The Mandalorian's Slave

The Passenger

I'm covered in grime and sweat as we approach Mos Eisley. I cling to the speeder as the Mandalorian presses us faster, racing toward a city with no answers.

A jolt of fear races down my spine as we approach a rocky canon. Something's waiting for us.

"Wait," I choke, my mouth chalky from the sand.

It's too late. I'm catapulted awkwardly from the bike, spinning haphazardly in the air before hitting the hard ground.

I'm dimly aware of the speeder blowing up and the sound of angry blaster fire. But my focus is on the Child. I crawl toward him, ignoring the pain shooting down my arm.

"Get the Child," one of our attackers hollers.

A small alien man dashes toward the Child. I fumble with my blaster, narrowly hitting him before he could the Child.

But I was too focused. I didn't notice the droid sneaking up behind me until its cold hands wrapped around my arms. A glancing kiss of a knife is pressed into my neck.

The Mandalorian whirls around, the three other thugs bloody and dying.

"Wait," he says. "Don't hurt her. If you put one mark on her, there's no place you will able to hide from me."

His words cause my face to flush. I know they're just for show, but part of me yearns to be alone with the Mandalorian again, nothing but thin sheets between us.

"We can strike a bargain," Din continues. "There's a lot of value in this wreckage. Take your pick. But leave her."

The droid voices its demands in a warbled, alien language. But its intent is clear enough: it wants the jet pack.

"Ok," the Mandalorian says, taking it off slowly. "Here. It's yours. Take it."

The droid shoves me to the ground and snatches the jet pack up. The Child coos, peering at me with worried eyes.

"Are you ok?" I manage a weak nod. "Watch this."

The Mandalorian presses a button on his wrist guard, turning the jet pack on. The droid rockets into the sky, screaming before letting go and flopping to desert ground.

"I'm really glad the attacked us," I say with a shaky smile. "I was really wanting a walk."

"Can you walk?"

"Who do you think I am? Of course I can walk. I've been through worse," I tease.

We manage to salvage most of the wreckage. We carry it in slings across our backs, clanking with every step.

It's oddly familiar, to be sweating under a desert sun again, carrying wreckage. It's strange to think that less than a year ago, that was my life on Jakku.

The suns have set by the time we reach Mos Eisley. My muscles ache and my clothes are glued to my sweaty body as we stumble down the narrow streets.

We duck inside a small tavern, a spot frequently inhabited by Peli. Sure enough, she sits in a corner, gambling with an insect-looking alien.

"You finally found a Mandalorian and ya killed him?" She asks, eying the new armor strapped to our belongings.

"He wasn't Mandalorian. I bought this armor off of him, though."

"What'd that set you back?"

"Killed the krayt dragon for him," Din says simply, as if he didn't risk our lives.

"Oh, is that all?" Peli mocks, her thin eyebrows arching upward.

"He was my last lead on finding other Mandalorians."