Though that was usually a ‘trial through fire’ type situation. Whatever. Din got used to being kidnapped by different clans in the covert and having to break his way out. It’s a useful skill and essential for a beroya. He can’t be upset about the trust issues it should’ve caused when that training is saving his life every couple of rotations. It’s not like it was malicious or anything. Just standard training. What can you do?
He rolls his shoulders, trying to loosen up a bit. He gives himself a cursory look over and finds the dha’kad still strapped to his belt. In fact, it seems as though none of his weapons have been confiscated. What an incredibly rookie mistake. How did these slavers get the drop on him and Boba? They’re hardly smart enough for anything of this scale!
He loads his spare whistling birds into the empty spaces on his vambrace and stands stiffly. Tilting his head, he wordlessly dials up the volume of sound filtering through his buy’ce. There’s a long moment of pause, but Din hears hardly any movement from the cells that must be on either side of him, so he thinks he’s in the clear.
He’d like to use one of his backup vibroblades on those weak looking door hinges, but he doesn’t want to draw any unnecessary attention from the noise of it. That leaves only the Dha’kad as an option.
Din reluctantly draws the hilt from his belt. Annoyingly, the blade seems to hum with excitement at being chosen for this mediocre task. Din almost feels bad for his animosity towards the thing.
Anyway, he presses the side of the hilt and the glowing black-white blade shoots out with a sharp sound. As always, it slices through the metal like it’s nothing. Din quickly withdraws the blade and tucks the hilt away, ignoring the disappointed sort of buzz, focusing instead on catching the thick metal of the door before it can hit the ground. It’s heavy , which, what was Din expecting, but regardless. A low grunt leaves him as he lowers the door to the cold ground, strained.
Straightening up and brushing imaginary dust from his gloves, he peeks out into the hall. Empty. Left and right, no guards, nothing. How very… thoughtful of his captors. Din wasn’t concerned about opposition, slavers are a cowardly bunch, but he still expected some form of fight. Someone to pull an alarm, at the very least. As it is, he steps out of his cell almost leisurely.
He’s got to find and rescue Boba, if the man hasn’t rescued himself already. This slaver cell was going down.
---
The cells around him were empty. At least, through the tiny windows they appear empty. He leaves nothing to chance though.
He walks the path, leveraging a vibroblade into each door’s keypad before shouldering them open. Truly then he knows, each is empty.
The cell block he’s in is just one big square, and he ends up right where he started, a trail of busted open doors marking his path. None of the cells he checked had any form of life, or signs someone had been in them. Why would they keep Din and Boba on different levels? It was confusing, but then again, this whole day has been confusing.
At least Din knows this style of cell block though. The lifts will be in the security room, which should be in the center of the block. He’s analyzed so many floorplans in his time that assuming locations for rooms is almost child’s play. The cells are in a square formation, acting as the border around the security room. He circles the block, rounding to where he recalls seeing another door, one facing internally.
He busts this one open just as easily as the rest, blade up and hand resting on the hilt of the Dha’kad, just in case. He expects a slimy slaver, or, at worst, an imp. That is not who greets him.
The figure manning the security room is one of his own. A Mandalorian.
Clearly an untrained Mandalorian, as they hardly do more than startle and fumble for their weapon at his entrance. Had they even been watching the cams while he tore through the cell block?
Their armor is red and black, some gold on their vambraces, but otherwise a sect Din doesn’t recognize. He sees no crest, just an odd pattern of paint on their buy’ce. Not Jaig eyes, but similar in a way. They finally have hold on their blaster, and they lift it to point at him, hands visibly trembling.
“Who goes there??” They stutter out, and Din is not impressed. Who let this ad’ika man a prison block? Either a poor leader or a foolish one. Haran, they look hardly old enough to be holding that blaster.
“Udesii, Mando’ad!” He calls. They don’t take his advice and calm down.
Instead, they snarl at him that they can’t understand what he’s saying and take on a more aggressive stance. A Mandalorian who doesn’t know Mando’a? DIn needs to have words with their Goran and clan leader.
“I said calm down, Mandalorian.” Din says instead, trying to keep his voice calm and low. He strides forward, confident and loose. “Where is your clan leader? I need a word with them.” (Mostly about why their clan was working with/for slavers, but he has plenty of other questions too. Namely, why would they lock him up? He is of their people! Not to mention the Dha’kad on his belt…) Of course, the panicked Mando’ad just tenses as he gets close and fires off a shot.
Din shifts slightly so it only pings off his chest plate, scorching a mark into the floor as it rebounds. The Mando’ad promptly drops the blaster and throws his hands up in surrender, shoulders hunched in terror. Din discreetly peers around the room, wondering what could be making the Mando’ad act like this. Nothing stands out.
“D-Don’t hurt me!!” They whimper.
Din raises his own hands, mirroring the Mando’ad and showing his hands, devoid of weapons. “No one needs to get hurt. Just do as I say and I can guarantee your safety.” Whoever his kids clan was, Din really had to have some words. He hated throwing around his weight as current Mand’alor, but if he had to use the title, he’d rather it be for a good cause.
The Mando’ad is nodding frantically, so Din lowers his hands. “Good. Now, the question from earlier. Where is your clan leader?”
The Mando’ad’s shoulders droop. “I- I’m not sure? I don’t have one.”
Din blinks behind his visor, beyond dumbfounded. His hand goes to his blaster. “I thought you would comply. I don’t have time for games.” He says, warningly.
Their hands, still in the air, wave frantically. “I’m telling the truth!!” They squeak. “I don’t know what you even mean!! I- I work for Mand’alor Maul!! I was brought on with my brother by Mand’alor Pre Vizla, bu- but he was defeated in a challenge and now I work for Mand’alor Maul! Please I- I’m telling the truth!!” The sheer fervor in the Mando’ad’s voice convinces Din near immediately that this kid believes the nonsense they’re spouting.
“Udesii, verd. Calm down.” He repeats. “What can I call you?”
The verd, still oddly shaking, tells him. “My name is Amzo, he/him, baseline human, uhm… I think that's all...” He trails off, clearly waiting for Din to introduce himself aswell. Din is still a bit shocked still at the carelessness this verd showed just now. So much information.
Holy Manda, the first Mando’ad he meets in ages that isn’t a Nite Owl, and the poor guy is clearly not trained enough to be out of the covert.
“My creed doesn’t allow for me to reveal my name. You can call me Beroya. He and him should work.” The urge to launch into a lesson on what crucial information should not be revealed to a veritable stranger is strong, but he withholds his ‘buir instincts’, as Boba calls them. The Grogu shaped hole in his heart aches.
Amzo tilts his head in confusion at the proclamation of Din’s creed, but asks no question, for which Din is grateful.
“Go back to what you were saying before. The current Mand’alor is who?” Din says, getting straight to the meat of it.
“Mand’alor Maul. Darth Maul. He killed Pre Vizla and took the Darksaber. He- all of us, Death Watch, we work for him now.” A clan that changes loyalty so fast is not a trustworthy clan, and the name Death Watch rings a bell somewhere in his brain that makes him uneasy. Furthermore, didn’t Amzo say he had no clan? Manda, Din is so confused about everything that his brain hurts.
“Someone has lied to you, verd. Your clan, Death Watch, is deceiving you.” Din says, breezing past the mention of the Vizla house. “I have never heard of ‘Maul’. They cannot be Mand’alor.”
Amzo crosses his arms, almost petulantly. “I watched the challenge for the Darksaber. Maul is Mand’alor, and I and my comrades have to follow him now. Those are the laws.”
“I have never heard such laws.” Din argues.
“It’s true! Pre Vizla said so. Mandalorians have to follow the wielder of the Darksaber. That’s why my brother brought me to Death Watch.”
Din has a really sick, bad sort of feeling in his gut. “Okay. This is what you truly believe?” The verd nods. Din sighs, running a gloved hand down his buy’ce. He pulls the blocky hilt from his belt.
“Then you are to follow me, verd.” He states plainly, activating the blade.
Even with his buy’ce on, Amzo looks frozen in his tracks. Din would bet his jaw is dropped. Din puts the blade away.
“Now. I have a friend who is likely locked up in this compound. Lead me to him, answer my questions, and we will have no problems.” Amzo nods frantically and drops to his knees in a bow.
Ugh, Din hates being a ruling figure.
---
The lift ride is the most uncomfortable ride Din’s ever had. He learns a lot, of course, but he feels Amzo’s eyes on him and hates the vibe of worship emanating from the verd.
At least the verd seems to have a finger on the pulse around here. Din is reeling from the information dumped on him.
(“Oh, yeah, no. I have no idea how you got here. No one was supposed to be contained on this level. Why was I here then? … I screwed up a mission.”
“There’s only one high profile-high risk prisoner right now. Probably your comrade. Three floors above us. I’ll take you to him.”
“Vizla? … I don't want to talk about it. Or Maul. Their leadership… I don’t know why my brother… Next question please.”
“Slavers? I don’t know what you mean. We’re at the capital. Which capital? How do you not know? We’re in Sundari, the Capital of Mandalore.”)
That last one threw Din for quite the curveball. He feels like he’s missing something massive. He’s doing a good job of forcing everything into a box and hiding it so he doesn’t start foaming at the mouth like an animal. He just has to find Boba.
If he can just find Boba, everything will make sense. Boba always knows what’s happening.
The lift is still sluggishly moving. “Soooo.” Amzo starts, rocking back on his heels. “What is a ve-ear-d?” He struggles over the pronunciation.
Din internally winces. “Verd. V-air-d. It’s Mando’a for soldier. Do you really not speak any Mando’a?”
Amzo, if it’s possible through the full armor, looks sheepish. “They don’t teach it anymore. That’s why Vizla and Maul overthrew the last ruler. Dutchess Sabine flipped Mandalore on its head.” Amzo looks sad in the moment, shown by the slump of his shoulders. “New Mandalore, she called it. Said we needed to move past our violent pasts and go ‘pacifist’.”
Din jolts where he stands, like the words physically impacted him. “Pacifist? Mandalorians and the word nonviolent should never exist in a sentence together. It is our culture to fight. Did she know of the Resol’nare?”
Amzo seems to feel vindicated by Din’s anger. He opens his mouth to speak, but is cut off.
Before any more words can be exchanged, the doors to the lift slide open, and Din and Amzo step into the security room of the most fortified level Din has seen in some time, heralded by Amzo’s guard code ringing through the room as his presence is confirmed. There are just two guards in here, but if typical patterns are to be believed, a third is likely roaming the halls outside the safety of the security room.
Both guards face their screens. One of them scoffs as Amzo and Din enter. Din gets the distinct impression they're rolling their eyes beneath their buy’ce.
“How’d you breach confinement?” They say, voice mostly joking, but with a real mocking edge beneath it.
The other turns in their chair and freezes at seeing Din. “Amzo? Did you know you were being followed by a Mando straight out of the old legends?” They murmur, voice low but body coiled tense.
The other Mando whirls around too, hand on their blaster. “Oh what the kriff .” Din hears them mutter.
“No, no guys don't worry!! This is Beroya! He’s here to see the prisoner.”
At Din’s silent head tilt, Amzo gulps and rewords. “He’s here to see his friend. The one in cell 5b.”
“Yeah that's great, Amzo, but we can't just- we can't just let some random Mando see the prisoner . You know that, right? Tell me you know that.” The Mando'ad on the left all but chokes out.
Amzo has the gall to look affronted, as if he hasn't known Din for all of thirty standard minutes. “He is not any Mando! This is the Mand’alor!” Amzo exclaims, gesturing at Din.
The two guards, in full armor, somehow manage to show just how absolutely flabbergasted they are through stance alone. Amzo wilts. “Beroya.” He whines. “Show them.”
Din sighs, but obliges like a tired father, fishing out the Dha’kad and flicking it to life. Lighting arcs from the glinting light blade, and Din somehow knows it's trying to show off some. He retracts the blade and tucks it away again, point made.
“There's been another challenge!? You somehow beat- you bested Maul in single combat??” Lefty's incredulous voice asks.
Righty winces. "Well, look at the guy. He looks capable." They murmur. Lefty simply sighs.
Din shakes his head. “This ‘Maul’ is a deceiver. Whatever Dha’kad he claims to hold is false. How he managed this, I don't know. What I do know,” Din leans forward, crossing his arms over his chest, “What I do know, is my friend is on this level. I am to be led to him.” His tone is concrete, unwavering.
The guards offer no challenge, folding like flimsi and guiding him to the door.
The cells on this floor are not blocked off by archaic metal doors like the cells in Din’s block had been. Instead, each cell door is a wall of crackling energy that all but promises pain. Din doesn’t like it, but he continues to follow along.
Without turning his head too obviously, he eyes the contents of each cell as he passes. Almost all are empty, but Din catches sight of one or two containing… more Mandalorians. Din doesn’t know how he feels about that either. He catalogs the information, and notes he sees no food dishes, water, or bedding as well.
Din just needed to find Boba. take things one step at a time. All the inconsistencies itched at his brain.
Their party of four stops before turning the last corner. Righty shifts nervously on their feet. “We aren’t supposed to get too close. He’s got… Well, I’m sure you know.”
Din nods. Boba’s violent nature surely incited this rule. He was always a blast first, ask later type of man.
Din strides forward regardless, sure in his own safety. Amzo uses Din’s bulk like a shield, and follows sheepishly behind.
It’s obvious which cell is occupied, as the buzzing blue door feels almost… angry. And the wall around the door is scorched, likely from the effort of keeping its prisoner in.
Din steps up to the door, already prepared to vibroblade the keypad when he realizes it’s not an armored individual in the cell. His body goes tense with the sheer rage at the thought they may have stripped Boba of his armor. He may have to kill someone after all.
Impulsively, he’s slashing into the keypad, severing the connections powering the door. Rationally, the rest of his mind works and recognizes that this robed, cloaked figure isn’t Boba at all.
The man in the cell looks just as shocked as Amzo sounds, and about as wary as Din suddenly is. How awkward.
Din fights the urge to shuffle nervously.
“You are not Boba.” He states, obviously.
“I am not.” The redheaded man says back plainly.