Chapter Text
Grogu had not fully appreciated how hard it must have been to be Master Obi-Wan Kenobi.
During the Clone Wars, he had been too little to appreciate much more than the sanitized versions of heroic feats that trickled into the crèche. Back then, everyone wanted to be Master Kenobi. Or… the other one. Grogu had idolized Master Kenobi, like everyone else.
He hadn’t known about the hardships, the visions, the grief.
Here and now, Ben’s destiny had changed, no longer made for infinite sadness. But if anything could have changed with the time travel, Grogu desperately wished that it had been the visions.
He'd witnessed a few already, most too enigmatic to amount to much, and a few that Ben had refused to share, the blue tattoos bright against a crimson face. But as Grogu sensed a disturbance, he opened his eyes, drifting down to the cushion as he watched Ben. The teen still floated about a foot off the ground, rigid in his meditation pose, his normally neutral expression a mask of pain and horror. His eyes rolled under the closed lids, then suddenly snapped open as he fell out of the air, landing a heap on the ground.
Ben! Grogu leaped forward, patting him gingerly as the teen picked himself up. What happened?
Vision. Bad one, Ben replied through the bond, pale and slightly sweaty. I just... give me a second. He stumbled off to the fresher, and Grogu tried to ignore the sounds of retching. Presently, he returned, still pale but more resolute.
Will you tell me?
The future is not set, Ben responded instantly, and Grogu dug a claw into his ankle in retribution.
I know that.
It's... buir. He might get hurt-- badly. And I don't know that we'll get there in time. I didn't see him die, Ben added quickly, but-- it was an ugly fight.
Did you see with who? Pykes?
No. No one I recognized. Not a Mandalorian, either. Ben sighed, then began pulling on his armor. Grogu watched, mulling this revelation over. Mandalorians are both predator and prey, he said finally. We know this.
I know. Can you tell that I’m not wearing the back plate, with the cloak? Ben turned this way and that, glancing in the mirror.
Grogu sent back a negative, then added, is it a good idea to leave off armor, if you might be walking into a fight to save buir?
All the more reason, Ben replied grimly, checking his weapons— knives stashed in boots and on his hip, across from his saber. Extra clips for his sniper on his utility belt. If I have to fight, I can’t be hindered in my range of motion.
Well. Uncle Boba will appreciate being proven right. Grogu kept this thought to himself as he watched his brother’s sure fingers glide over his weapons, as though reassuring himself of their presence. Once again, he did not envy his Ben’s glimpses of the future, or his ‘bad feelings’. I think buir will be distracted enough by the sight of your armor.
Ben quirked a small smile, glancing down at the beskar. I do like this color, he admitted, tapping at the gold-orange of his chest plate, edged in thick bands of green. The kar’ta in the center had also been painted green, and the sigils on his shoulder plates in a bright crimson. Buir’s reaction to the red Mudhorn had drowned them all in waves of joy-pride-love in the Force, even as he coughed and gruffly said “looks good, kid.”
Will you tell him? About your vision?
Ben hesitated, his tattooed face faltering at the thought. I… don’t think so. He’s— not— he’s not really listening to me, Ben said in a rush, flushing slightly at the blasphemy. Not anymore. If I told him I saw something, or had a bad feeling, he’d just lock us down until the threat passed, even though that’s not how that works. He doesn’t think I can handle myself. You saw what happened when I asked about the Darksaber, and the title.
Grogu winced. That had been bad. Ben’s disappointment and mortification in the Force had been choking, before it suddenly vanished under iron-clad shields and a carefully neutral expression.
Do you want me to tell him?
Grogu suddenly floundered. Did he want buir to know? What he wanted was for nothing bad to happen, but that wasn’t realistic. And Ben was right. I don’t know. I trust you.
Ben grimaced. I don’t know what I can say or do to prove myself, Ben went on, pulling on his gloves, clipping his helmet to his waist. So the least I can do is not make it worse by giving him a reason to sideline me.
Grogu’s heart ached. He didn’t fully understand— and he probably never would, not for decades to come— but Ben’s heartache tore at him. From a distant, borderline neglectful Master to a parent who loved him almost too well— it had to be hard. Knowing who Obi-Wan Kenobi had once become, it was hard to imagine anyone underestimating the capabilities of Ben. Especially when he’d already done so much in this time.
But there wasn’t much Grogu could do about it. Except change the mood.
Picking up his third-favorite plushie with the Force, he lobbed it at the back of Ben’s head. It bounced, the squeaker hidden inside giving a perfectly timed “squeee!” as it fell.
“Hey!” Ben turned, then catching Grogu’s hopeful grin, his expression slid from annoyed to rueful to mischief in a heartbeat. “Oh, it’s like that, is it?”
An excellent plushie fight later (which Grogu absolutely won, thank you), they had wandered down to the hangar, spotting buir and Aunt Cerium over by a ship. They were frowning, speaking in low tones that trailed off as Grogu and Ben approached. Aunt Cerium’s frown cleared instantly into a delighted smile, arms open to catch Grogu as her launched himself from Ben’s arms. Nothing against Ben and his beskar, but Auntie Cerium was much softer.
The best cuddles.
Buir’s frown remained under his helmet, as he nodded at Ben, who cocked his head. “What’s going on?”
Auntie Cerium sighed. “I want to make some textile deliveries in Mos Eisley. And your father needs to meet with Peli about a ship. But our delightful Mando guard complement is being difficult about it.”
“You want to leave without a guard.” Outwardly Ben appeared calm, understanding, but in the Force his signature tightened with something uncomfortably close to panic.
“I don’t need a guard,” buir grumbled, and the bond flashed with resentment before Ben raised his shields. Grogu stifled a sigh, and tapped on the shields, waiting impatiently for Ben to look at him and open the bond once more.
We could offer to go. Two Jedi accompanying them?
Ben felt conflicted. I think… I will let Fennec and Axe know, and tell them to give us a thirty-minute head-start before tailing.
And you’re still not going to say anything?
I can’t try to change the future. Buir needs to get out of here. Telling him will just make him feel worse. He’s a Mandalorian, he’ll be ready for any danger anyway. And he’ll have us. But Grogu could feel a waver in that confidence, a seed of doubt.
“We can help you give them the slip. But we’re coming,” Ben stated out loud, firmly. His expression wasn’t quite a dare, but for a moment it looked as though buir would call the whole thing off.
“Fine.”
“Good. Then let's get going. Grogu, hide under Aunt Cerium’s cloak.” He glanced at Aunt Cerium, gave a little wink, and stepped back, his expression suddenly growing thunderous.
“Stars, buir— I said I already meditated! Why can’t you just listen to me?” he said loudly. A few Mandalorians glanced over, curious.
Buir jerked back slightly, stunned. “What—”
“You know what, fine! I’ll go meditate again! If you need me, I’ll be in my quarters. Happy?” Ben whirled around, his cloak twirling dramatically, and he stalked out, pointedly not looking at anyone.
“What… the kark just happened?” buir said.
Grogu peeked up from under her cloak; Auntie Cerium had her composed expression locked down, but her signature danced with hysterical laughter in the Force. “That was a diversion, Din. Part one, if I had to guess.”
“So... he didn't mean it?"
“No, Din,” Cerium softened, patting his arm consolingly. “Just an act.”
“So… now what?”
Buir ducked as an explosion rocked the hangar, then straightened as they all registered the deafening throb of something badly mimicking music, pulsing from the corner where the Mods worked on their bikes. It ricocheted off the high rough ceiling of the hangar, bouncing into every corner and filling the room with an incredible din.
Every head in the vicinity whipped around to see the young enforcers rocking their heads to the beat (if it could be called that). Mandalorians and palace workers all began to converge on the Mods, waving at them to turn off the music. They waved back, feigning blissful ignorance.
“Let’s go.” Grogu felt Cerium jump slightly, as the voice of Ben sounded in his ear. He stood in the shadow of the hatch, having stolen past them without their notice. Buir and Cerium hurried up the ramp and into the cockpit. As the ramp closed, a bellow rang out from the hangar.
“TURN THAT RACKET DOWN OR SO HELP ME THE FIRST ONE I CATCH WILL BE SCRUBBING THE RANCOR PIT WITH A KARKING TOOTHBRUSH FOR A MONTH—“
Cerium chuckled at Ben’s startled expression, pulling Grogu out from under her cloak. “Don't let him fool you, Boba is living his best life as patriarch of this madhouse,” she smiled knowingly, as she settled into a seat, checking the delivery bags around her. “The grumbling is mostly an act.”
Ben shot an incredulous look at Grogu, who merely cooed with mischievous delight.
Mos Eisley had not changed since Grogu’s last visit. At all. One and two-story dwellings blended into the landscape, the monochrome broken by the occasional banner from a vendor’s stall. Its inhabitants milled about, in no particular hurry and yet desirous of not lingering under the brutal heat of the twin suns, which only grew in intensity as the morning pressed on. Ben, Grogu, and Aunt Cerium left buir arguing with Peli over ships in hangar 3-5, and accompanied the weaver as she delivered her orders to excited customers.
Ben’s comm pinged, and he glanced down at it. “Buir is going to test the second ship, he’s going to Freetown. Won’t be back for at least an hour and a half.” Perched on Ben’s shoulder, he glanced at his brother.
Too far away if something happens.
Ben sent back a pulse of grim acknowledgment.
“How far out is our guard?”
Ben visibly startled, glancing at Aunt Cerium as she rolled her eyes, shifting the parcel under her arm. “My abilities are nothing like yours, but I don’t need them to know that it’s the right call. Besides, I got a feeling while I was weaving this morning.”
“… they’re twenty minutes out,” Ben finally answered, snagging the parcel from her and tucking it under his own. “I got a feeling too.”
Aunt Cerium hummed, her bright blue eyes on the street as she asked, “you didn’t stop us.”
“Trying to change the future sometimes just ensures that it happens.”
Cerium paused, and looked up into Ben’s carefully neutral face. She patted his cheek gently. “That’s a heavy burden.” Then continued on. Grogu glanced at Ben, trying to understand, but gave it up as he clocked the teen’s thoughtful frown.
The morning passed easily, filling the gaps between deliveries with meaningless chatter and gossip that Grogu tuned out, until he felt Ben’s attention sharpen.
“Can I ask you a personal question?”
“Of course,” Cerium smiled warmly.
“How… how did you know when, ah, your feelings for Boba were more than just as friends?”
Grogu perked up, now interested.
Cerium hummed, turning to her nearly empty satchels and flicking through them, to spare the blushing teen. “Fairly quickly. He was so mysterious and confusing— didn’t really chat, you know, and always kept the helmet on— but he kept making time for me. He’d decided that I was a priority, and that— I was a priority to very few people then. Of course, then he took his helmet off, and the view was pretty good.” She chuckled at the strangled sound Ben made.
“But I think what you’re really asking is how I knew when Boba was the one. I think— my situation was not unlike yours. I had people who I supported with my shop. And I had people who wanted me to make certain choices because it impacted them directly. Unfortunately for Boba and I, I trusted the wrong people. They cost me years of happiness, and I blame myself for that. But the challenge is that I couldn’t leave what I did at the time, not without immense guilt, and he couldn’t exactly stop working either. I wanted to, in a heartbeat, and that's how I knew. Duty held me back, but it broke my heart to do it. I lived with a hole in my chest for five years.” She glanced back at him, her smile wry. “Not something I’d recommend.”
“Maybe it’ll turn into a family tradition,” Ben aimed for lighthearted, but the other end of the bond resembled a fortress, with reinforced gates, and Grogu didn't even bother with knocking. “I’ll be Mand’alor. Can’t exactly toss that aside for love.”
“The right person won’t ask you to,” Aunt Cerium countered gently.
“I just… haven’t seen many success stories, to feel like I’ll know if I’m doing the right thing. My Master… well, attachments are dangerous for Jedi. It can lead to Falling. Knowing how to have a relationship and not get obsessed to the point of attachment— they didn’t exactly teach that at the Temple.”
Aunt Cerium hummed. “And your father doesn’t strike me as someone with a great deal of experience, either.”
“Not to mention that he’s dedicated to chasing off anyone even remotely interested,” Ben snickered. Grogu was starting to lose interest in this conversation, and gain interest in a stand selling roasted meat across the way. He couldn’t see what all the fuss was about, and his interest in the topic extended only as far as his brother and father’s happiness was concerned. And buir seemed to show no enthusiasm for the topic.
Aunt Cerium got a funny look on her face. “Is there someone that you’re interested in?”
Yes.
Ben threw Grogu a sharp look, color rising in his cheeks. “Possibly. It’s complicated. I’d like to— but I’m not sure if he’ll— it’s complicated.”
“Anyone I’ve met?”
Not yet.
Ben threw him another dirty look.
The petite weaver merely smiled again, reaching up to pat his cheek once more. “I think that you know how to put duty first, better than most. And the right person will understand and accept that. They won’t ask you to choose. Any time you need someone to talk to, my door is always open. No matter what.”
“Thank—” Ben didn’t finish the sentence, as his eyes went wide and he pushed her down, pulling his saber, but not fast enough—
A blaster bolt blitzed out of nowhere, the red streak blurring towards them—
Grogu reached out a claw, concentrating, harnessing the energy, and the bolt went wide, slamming harmlessly into the stone wall of a building. Blue plasma shot out like a beacon from Ben’s lightsaber, and he took up a defensive stance, batting away and redirecting the shots that suddenly flew thick and fast.
“We need to move!” Ben shouted, switching to a one-handed grip as he unclipped his helmet and jammed it on. “Axe and Fennec and the others are a few minutes away. We need to get to cover.”
Aunt Cerium had gotten back to her feet and pulled a blaster from somewhere, calmly firing back. “I defer to your judgment.”
“Follow me,” Ben began moving slowly towards a low wall, crouching behind it and pulling his sniper. “Grogu, can you reach for them and throw some people around? We need to know who we’re dealing with.”
Grogu’s eyes fell closed, and he reached out in the Force, feeling for signatures far too close for comfort, bleeding with fear and malevolent intent. He pulled, and with a startled shriek, several Pykes went flying into the middle of the street, colliding with a hearty clunk.
Suddenly, a staccato of blaster fire rose from behind them, and several Mandalorians roared overhead, throttling their jetpacks as they rushed the enemy. Aunty Fennec dropped over the side of the wall and joined them, crouched down.
“You do realize that this is going to set you back, on being able to go anywhere by yourselves,” she commented drily as she lined up a shot.
“I am aware, Fennec,” Ben snipped, eyes focused on the sights of his rifle. “I realize that my foresight to have backup arrive will go completely unrecognized, as usual.”
Aunty Fennec rolled her eyes. “Anyone injured?”
“No, we’re fine. Another point that will go unrecognized,” Ben complained, straightening as the blaster fire suddenly stopped. Grogu clambered up onto his shoulder. “Buir’s not back yet, though. We should go secure the ship we brought, in case anyone else gets ideas.”
“Good call, telling us to follow,” Axe nodded at him as they converged in the middle of the street. He nudged one of the bodies with his boot. “They’re getting more bold. Cerium, I’m sorry to tell you this, but your shop was bombed about fifteen minutes ago.”
Cerium staggered, caught under the arms by Fennec. “My fibers, my looms,” she breathed, horror-struck. Axe bowed his head, acknowledging her loss.
“Let’s get you back. Fennec?”
“Yah, I’ll take one squad and head back. C’mon Cerium, Boba’s losing his mind right now. You two need each other,” she said kindly, half-carrying the weaver as the protective detail fell in around them. Axe shook his head, and turned back to Ben, who gestured towards hangar 3-5.
“Ship’s in 3-6. 3-5 was full with the two ships,” Ben said out loud. Grogu felt him tap the bond. Okay?
Grogu didn’t have a chance to answer. Ben suddenly staggered, just as Cerium had. Axe caught him under the arm, and Grogu held onto the edge of Ben’s helmet for dear life.
“Kark, I should have checked you myself,” Axe growled, his panic-anger-determination bleeding everywhere. “Where are you hurt?”
“It’s not that— it’s buir. I— he needs help. Can you hail him over comms?” Ben’s voice sounded thin and high through the vocoder. Axe was silent for a long moment.
“No.”
Ben swore, the bond saturated with panic for a long second before he locked it away again. Grogu had no such qualms, mewing his distress for everyone to hear. That was his buir. He needed him. And if he was hurt, Grogu needed to get there and save him.
“He went to Freetown. I’ll start there. Meet us when you can.” Ben reached up and grabbed Grogu, tucking him into an arm before sprinting off to hangar 3-5, Axe shouting behind him.
“Get back here! You need backup!”
“Doubt it,” Ben muttered, as he skidded into the hangar and leapt into the open cockpit of the N-1 starfighter that Peli had tried to sell buir earlier. Grogu couldn’t find himself to feel bad as Axe continued to yell over comms, as Peli squawked from her office at the sudden firing of the engines, as the ship rose into the air and streaked through the atmosphere for Freetown.
Not if the backup couldn’t keep up.
Din put the freighter down in the flats just beyond the town.
Freetown looked much the same as it had six months ago when he stopped by, with Grogu and Ben. He felt a slight pang for leaving his sons behind; he knew they worried. They all did.
But the flight, the solitude he hadn’t known for some time now, refreshed his soul. This had been his life once, and he would not trade his sons for anything, but the momentary step back into an old life helped.
The freighter was decent, a solid buy. It needed work— a weapons system, reinforced cladding— but every ship would. And this could comfortably house nearly a dozen, if he ever needed that capability.
Better than the N-1 would.
He’d stared at the little starfighter in silence as Peli had rattled on about its capabilities.
“Peli, this is not what we discussed.”
“Yeah, yeah, but I think you don’t know what you want, Mando! This baby is a speed demon, and a rare vintage ship—”
“That’s not the type of mid-life crisis I’m having, Peli. I need a ship with multiple bunks and seats.”
She’d been deeply reluctant to show him the freighter, but he was sold.
He disembarked, pleased but confused to see someone who was not Cobb Vanth approaching him.
“If you wanna park your starship, you gotta do it out there in the flats,” the man said, and Din stopped short.
“I’m looking for Marshal Vanth.”
The Deputy scoffed. “I don't think you heard what I said.”
Why was law enforcement always like this? “I heard you,” Din retorted evenly, letting a little menace drop into his voice.
“I’ll take it from here, Deputy,” Cobb had sauntered up behind the Deputy, a knowing grin hidden. He waited, pointedly for the Deputy to mosey away reluctantly, and tilted his helmet at Cobb, who smirked. “He’s new.”
Din shrugged, revising his earlier though. Marshals were fine— Cara and Cobb, specifically. It was only the rest of them that were a problem. “How have you been?”
Cobb shrugged, gesturing towards the bar. "More careful. Where are the kids?”
“Mos Eisley. Just taking the ship for a test flight, figured I’d stop in.”
Cobb paused, a grin quirking the corner of his mouth. “You ain’t running away, are you, Mand’alor?”
Din sighed. “Just a test flight.” Movement caught his eye, and he glanced across the street to the med clinic, where a familiar brunette glared at him fearlessly, hands on her hips. “See Thenia’s still my number-one fan.”
Cobb chuckled, pushing into the bar. “She’s still mad at you for taking the armor. We’ve patched things up— mostly— but I think she’ll hate you for a while yet.”
“Has… there been a need for armor?” Din asked cautiously, sitting down as Cobb poured himself a finger of spotchka. “Your reports to Ben didn’t mention any problems.”
Cobb stared speculatively at Din over the rim of the glass, before tossing the drink back. “And there haven't been. Until yesterday. Came across a… transaction, out near the evaporators. Left a few in the sand, and kicked a small chest of spice into the wind. Don’t think the Pykes will take kindly to that.”
“Ben might be able to send a squad out here, at least until things blow over—“ Din began, trailing off as Cobb waved him down.
“We’ll be fine. We’re tougher than a tick on a bantha’s ass out here, and not worth the effort, neither. We can handle what they throw our way. Plus, I’ve got my deputy.”
“Yes, the jumpy one,” Din noted drily, smiling beneath his buy’ce as Cobb laughed.
“Not everyone can be a Mandalorian.” Cobb’s smile fell as the Deputy in question ran into the cantina suddenly, flushed with panic.
“Someone’s walking in from the desert, Marshal.”
Cobb stood up instantly, Din a second later. “Get everyone in their homes, Deputy. Mando, let me handle this,” he shot at Din, who frowned.
“At least let me back you up,” he urged.
Cobb sighed, stepping very close to Din. “I’ve seen your hands, friend,” he murmured quietly, his lips barely moving. Dini stilled, his stomach in his boots. “Let me handle this, okay? You can stand there and intimidate, and call your squad in if you want, but you let me do the talking and the shooting, all right?”
Din nodded, unable to reply. He’d— he’d try to hide, had thought he’d hidden it well enough. Cobb sighed again, patting his shoulder, before loosening his blaster in its holster and stepping out into the bright twin suns. Numb, Din followed.
He could do this. He could. He’d do it Cobb’s way, but if needed, he could fight.
A humanoid in a broad hat and long duster stood at the far end of the street. The hair on Din’s neck prickled as the humanoid looked up, revealing a Duros with a breathing apparatus. He looked familiar, but Din couldn’t place him, someone he’d heard about but never worked with.
But reputable enough to be a danger. Din felt the silence of the town as acutely as he had the music in the hangar this morning, deafening in its own way. Even the wind had stilled, breathless with anticipation as the Marshal, the Mand’alor, and the bounty hunter stared at each other.
“Cobb Vanth,” the rumbling bass of the Duros broke the silence, and the bounty hunter tilted his hat at Din without taking his blood-red eyes away from Cobb. “And the Mand’alor.”
Cobb looked nonplussed, an act that wasn’t totally sold, given the tense posture of his body. “And who might you be?”
“Whatever Fett is paying you, we’ll match,” the Duros ignored the question. “And all you’ve got to do is stay put and let things play out.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name,” Cobb replied, offensively polite with that folksy charm. The memory finally hit Din, as he stared at the Duros.
Cad Bane.
“I’d be careful where I was sticking my nose, if I were you,” Bane menaced, his pointed teeth bared.
Cobb’s eyebrows rose. “Is that friendly advice, or a threat?”
“Fett can’t control the entire planet, even if he’s got a pack of Mandalorian dogs to do his bidding,” Bane nodded at Din once again. “Fett’s a cold-blooded killer who worked for the Empire. He’s only in it for the money, not for the people. And as for the Mandos, they’ll leave when they’re not getting paid anymore. Your security is an illusion. And the Jedi majordomo won’t be able to save you all. Not when he’s dead.
“You let the spice run, and you’ll get paid.”
Din froze, his mind short-circuiting with fear and rage. That’s what he wants, he tried to tell himself, but the protective fury was overriding common sense.
Cobb tilted his head. “I don't think so. We ain’t letting our people be poisoned and murdered by the the spice trade any longer. Best leave, while you still can.”
Bane didn’t answer for a long moment, as though waiting for Cobb to suddenly change his mind. “You should have never given up your armor,” he growled finally, brushing aside his duster to reveal the silver glint of a blaster grip.
Din inhaled slowly, his own hand on his blaster, praying that his misfiring nerves didn’t fail him now. His children’s safety was on the line, not to mention Boba’s, and the whole gotra, and Cobb—
Bane pulled his blaster, Cobb a half-second behind, and Din long after that. But Bane’s shot went wide, barely clipping Cobb in the shoulder, as he turned to fire at Din. He’d obviously thought that Din would be a greater threat, and rushed his shot at Cobb.
It was a momentary reprieve, but only a moment. Bane was clearly an excellent shot, and had already landed a few shots on Din that the beskar luckily caught. Din had to get in close, brawl if needed. Bane would be too good to fight at a distance, where he’d find the gaps in his armor.
He leapt off of the porch, launching into the air with his jetpack. It would get him to Bane faster—
“Fuck!” Din muttered quietly, as Bane engaged karking rockets on his boots and took off into the sands. Behind him, Thenia had already burst out of her clinic, falling to Cobb’s side. He’d be all right, but out of this fight.
It was down to Din.
He raced after the bounty hunter, trading shots. The Duros was good, too good, and a wiser Din would have fallen back, called for reinforcements. But his blood was singing through his veins in a way it hadn’t for over a year now, and he chased the high as much as he chased the bounty hunter, eager for a hunt of his own.
The Duros suddenly cut the rockets on his boots, dropping to the ground and aiming at Din’s chest. Din couldn’t help the cry as the shot connected, missing the chest plate and slamming deep into his stomach. Fiery pain exploded, and he lost control of his thruster, dropping heavily to the ground. His leg buckled as he slammed not into soft sand, but hard rock. Bane was already standing, circling away from a ledge; they’d stopped near the edge of a canyon. Din needed to even the odds— he fired his whistling birds, taking advantage of Bane's distraction to close the distance and tackle the Duros.
But Bane writhed in his grip, punching at the blaster burn in his stomach, and Din loosened his grip with a grunt, felt the white-hot burn of a vibroblade slashing at his kute, the armorweave taking most of the hit but the blade’s edge scoring him on his arms, legs, and torso. The Euros moved like a serpent, eeling out of his grip and gaining some distance to land a few more shots with his blaster-- none vital, but it hardly mattered as pain punched through each hit. Dark spots danced in Din’s vision, and he knew his haggard breathing was betraying him via his vocoder. He staggered upright, but Bane kicked him in the chest, dropping him hard. His kute felt damp from blood and sweat, sticking to his body.
“Jedi, clones, Mandalorians— they’re all the same,” growled the bounty hunter. “Once you figure one out, the rest are easy.” He set his boot under Din’s back, and rolled him off the ledge of the canyon.
Din blacked out before he hit the ground.