Chapter Text
Cobb notices the trip wire too late before he’s bailing off his modified Randon-Ulzer pod engine into the sand before he gets seriously maimed by the wire. His speeder, however, tangles itself with the wire and it gets sucked into the engine and bursts into smoke and flame.
Cobb, himself, is a bit worse for wear. He hit the ground hard and didn’t have enough time to tuck into a roll before slamming shoulder first onto the ground. He moves quickly to his knees and fumbles for a blaster to lift it in a defensive pose.
He scans for movement nearby the small hills and rocks that dot this part of the run towards Mos Pelgo.
It’s been a clean run since he ran out the Red Key Raiders years ago. And with the newly established peace treaty between Mos Pelgo and the local Tusken tribes, the path towards the larger cities has never been safer.
He gets wobbly to his feet with his blaster clutched in both hands. His right shoulder and hip are smarting from the previous impact, but nothing he can’t work with. But it’s just another reminder that even his durasteel plated armour doesn’t provide as much support as his previous Mandalorian set did.
He’s been managing since handing it off to the Mandalorian that passed through town some months ago. It was a good trade, in the long run, for peace and security. But he still misses it.
He lowers his guard after a solid moment of scanning all the usual areas where a bandit would hide. They’re usually not a bright bunch, and Cobb has a reputation in these parts. Don’t catch yourself on the other side of the Marshal’s blaster because you won’t be walking away.
It could’ve been a leftover from a previous trap that never saw fruition. And it only cost him a speeder to dismantle it.
Cobb sighs and holsters his side arm before limping his way towards the wreck where it lies still smoking and idle in the sand. It’s a complete write off. It’s not even worth it to try and drag back to Mos Pelgo and get it fixed. Might as well leave it for the Jawas if they come this way.
He begins to take what gear he has and prepare himself for the long walk back to Mos Pelgo. He holds a hand to the suns and measures the distance between them and the horizon with the flat of his hand. He’s got maybe three hours of daylight left. If he’s lucky, Jo will send someone out to scout around for him and he won’t have to walk for the next four or five hours for him to walk back on foot. Kriff. He really should take Jo’s advice and not—
He falls heavily to the ground, his vision going black after a solid hit to the back of his head. He’s not sure how long he is on the ground, but he’s aware of the sand at his fingertips as he clutches at the ground and then reaches for his blaster. Just as he gets it out, a boot lashes out and kicks his hand. His blaster goes skittering across the ground, far out of his reach.
“I have bested you, chakaar !”
The modulated voice is sharp and clear in Cobb’s rattled mind, and he has to blink to clear the stars in his eyes.
There is a figure standing over him, short and stout but blocking out the suns, dressed in a familiar pattern of armour.
A Mandalorian.
Not his Mandalorian. Not Mando with the gentle cadence and cute kid. Not the tenacious sun-of-a-gundark who flew into a Krayt dragon’s mouth because he knew it was a job that had to be done and damn the consequences.
This is not a Mandalorian Cobb knows.
“Now,” he says. “I ain’t too familiar with people like you. But round these parts you don’t just ambush a man and demand something from him.”
“You are the chakaar,” the Mandalorian says. “You are Marshal Vanth.”
“Yeah? And who might you be?”
The Mandalorian says nothing and produces a pair of durasteel binders. He moves to kneel over top of Cobb’s prone form and as soon as he’s close enough, Cobb reaches for the knife at his thigh. He grips the hilt and makes a desperate swipe. He gets a shallow cut in at the Mandalorian’s calf, causing him to swear and jump back, giving Cobb the opening to scramble for his blaster.
He's able to fire off two rounds, one going wide over the Mandalorian’s shoulder and the second striking him on the pauldron. The Mandalorian charges forward, and Cobb rolls onto his back for a better shot, aiming for where he knows gaps in the armour are. The Mandalorian is forced to roll out of the way before drawing out his own blaster. Cobb takes the time to dive around the wreckage of his speeder for cover.
The desert goes quiet except for Cobb’s harsh breathing and rapid heartbeat. He peeks around his cover and doesn’t see the Mandalorian.
“Think you got me mistaken for someone else,” he says, relying on his silver tongue to try and persuade the stranger otherwise. He feels at the back of his head and hisses when he feels a tender spot. “Ain’t no Marshals around here. New Republic don’t have jurisdiction here.”
“There are stories of an amour thief,” the Mandalorain says. “Of a man in red daring to wear what is not rightfully his.”
“If you’re looking for that armour, you should try talkin’ to your own people. That set is long gone and back with its owner.”
There is no response this time, and Cobb looks over the speeder and catches no sight of the Mandalorian. He contemplates repositioning himself, trying to get the upper hand, but then the Mandalorian suddenly appears, launching himself over the wreck and landing on Cobb.
“The armour may no longer be yours, but the slight has not been paid.”
Cobb’s arms are pinned as they are and he’s given no leverage to try and buck the solid weight of the Mandalorian off his chest. The collar of his shirt is gripped by the Mandalorian and a solid fist crashes into his face. The stars once more return, and as dazed as he is, it’s easy for the Mandalorain to flip Cobb onto his stomach and bind his hands behind his back.
“The Mand’alor will be pleased to have you and show the whole galaxy what we do to thieves.”
Cobb spits onto the ground. “Eh chu ta.”
“Not likely.”
He becomes aware of a throbbing numbness in his shoulders and wrists. His arms are pinned over his head he belatedly realizes.
When Cobb opens his eyes, he discovers he’s not where he should be.
There’s no sand beneath him. The air tastes metallic, filtered in a way that’s entirely foreign to him. And it’s cold.
He opens his eyes and the few pinpricks of light that are in the area are harshly artificial. He groans and feels a throb upon his left cheekbone that extends across the bridge of his nose and up along his forehead. He is slumped on his knees, held in . . . he hears a hum. A ship.
Kark.
Kriffing hells.
The Mandalorian.
Not—not his Mandalorian. The other one.
The ambush.
He groans and tips his head back, looking up at the dim ceiling above him. He’s tethered from a cable sunk into the ceiling. The durasteel binders at his wrists are thick and they dig in tightly to his skin, a constant pressure he won’t be able to wriggle out of.
C’mon, Vanth. Get your bearings.
He is on a ship, being taken Stars only knows where by a Mandalorian. As far as he’s aware, there is no bounty out on his head, not since Boba Fett came in and shook things up at Jabba’s old palace. Things have been rather peaceful, so what does a Mandalorian bounty hunter want with him?
A shift of movement off to the right alerts Cobb to the Mandalorian. He spins around in the pilot’s chair at the front of the ship and gets to his feet. Cobb tries to gather his legs underneath him, his right hip twinging from the previous tumble he took off of his speeder.
“You awake, chakaar ?” the Mandalorian asks.
Cobb sees that his armour is painted a deep green, and judging from his voice, he sounds young. A certain gruffness not there that Cobb is used to in his older years.
Greenhorn, he thinks.
“That’s what happens when a fist of steel comes crashin’ down on ya,” he says, wincing as his eyes struggle to adjust to the light. He didn’t think he’d been hit that hard.
Greenhorn crouches down and takes Cobb’s chin in hand to tilt his head to the right to inspect the bruising. Cobb nearly bites his tongue at being handled in such a way. He shakes free and Greenhorn backs off.
“Get comfortable, chakaar . It’s a long trip.”
As Greenhorn turns his back on Cobb, Cobb acts on impulse. He hops up on his feet, still crouched so he can sweep a leg out and catch Greenhorn by surprise to send him stumbling. Using the slack in his tether, he reaches forward to loop his bound hands over Greenhorn’s head to try and crush his throat.
Sorry, Mando.
In another life, he wouldn’t think twice about murdering a Mandalorian. It was a cutthroat world out there, but knowing of Mando and his people, his struggle to find a home and community and finding his way out to Cobb’s little corner of the universe.
His hesitation allows for Greenhorn to whip his head back against Cobb’s face, his solid helmet crashing against his nose, stunning him enough for Greenhorn to slip out and yank on the tether, raising Cobb to his feet, straining his arms further. Then he drives his fist into Cobb’s gut, forcing the air from his lungs. He coughs and feels something wet roll down his nose and drip onto the floor.
“You’re quick,” Greenhorn says. “Knew you’d be a fight. The Mand’alor will enjoy you.”
Cobb can only gasp in response as he waits for his rapidly beating heart to calm and his lungs to return to normal. He glares at the retreating back of Greenhorn as he returns to the pilot’s seat.
Cobb has experienced many humiliations over his lifetime. He’s no stranger to being chained up, beaten, and treated like a challenge. But that had been years ago and since then Cobb has lived a life where he is respected because he’s earned it and built his reputation. Here, he’s a prize, a challenge, something to be controlled, and if there’s one thing Cobb hates, it’s being controlled.
The way he’s tethered barely lets him get his feet flat on the floor without it pulling on his shoulders, and if he wants to reduce the strain he has to stand on the balls of his feet. He is not a young man these days. There are more creaks in his joints than not. The trials of his life are catching up with his body, and now he is being taken very far away with no means of help.
He'd say he’s up a creek without a paddle, but he’s never seen a creek outside of holofilms.
He’s just well and truly fucked.
In the past, Cobb would shut down when he was in tremendous pain. It happened as a means of survival. Detach himself from his body so he wasn’t aware of the abuse being done to it until long after the fact. When he could take stock of where he was hurting and piece together why.
His shoulders ache and his hands are numb from how he’s hanging. It is a constant and never-ending pain. He hears Greenhorn chatter up ahead, but can’t pick out the language he’s speaking in. He hears the word chakaar a few times and can surmise that he’s being talked about.
He’s trying to think of his options still. He’ll get out of this. He has to. Because the thought of being cut off from Tatooine, from his community, from his friends and acquaintances, it’s unthinkable. He cannot imagine that future, so he won’t. So it is inevitable he’ll find a way home. It’s just a matter of how and when.
Greenhorn gets up from the seat and walks over to Cobb. Cobb can catch the barest glimpse of a planet out through the transparisteel of the ship. It almost looks like Tatooine.
“You awake, chakaar ?”
Cobb doesn’t offer him a response and continues to let his head hang. Best to save his energy for the best moment to give him the slip.
Fingers thread into his hair and pull his head up, and Cobb tries not to wince. He doesn’t know if he succeeds.
“Hmm. Best to get you cleaned up.”
Greenhorn dabs at his bloodied face with a damp rag to clean him up.
Get him pretty.
Get you nice lookin’.
Can’t have you be a chore.
Cobb blinks suddenly and finds himself struggling to stand to take the pressure off his shoulders as best he can.
“We’re landing soon,” Greenhorn says. “The Mand’alor is seeing the court publicly. You’ll be expected. Best to have you looking your best.”
Cobb jerks back on instinct. “Fuck off!”
“You know, Marshal, I was expecting more out of you. Whatever happened to your armour and whoever took it, they were weak in letting you live. But now I’m starting to think they pitied you. Weren’t worth killing over.”
He reaches up to release Cobb from the tether, and the only sound Cobb makes when he lowers his arms for the first time in hours is what could be called a minor cough.
He only has time to flex his fingers briefly before Greenhorn is releasing one hand from the binders only to twist his arms behind his back and bind them there. He feels something pull hard in his right shoulder and he grunts, nearly baring his teeth as he would have in the past. Snap his teeth. Put up a threatening display and make people think twice before they touched him. Just a feral desert freak.
But he doesn’t think that display will work with Greenhorn.
“Here,” Greenhorn says. “The air is toxic until we reach the city. You’ll need this. Or you can spend the walk coughing up blood. Your choice.” He holds up an oxygen mask. It’s attached to a tank on his back.
Cobb runs his tongue against the back of his teeth and dips his head enough for Greenhorn to fix it in place. Now he truly has no choice but to follow him or otherwise choke on this strange world.
With a firm grip on his arm, Greenhorn leads him to the end of the ship and punches a button sternly with his first to lower the ramp. Warm air buffets Cobb’s hair and he squints at the harsh light of the sun reflecting off the ground.
It’s a wasteland they walk out onto. Far up ahead, a fair walk from the airstrip they’re settled on, is a domed city. Cobb looks about his surroundings as best he can. There are other Mandalorians milling about, all in various assemblages of armour in different colours and different styles. Many seem to be milling around their ships and others seem to be headed in one direction—the entrance to the city.
Greenhorn says nothing and tugs Cobb along. Cobb feels a prickling of displeasure creep down his spine as they near the domed city. He’s on display here and he hates the feeling that comes with this notion. He’s not a person. He’s a thing. He’s a prize, a trophy. He’s been brought here to atone for a crime he didn’t know he committed. Soon he and Greenhorn are joined by others.
“Tep , gar oya'karir nu’cuyi te bralov.” (1)
Again, they’re speaking in a language Cobb doesn’t understand, and it only rankles him more that he’s barely given consideration. If he were back on Tatooine, he’d be raising hell, kicking up a fuss until they were forced to lay a hand on him and he’d strike back. He can’t do any of that here, so he has to stand by as they talk over him and about him without actually talking to him.
“Ni kelir hiibir kaysh at te mand'alor.” (2)
“Meg vaabir gar mirdir kelir banar?” (3)
“Meg vaabir gar mirdir?” (4)
They laugh and Cobb has to look at Greenhorn to try and sus out what had just been said, but with the helmet there, there are only so many physical cues he can go off of. And seeing as he knows little of Mandalorians other than the few whispers he’d hear in a slave camp or the slave quarters of Mos Espa, Cobb has no basis of understanding Mandalorians and their culture.
He's jostled forward and he suppresses the urge to shake free from Greenhorn’s hold. He is utterly dependent on the Mandalorian for survival. What he needs to do is lie low, play the game, and bide his time. Without a doubt he’ll be able to commandeer one of these starskippers and chart a path back to Tatooine.
They approach the walls of the city, towering constructions of rock and steel and then there are the large main gates, two pairs of doors to keep the air within the city safe. The Mandalorians stationed here are wearing even heavier gear than Greenhorn is. Again, they are questioned before entry, and one of the Mandalorians turns their head in Cobb’s direction.
“Gai?” (5)
Cobb says nothing.
“Cobb Vanth,” Greenhorn says. “Te chakaar.” (6)
The Mandalorian tilts their head. “Olarom yaim, Tep. Sur’ulur sur'haai bat kaysh.” (7)
“Kaysh ne’ven cuyir te wero.” (8)
Cobb is jostled forward through the gate which immediately seals behind them. Cobb hears the sound of the chamber being pressurized, or some sort of filtration system being activated before they’re allowed to pass through the next checkpoint.
When they finally pass into the city and Cobb sees the towering constructions before him, various skyscrapers of durasteel, transparisteel, and stone, it was more than he could handle.
He baulks. He digs his feet in and shook off Greenhorn’s arm. He tries to twist away. He wants to run. Needs to run.
“Hey. Hey!”
There’s someone at his back and he turns and there’s someone approaching him to his left, and there’s an iron grip around his shoulders and the Greenhorn is in front of him, and the people around him are caging him in.
“Taylir kaysh!” (9)
“Ve'ganir kaysh bat kaysh lovike!” (10)
He’s kicked at his knees, and he cries out and lands on the stones beneath him. He’s held on his knees as his breathing mask is removed.
“Haa'tayir kaysh.” (11)
His scarf is taken from his neck and tied over his eyes. He tries to shake free from their hands. He kicks back and falls on his backside until there’s a hard hit to the back of his head which stops his struggling.
He can’t see anything now. Can’t see the towering city before him. A stark reminder that he is not on Tatooine, and he is not playing by rules he’s familiar with. He does not have the power here, and he can’t play as if he’s had any.
He’s picked up and set on his feet and there’s a stern push between his shoulder blades, sending him stumbling forward, blindly, before he feels a hand on his arm.
“It is truly magnificent, isn’t, chakaar? Sundari as it should be. The great city of Mandalore.” The Greenhorn sounds pleased. In awe almost. “If the Mand’alor lets you live, maybe you’ll get to experience its beauty.”
He says nothing and stumbles blindly after Greenhorn’s lead.
He relies on his hearing for the most part. He picks out more languages than the current one he’s been hearing. Mandalorian, he has to assume. He doesn’t know the proper name of it. But he picks out others. Other dialects maybe. Nothing he knows except for some Basic. No Huttese. No Jawa. No Bocce.
Cobb is not a trusting man, but when he is forced, he knows he must concede no matter how hard he grinds his teeth.
Give a little. Gain a lot.
It’s worked for him in the past, but that’s when he knew what playing field he was on.
He doesn’t know much of Mandalorians beyond his Mandalorian. Only heard stories, and none of them matched up.
He feels when he enters a building. The hustle and bustle of the lively streets around him quiet and go silent. Heavy doors close behind him, and he hears voices echoing from up ahead. Their footfalls click against stone, and Cobb feels his heart rate climb with each step they take. This feels final. This feels like he’s being dragged before Jabba the Hutt.
He feels the energy around him shift. He can tell there are people around him, a crowd as far as he can tell. He relies on Greenhorn on when to stop and when to walk forward. When he feels Greenhorn’s grip on his arm tighten for just a moment, he knows it’s time to face the Mand’alor—and by Cobb’s guess, this person must be a leader of some sorts. A king. A queen. Someone in charge. And Cobb is to be their prize.
“Oya, Mand’alor!” Greenhorn says next to him, his voice carrying forward with clarity and purpose. “I come from far away.” He’s finally speaking in Basic. “I come from a hunt to find the chakaar who dared to steal what belonged to one of us. Beskar’gam! I have the Marshal who played a Mandalorian for his own gain!”
The scarf is taken from his eyes, and he blinks to clear his vision to face the Mandalorian before him.
The Mand’alor sits on a throne of black stone. There is a banner set up behind it baring the skull of a horned animal, white on a black field. For a moment, Cobb thinks he recognizes it, then he sees the same mark on the Mand’alor’s pauldron. He sits there in an alert pose, his arms on the throne’s rests, posture straight, dressed in heavy armour that is painted in a deep green with white accents, though one of his vambraces is steel grey. Fur coats his shoulders, likely from some sort of cloak.
“I give the chakaar of Tatooine to you, oh mighty Mand’alor! To do with as you so please. To send a message to the galaxy that no one will dare to claim what belongs to Mandalore ever again!”
There are some strong cheers from the crowd, and Cobb stands there grinding his teeth.
He looks to the Mand’alor who sits there stoically, unmoving and watching as Cobb is offered up as a prize, a gift, and Cobb decides he will not tolerate this further.
He breaks away from Greenhorn and jumps up to kick with both his feet, which collide with his cuirass and sends the unexpecting Greenhorn to the ground. The manoeuvre makes land hard on the ground, but he’s quick to get to his feet, and turn his back on the Mand’alor and faces the crowd. There are dozens of Mandalorians here. Many in various forms of armour, heavy and light. Some even have their helmets off.
He didn’t know they could do that. His Mandalorian never took his armour off.
In fact they—
He leans back harshly to avoid an incoming swipe from Greenhorn, only to have his legs kicked out from beneath him. He falls and before he can even muster another display, Greenhorn fists a hand in his hair and pulls his head back and sets a vibroknife to his skin, its sharpened edge humming against his neck.
“Enough!”
Cobb’s eyes snap forward and he sees the Mand’alor at his feet, one hand resting at his hip as if there’s a blaster to grab, body slightly angled.
“I’ll not have blood spilt on these floors,” he says. His voice has a softness to it, but it is loud and carries far throughout the room.
“The chakaar has disgraced us!”
“And I will not allow his life to be forfeit!”
“Justice must be done!”
“And it will. But not with blood. Enough has been spilled in our history.”
From somewhere in the crowd, another voice shouts, “The pacifist Satine Kryze led to our demise!”
The Mand’alor’s head turns in their direction. “Do not mistake my justice for pacifism. I am not one to forget slights. But I am not one to continue the feuds of the past which led to the loss of our home and the degradation of our culture. But to correct our mistakes we must allow for opportunities to learn and make amends.” The Mand’alor steps down from the throne, and Cobb finds himself shrinking back as he towers over him, his cloak just trailing the floor from how long and heavy it is. He looks down at Cobb, and Cobb can only guess as to what he’s seeing.
The Mand’alor turns his face to the crowd. “The chakaar will remain here under my watch, and I will ascertain when his penance has come to an end. When he has recognized his mistakes, I will decide if he has earned his freedom.”
Cobb’s lip curls. “The hells you will.” Greenhorn shushes him and presses the tip of the knife sharply against his skin.
“I have spoken.” The Mand’alor turns and moves to stand before his throne. “Court has ended. Turn your matters to your local officials.” Then the Mand’alor turns in a flurry of fur and cloth and metal before departing from the room.
Greenhorn releases Cobb and shoves him forward. He pitches and catches himself before he falls completely to the ground. He isn’t left alone long before two larger Mandalorians with their armour painted black and gold pick him up off the floor and hurry him along out of the room—away from Greenhorn and all the other prying eyes of this strange courtly procession.
There isn’t much he can do other than to try and keep his feet steady as he is dragged through long hallways and descending down stairs until he comes to some sort of holding facility. It’s deathly quiet here and cold. The metal has stolen all the warmth from up above, and he is marched into one of the holding cells here, a small box of a room with a barred window, a cot for a bed, a sink and a toilet.
He’s pressed to his knees so they can remove the binders, and Cobb brings his arms around to his front slowly. Before he can even turn around, a heavy door closes behind him and clicks. He’s locked in.
He shifts onto his left hip and winces before easing himself to lean back against the cot and stretch out his legs. He keeps his hands loosely gathered in his lap, his shoulders aching and throbbing from the abuse they’ve endured for how many hours it’s been since he was taken from Tatooine.
He turns his head to the door and sees the imposing metal before him. There are two hatches. One at eye level and another at the very bottom. He hears nothing around him except for how he shifts upon the stone beneath him. Light streams in from the barred window, and he supposes that’s a comfort.
He’s not in the dark this time.
But he is terribly alone on a foreign world with a people determined to hate him. And that thought doesn’t fill him with confidence.