You're an amateur pickpocket with no prospects. He's a bounty hunter with a gig that requires a thief. What could go wrong? Set between Revenge of the Sith and The Mandalorian: Chapter One.
─── ･ ｡ﾟ⛧: *.✹ .* :⛧. ───
This isn't just about two refugees (and their heaps of baggage) who eventually come to understand each other after going through some shit. This is also the story of a People's Revolution and the struggle for liberation on Coruscant. A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away - there is love. Loss. Oppression and resistance. Struggle. Growth, in all its beauty. Chapters linked below.
'Say her name' IS NOT FOR JUST ANYONE, IT IS NOT SOMETHING YOU SAY FOR ANY UNJUST DEATH. IT WAS CREATED BY THE BLACK COMMUNITY FOR BLACK WOMEN BECAUSE WE ARE KILLED SO OFTEN AND UNCEREMONIOUSLY THAT OUR NAMES ARE NEVER ASSOCIATED WITH WHAT LITTLE COVERAGE THERE IS. STOP USING IT FOR RENEE, REST HER SOUL. SAY HER NAME IS FOR B L A C K WOMEN BC IF THE COMMUNITY DOESN'T SAY IT, NO ONE CARES.
Rolling my eyes extra hard at this whole reprise of Y2K 'thin' culture...
Because anyone who actually lived through that era (not just mood-boarded it) remembers how utterly vicious it was.
This is not me being dramatic. The Y2K era was openly, casually, relentlessly misogynistic, and the cruelty wasn't a side effect, it was THE FUCKING POINT.
Y2K wasn’t "toxic by accident," and now we "know better." It was structurally built around thinness as a compliance test and public humiliation as entertainment.
Tabloids ran BEACH BODY FAIL spreads like clockwork. Adult men dissected teenage girls' bodies on television. "She let herself go" meant gaining five pounds. Eating disorders were joked about, encouraged, aestheticized, and sold back to us as personality.
This wasn't fringe culture. It was the mainstream.
The beauty standard was designed to be unreachable: prepubescent thin, sexually available, white or white-adjacent, rich-coded, starving but somehow ~effortless~
And you were required to pretend it wasn't work. The moment you admitted hunger, discipline, pain... you failed femininity.
That's textbook misogyny: perform suffering silently and smile while you do it. And the enforcement wasn't just top-down. Girls were trained to police themselves and each other: comparing hip bones, swapping 'tips,' mocking softness, ranking bodies in mirrors.
That's how the culture sustained itself: outsourcing violence laterally.
Which is why the revival feels especially rancid to anyone who grew up in that era. It keeps the aesthetic, deletes the context, erases the harm, and gaslights anyone who says, "this hurt us."
Because the fact of the matter is, it wasn't "just fashion." It was a survival environment. And we're reacting now to memory, not vibes.
A lot of people engaging with it now genuinely don't know. Which, yeah, they weren't there. They didn't grow up with low-rise jeans as a moral referendum, grownass men counting pubescent girls' ribs on camera, entire friend groups discussing bingeing methods to stay skinny, adults telling thirteen-year-olds to "watch it."
But ignorance doesn't neutralize impact. It just explains why the cycle keeps restarting.
People who didn't live through Y2K hell see an *~ aesthetic~*
People who did remember it as a system of misogyny, racism and punishment.
A breath huffed through your nostrils, then you were upon him - pushing him up against the scuffed wall of the alley with your forearms against his chest. You hated the way his pupils dilated. The way his body relaxed against yours as he leered down at you.
The comforting weight of the tranquilizer dart plopped into your hand as you adjusted your sleeve - the Twi’lek never saw it coming. You took a step back as his body slid to the ground with a series of dull thuds. Glanced around, about to raid the unconscious Twi’lek’s pockets before you saw him again.
And then you felt the air shift. Someone was watching. Instantly you stiffened, placing yourself between the Mandalorian and your meal ticket, heartbeat thundering in your ears...
Read the chapter below, or on AO3 <3
***Chapter warnings: non-graphic sex work, lecherous men, canon-typical violence, referenced prior dub-con/sexual coercion, symptoms of PTSD***
Chapter One ✧ NEW BEGINNINGS
CORELLIA, 2ABY
─── ･ ｡ﾟ⛧: *.✹ .* :⛧. ───
In retrospect, the beginning of it all almost reminded you of a bad joke you’d heard once. A Coruscanti and a Mandalorian walk into a bar but end up fleeing through the back exit, because all the stormtroopers inside ended up dead. When you had asked the teller what a Mandalorian was, all you got was that they wore shining silver armor and were not to be fucked with.
You noticed him when you entered the seedy cantina - the shining silver helmet reflected light to the point of being an eyesore. The back of your neck prickled under his gaze, but you chalked it up to your own paranoia and stepped further into the establishment.
At last you found an easy looking mark, a middle-aged Twi’lek swaying drunkenly to the grungy music piped in over crackling speakers. Two shots of liquid courage - you could pay for them after robbing him blind - and then you were making your way over to him, keeping your body loose and limbs swinging to make you seem drunk instead of only mildly buzzed.
“Heyyy,” you slurred disingenuously, “I like your… uh…” you furrowed your brow, trying to find something about his slovenly appearance worth commenting on, “shoes?” You winced. It worked, though.
“And I… like your pants,” he leered, “they’re soo very tight.”
Gross. You stopped just in front of him, batting your eyelashes. Your stomach felt hollow but for the burning heat of the liquor. Maybe the shots were a mistake - an empty stomach made two feel more like four. You took a deep breath. “Dance with me?” The words were a bit jumbled together - this time not on purpose.
After a couple uncomfortable songs it was easy enough to lead him through the back exit, greedily taking in the cool night air that soothed your feverish skin. The back of your neck prickled again, but you brushed it off impatiently, scratching at your hairline to dispel the feeling of unease as you led him further into the alley.
“Nice place,” the Twi’lek snorted. You never bothered to learn his name.
A breath huffed through your nostrils, then you were upon him - pushing him up against the scuffed wall of the alley with your forearms against his chest. You hated the way his pupils dilated. The way his body relaxed against yours as he leered down at you. The comforting weight of the tranquilizer dart plopped into your hand as you adjusted your sleeve - the Twi’lek never saw it coming.
You took a step back as his body slid to the ground with a series of dull thuds. Glanced around, about to raid the unconscious Twi’lek’s pockets before you saw him again. Instantly you stiffened, placing yourself between the Mandalorian and your meal ticket. Your heartbeat thundered in your ears.
“Stay back!” you whipped your knife from its sheath on your thigh, scowling at your hand as it trembled. Stupid.
The Mandalorian cocked his head to the side, but otherwise he hadn’t moved since you clocked him. The hazy light of the alley illuminated him somewhat better than the cantina, and you were able to make out red-brown armor and a thick cloak that fell flat around his form in the absence of any breeze. That, and he was much bigger than you.
You sighed. “How did you sneak up on me like that? I could have sworn the back door was squeaky.”
He shrugged. “Gotta be quiet if I want to get paid.” His voice was low, monotone. All pitch cut out by the vocoder in his helmet.
Your brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”
He held out his hand, displaying a small device that fit in his palm. It was blinking. You shook your head, still confused. “I’m a bounty hunter,” he explained, holding the device out as he took a step closer. The blinking light flashed at a slightly faster interval.
Your limbs felt heavy and your heart was in your throat. Stumbling back over the unconscious Twi’lek’s legs, you gripped your blade tighter. This isn’t happening.
“Wait,” the Mandalorian stowed his tracker, taking a step back and putting both palms up in a placating gesture. “I’m not here for you.” He gestured at the guy on the ground. “He’s a backwater creep wanted for assaulting some rich oligarch’s daughter.”
Oh. You took a deep, shuddering breath, keeping count as you tapped your fingers against your thigh. The Mandalorian waited until you were ready to speak. “But I got to him first.”
“You did.”
“I was only going to rob him, though.” You shifted uneasily on your feet.
“You can still do that.”
“Well then, what do you want?” with one hand planted on your hip and the other clutching your blade, you felt a whole lot less confident than you looked. “Are you going to kill me as soon as I turn to pick this guy’s pockets? Have your way with me in this alley like he wanted to?”
“No…” the Mandalorian trailed off, taking another step back. “I wasn’t planning on hurting you.” You tapped your foot impatiently, and finally, he continued. “You’re a thief, right?”
The question took you aback. “I do what I have to do to survive. A girl’s gotta eat.” You hated that you were immediately defensive - explaining yourself to some stranger even after everything you’d been through.
“Well,” he continued, “I could use some help from a thief.”
You cock an eyebrow. “I’m listening.”
“There’s a job where I’m dropping this asshole off.” he pushed the toe of his boot against the man sprawled out in the alley. “I’ll be forced to interact with some rich, intolerable assholes - I’m talking about the ruling elite. My quarry will fall for the same trick you used on this guy,” he gestured vaguely toward his unconscious bounty, “she’s a rake who won’t pass up on an innocent looking girl asking to be shown a good time.”
“I’m not innocent,” you bristled.
“No, you’re not. You’ve done what you had to.” the Mandalorian sighed. “All I need is her wallet. Anything else you happen to snag at the event is yours. We’ll rendezvous, and split the reward plus everything you manage to grab. Eighty-twenty.”
You scoff. “Eighty-twenty? That’s ridiculous!”
“You’d have room and board on my ship,” he countered. “Don’t you want to get off this shithole? Everyone on Corellia does.” He kicked out a lazy foot, rolling his shoulders back.
A moment’s consideration. You glanced around, reeling as you weighed the decision in your mind. Any chance at progressing farther on your journey away from the Core Worlds was an opportunity you couldn’t afford to refuse. And ‘backwater’ did sound promising.
“Well, you do have a point. Two years on Corellia have felt more like twenty…” you trail off, biting the inside of your cheek as you make your final decision. “Give me thirty and I’m in.”
The Mandalorian sighed, extending a gloved hand. “Done.” You grasped forearms, shaking on it and sealing the deal. For better or for worse.
You were quick to add, “I’m keeping everything I find in his pockets, though.” You kicked at the unconscious bounty’s foot. “Gotta be able to pay when I go back in for some food.”
The helmet swiveled from side to side. “You can have anything you find, but there are rations on my ship. I paid your tab - call it a gesture of good faith.”
“But-” you protested, wanting nothing more than a hot meal.
“Don’t you want to get this squared away before he wakes up?”
You sighed. He was right. “Fine. Lead the way.” His gaze snapped up to meet yours at that, but you were already gathering the Twi’lek’s legs in your arms and steeling yourself for the journey to the shipyards.
“Where - exactly - did you park?” you huffed. The crowds had thinned substantially by this point in the evening, but enough people were still gawking as you trekked through the business sector towards the shipyards, where far less people were about.
The Mandalorian simply grunted in response, pointing the helmet toward a bay filled with row upon row of medium-sized personal transports. One of them stuck out - an older looking gunship with twin engines and silver paneling - and of course, the Mandalorian signaled for you to drop the bounty in front of it with another jerk of his helmet.
You sighed and rolled your shoulders, but the Mandalorian wasted no time binding the still-unconscious Twi’lek’s hands together with a pair of cuffs that seemed to materialize out of thin air. Then he fiddled with something on his forearm and some of the panels separated, the belly of the ship yawning open as the ramp descended onto the shipyard floor. Unease began to take root in your gut, but you ignored it.
“Wow. What are those?” you pointed, indicating areas of the paneling that were pocked with little indentations, black streaks overlaying some of them. A bud of worry bloomed in your chest.
“Carbon scoring,” he replied, with what you assumed was a sigh. It sounded like more of a crackle. When you just stared, he clarified, “residue from being hit by plasma cannons.” Anxiety had fully blossomed within you.
Oh. You pursed your lips, nodded. “Does that happen a lot?” you cringed as your question came out as more of a squeak.
The Mandalorian just shrugged, gesturing down at the bounty. “Second thoughts?” he asked as the two of you lifted the Twi’lek up, shuffling backwards up the ramp.
“Ehh…” you trailed off, chewing your bottom lip. Your gaze darted around the bay - mostly empty. Heartbeat quickening, you stopped about halfway up the ramp and the Mandalorian grunted as the change in motion almost caused him to lose his hold underneath the bounty’s arms.
“I… I need a minute,” you swallowed repeatedly against the sour saliva that was beginning to pool in your throat. When the Mandalorian remained silent, you continued, “I mean, this is totally crazy. I’m gonna walk up that ramp with you - a guy I met thirty minutes ago - and then what? I don’t even know your name and you don’t know mine and -”
He cut off your anxious ramble. “Djarin.”
You stared. “What?”
“My name. Din Djarin.”
A deep breath calmed you a bit, but not enough. “Okay. Okay. I need to think.” Without another word, you squatted and plopped the bounty’s legs on the floor of the ramp. The Mandalorian was dragging him inside the hull before you realized you were pacing the length of the bay, walking so briskly you were nearly out of breath.
Overwhelmed, you clutched your head in your hands. Your thoughts were spiraling, tumbling like the black rocks down the ashen slopes -
You stopped yourself. You didn’t need to go there. The Mandalorian - Djarin - had come out from his ship and stood quietly at the foot of the ramp. Waiting. You stopped when your next lap brought you in front of him, fingers drumming incessantly against your collarbone as you tried to calm yourself. Forcing yourself to look up, you caught his stare.
“It helps sometimes.” your eyes darted away again, flitting all over the place.
He was silent for a moment, though the helmet moved ever so slightly in your peripheral. “What assurances do you need?”
You looked at him then. “Assurances?” You tried to squash down the tiny spark of hope that warmed your chest. “I… don’t know. Nobody’s ever asked me something like that.”
The Mandalorian Djarin’s shoulders deflated a bit as he blew out another crackly sigh. You took a moment to think.
“I can leave whenever I want. End our agreement.”
Djarin nodded.
“You can also end the agreement, but not without letting me get my stuff.” His eyes lingered for a moment as you stuck your thumb out and tapped it twice on the strap of the backpack slung over your shoulder.
“We won’t steal each other’s shit,” he agreed, tone strangely demure through the visor. It was your turn to nod.
“Can I take a look? Inside?” You gestured up at the hull, mouth yawning open like a big vat. Only a little bit of light shone through.
Djarin gestured for you to walk past him up the ramp, but you shook your head.
“I’d prefer if you didn’t walk behind me…” your voice sounded a lot braver than you felt.
He smacked the heel of his gloved hand into the forehead portion of his helmet. At least, if he had a forehead. You didn’t know what he looked like under there. “Right. My mistake.”
When your footsteps ceased sounding midway up the ramp behind him, he stopped as well. Turned to face you, waiting expectantly until you were ready to speak.
“Earlier. You did something on your arm, and it opened the door of the ship remotely.” you gestured at the armor protecting his right forearm.
He pulled the armor off, holding it out to you in an outstretched hand. “You can hold onto it while we look at the ship.”
You were shocked. “How did you…”
Djarin sighed. He was tired. “Look. I get it.” he continued when you tried to protest that surely, he could not understand what you were going through. “I’ve never been a pretty girl.” Your face screwed up at the compliment, but you kept quiet until he was finished. “But I have been a refugee,” Djarin went on, “a child alone in the galaxy, unsure of who to trust. Or who would hurt me.” His tone was growing darker. “Now tell me, what assurances do you want?”
You blinked. Finally, you took the piece of armor from him. “Tell me how to open and close the doors,” you demanded. He indicated a button. “Will this work from inside the ship?”
“It will,” he responded, “but be careful of this one. You should know it’s also a flamethrower before you decide to test it out on me.” He chuckled wearily as he pointed it out, and you couldn’t help but smile.
“Okay. Thank you.” You took a deep breath. “Now, show me the inside of your ship.”
Djarin turned over his shoulder without another word, striding up the ramp and into the belly of the beast.
The inside actually wasn’t as bad as you had thought.
“The ship is called the Razor Crest,” Djarin said as you stepped across the threshold tentatively. “Have you flown before?”
“Once or twice.” you shuddered at the thought. “I don’t remember it well.”
“...I see.” He pointed at the open space around you. “This is the hull. As you can see, it’s a bit of a mess.” Crates were cluttered against one wall, blocking a panel that could have been a door. “Over there is the carbonite freezer,” he indicated a scary looking closet full of machinery and giant metal slabs.
“What’s it for?” You stepped gingerly over the Twi’lek’s legs - he was still out cold from your dart and lay where the Mandalorian Djarin had left him near the threshold. Then gasped when you got closer. “Are those… people?”
“Bounties,” Djarin corrected. You whirled, about to interject before he held up a hand. “According to the Guild, there’s a difference.”
You blew out a breath through your nostrils. “Stars,” you cursed, “I guess it’s easier when you remove someone of their personhood! Classism really knows no bounds…”
Djarin shrugged. “Like you said, we do what we have to.” To survive. The nose of the ship tapered into two small rooms, one of which had its threshold set behind a ladder. He pushed a button and the door opened, revealing a tightly packed toilet and shower cubicle. Perhaps there was a sink somewhere behind the open door. The door shut again. “Ladder leads up to the cockpit.”
Adjacent to the fresher was the galley. Djarin flicked on the light. It was small, but it had all the essentials. He pointed up the ladder. “Up there you’ll find the cockpit behind the double doors, then my cabin is on the port side.”
“Port?”
He sighed. “If you’re facing the front of the ship, port is left. Starboard is right.”
“Ah. I guess that avoids confusion if you’re turned around.”
Djarin nodded. “The second ladder opposite the carbonite freezer leads to the escape pod, with a maintenance crawlspace wrapping around the entire ship. With any luck you won’t need to go up there.”
He stalked back into the cargo hold and you followed anxiously, until he came to a stop in front of the unconscious bounty. He knelt, flicked his cloak out of the way, and pulled out a pair of cuffs that clicked onto the Twi’lek’s wrist. The other cuff latched onto a length of pipe protruding from the wall encasing the carbonite freezer.
“Is the freezer broken, or something?”
He gave a brisk nod, then walked to the messier end of the cargo hold and started packing things back into crates. “You made up your mind?”
* ･ ─── ⋆*
There wasn’t a single thing about that job that had gone according to plan, but Djarin wasn’t necessarily complaining. Well. Maybe he could’ve done without the attempted stabbing. The chiss he’d levied for information got disgruntled after the game of cards and grazed him with a vibroblade, but it could’ve been much, much worse. Djarin’s left side still stung though, becoming more of a throbbing pain whenever he bent or twisted.
His mind flipped back to their exchange in the alley not even an hour ago. He wracked his brain, trying to remember exactly how she was standing when she threatened him. Did she have a hand on her hip? Regardless, she had no way of knowing that not even a day ago Djarin had been grazed by a vibroblade three times the size but she had to have had some crazy trick up her sleeve to be going up against a Mandalorian like that.
She had him on his heels - that was for sure.
“How long will you be here?” she had asked, after he finished showing her around the Crest.
He didn’t even know her name.
“Should take me another hour or so,” he had replied, glancing around at the mess waiting to be packed up.
But he had given his name freely.
“Right,” she had said. Grabbed hold of his glove then slapped the vambrace back down into its open palm.
It had almost shocked him more than it did when he had found himself telling her his name. Djarin had spluttered, staring at where she had touched his glove as if it might fall off.
“I just have to run back to my spot and grab a few things. I’ll be back.” She had spun on her heel and walked briskly down the ramp.
Why did he give his name? Should he be worried? Djarin grunted - those ration boxes sure were stubborn. He decided it was inconsequential - after the job they’d go their separate ways. It wasn’t like he’d ever see her again. Besides, Coruscant was huge. She could go to everyone she met and blab about the Mandalorian named Din Djarin without it ever coming back to him.
Satisfied with the state of the hull he took a piss, took a ration pack, and took a seat in the cockpit in that order. The pre-flight checklist could wait, Djarin thought mockingly, thinking of his experiences on the transports.
* ･ ─── ⋆*
All you could think as you walked briskly back to collect your things was… Did he just give me The Tour?
A bark of laughter escaped your trap, startling you. What were you doing?
There wasn’t much residential infrastructure on Corellia, but hostel-hopping was better than being unhoused. Being unhoused was better than incarceration, which was still preferable to factory work.
You mindlessly entered the hostel and unlocked your cubby. Packing up was familiar - everything had its place and before long your clothes were packed in the stuff sack that clipped onto the larger pack that held your bedding and the few personal effects you’d collected over the last two years.
The keys were left locked up in your cubby after you scrawled out a quick note to Guy via your wrist comm. You were still good for a few more nights - the establishment had been clean enough to warrant paying up front each month - but in your experience, refunds only happened on the silver drama screens lining the corners of every market.
There was just enough time to track down Nwgg1.
The two of you weren’t particularly close, but there was something to be said for a person’s favorite bartender. This time of night he was usually gambling at the hole you’d occasionally let him drag you to, and your intuition didn’t disappoint when you showed up at the threshold and saw him there.
“Nwgg!” you called out, weaving through the patrons with your bags clutched across your chest. You swiped a wallet from one careless pack, a canteen from the side pocket of another. Idiots, you thought. It’s like they want to get robbed.
“Nwgg! Hey!” He finally turned his head from the game, eyes widening as he saw all your stuff with you.
“Hi!” He muttered something to the person occupying the seat next to him and stood, turning to face you. “Do you need help moving again?”
“Nwgg, I’m leaving! I got a ride off-planet!”
“Really? When do you leave?”
“Now…” you trailed off. “I—”
He surprised you, wrapping his arms around you in a bone-crushing hug. “I’m so happy for you,” Nwgg said quietly against your ear. He pulled back, hands moving to cup your shoulders. “Where?”
“Somewhere entirely less populated than here.”
Nwgg nodded. “That’ll be good for you. The farther you get from Coruscant, the better.”
You sniffled a little, but you were not going to cry. “You’ve always seen me, haven’t you? I’ll miss our talks across the counter.”
He smiled. “I’m happy for you. Go on, get out of here! I’ll write a message in the stars if I ever end up somewhere less populated.” He made air quotes.
“Until then, sorcerer.” You rolled your eyes and he released you, only for you to pull him back in for one last hug.
Djarin was standing atop the ramp when you finally found your way back to the correct bay. Silhouetted against the interior lighting of his ship, he looked formidable. For the first time you appreciated just how well he was built - tall, with thick thighs and arms and a trimmed waist. He couldn’t be made of anything but muscle.
Was this a bad idea? You took a deep breath and walked up the ramp anyway - your gut wasn’t warning you of anything dire.
* ･ ─── ⋆*
Up in the cockpit, Djarin was in his element. People often confused him - they changed their minds and were often unreasonable when they were upset. But the Razor Crest? She got him. They had an understanding. Or something. He was totally in the zone as he prepared the ship for takeoff, pushing buttons in the sequence he could do in his sleep.
Then he looked over at his passenger. Wondered why she wasn’t strapped in for a moment, before realizing… duh. She doesn’t remember flying very well. Djarin wondered about that for a second then refocused on the task at hand.
She struggled with the straps a little longer before throwing her hands up in the air. “I don’t…” she trailed off, and he noticed when her fingers returned to tap against each other. Probably a nervous habit. “I don’t know how to fasten the harness,” she said, voice so quiet he was tempted to turn up his volume.
He sighed, pushing the back of her chair with his boot so it angled towards him. Djarin stood between her legs, noticing how she stiffened as he loomed over her. He hesitated for a moment. It wasn’t as if he didn’t want to touch her - the idea of it thrilled him. She was hot, after all. But she was also jumpy, and Djarin had backed enough bounties into corners to know that people were unpredictable when frightened.
Fuck it. He stooped over, straightening the harness straps as he pulled them over her head and held them in place with one hand as the other reached between her thighs for the grounding strap. The air in the cockpit felt electric as his gloves brushed lightly against her clothes, and he definitely noticed her sharp intake of breath but pretended he didn’t.
With the harness fastened around his passenger - he’d have to get her name at some point - the engine thrummed under his fingers and the Razor Crest was ready for takeoff.
* ･ ─── ⋆*
Dread. That was it - all-encompassing and pervasive, it drowned out any rational thought as the thrum of the engines roared until you felt yourself vibrating.
The initial taxi had been fine enough, but all bets were off when Djarin pushed a few buttons and you were suddenly wrenched back in your seat. The steep climb was almost intolerable - you felt like you might be sick.
Around the same time in your last flight - being unconscious the time before made it not count - you actually were sick, heaving as you clung to a strap behind a crate in the cargo hold. The bitter aftertaste of your payment for the free ride had lingered, along with the burn in your jaw.
You realized someone was talking to you after a moment. “What?”
“I asked if you were alright.”
“Oh.” Your head gave a little shake as you realized the climb was over. What is happening to me?
“I’ve never been up front for this part,” you deflected, craning your neck to peer down at Corellia. You felt his stare for a moment, but Djarin said nothing.
“Gonna make the jump now.” You were suddenly thrown back in your seat again, much more harshly this time. You gasped as the back of your head slammed into the seat headrest. The stars turned to long, drawn out steaks that blotted out the darkness, blinding you.
Once you had recovered enough to speak, light danced around the cockpit in blue and gold blurs. “What was that?”
“One sec.” Djarin fiddled with the controls for a moment, and he appeared to be counting on his fingers. After a moment he looked at you. “We just made the jump to hyperspace…? When you flew before, did you go the long way?”
“Hyperspace is… the short way?” He nodded, obviously waiting for a response. You sighed.. “I have no idea. How would I know, if I don’t remember much of the takeoff?”
“Was there another jolt right before you descended?”
“…I do remember almost falling over, and then a very scary rush of gravity. I just had to hold on tight.”
“Sounds like there was a jump. What kind of pilot didn’t have you strapped in for a hyperspace flight?”
Memory overwhelmed you - sounds and smells and pains you’d rather continue to block out. “I don’t wanna talk about it anymore.”
“Fine,” Djarin said easily. “The seat reclines. You can undo the harness and make yourself comfortable, we’ll be cruising for a while.”
You nodded your thanks, not trusting yourself to speak as you unfastened the straps and leaned forward, elbows resting on knees as you watched the lights.
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Notes: if you made it this far, thank you for reading! Djarin giving out his name first thing might seem a little OOC, at least in the way he's commonly portrayed in SW fic. Please stick with me tho, consider that this is pre-canon and he's in his 30s - arguably the most angsty time period of his life in my characterization.
Also, on hyperspace: after looking at the Standard Galactic Grid I came up with a running theory on timing for hyperspace travel. My theory is that traveling from one grid line to the next takes about 3hrs via hyperspace or 24hrs without it. Account for some differences d/t landmarks like black holes, warps in space-time, and traffic and you’ll have my rough estimate, which I'll be using for this fic.
This chapter is as far as I've got polished at the moment. Any engagement would be a lovely surprise to help me want to write faster! (: until the next one, folks.
Two dark figures watched from the comfort of their starship poised above the horizon, concealed in the shadows of their robes. One turned to the other, his voice cold, but not unfeeling. “This was no surprise attack. Not truly.”
“Of course not.” The other’s voice could only be described as a sneer. “After all, what did they expect? To resist?” the last word was pure venom. “Aq Ventina’s annexation was inevitable. Their struggle against the Separatists only made it more bloody.”
As the screams filled the thick, dead air and smoke permeated its already smog-clogged blackness, Delain’s hand clutched her belly and all she could think of was the life she was growing inside. As she ran, out of breath until her lungs screamed and her stomach heaved, Delain wondered if bringing life into this world was a cruel mistake. Horrified, she kept running until she reached their front door and scrambled for the key for what felt like hours under the shaky light of her handheld communicator.
Marian had been pacing the darkness of their crowded kitchen. He rushed to meet Delain as soon as the key turned in the lock, touching her face with trembling hands before they embraced. Her knees finally gave out, but Marian was there to lower her gently to the floor. She desperately wanted to cry, but no tears would come. Instead she curled in on herself, hugging her knees. Her sleeve was crusted over where she had scraped her arm against a pillar, blood long since dried. But she felt no pain, instead only the oppressive silence in her mind. Weighing her down.
“Where were you when it happened?” Marian knew he needed to get her talking. As soon as possible, before the trauma silenced her experience to be forever buried.
“Waiting for a lift.” Delain’s voice warbled. She began to rock back and forth. “I had just finished a delivery to the Uppers…” Tears finally started to drip down her cheeks.
Marian’s breath hissed through his teeth. “All the way up?”
“I was on the surface,” Delain sobbed, reaching for him, “it was the central power grid! I was on my way home and suddenly it just went up… the fire spread into the fuel ducts.”
Marian moved so that she was in his lap, her arms and legs braced by his own. She turned and clung to his neck, fisting her other hand in his shirt.
Marian’s voice shook. “The shock wave reached us all the way down in Industry… I thought a fuel line blew with all the smoke… Then everything just went black and all I could think of was you.”
Delain barked out a laugh, but her eyes were far away. “It was bad, ‘Rian.” she gulped. “The lifts must’ve had alternate power because somehow we were able to get down, but it was so dark! There were so many people crowding into the lift, I could hardly breathe… I was so worried about our little one…”
Marian rested a hand atop hers on her navel, tucking a strand of Delain’s hair behind her ear with his other hand. He kissed her cheek. “They’re strong,” he murmured in her ear, “like you and like me.” He sighed. “I think we could afford a checkup in a week, after the next pay deposit.” She turned to look him in the eyes, and Marian couldn’t help but marvel at how beautiful she looked under the dim lighting afforded by their communicators. Yearning and tears written across her face. How beautiful to have survived.
The checkup did not happen the next week, nor the week after. When the Senate finally lifted their no-fly orders and “non-essential” air traffic resumed on Coruscant nearly a month later, the clinic was finally supplied enough for Delain to see the obstetrist. With clenched jaws and intertwined fingers Delain and Marian looked on as the technician performed the sonogram, breathing a joint sigh of relief when the news was normal.
“But the baby is a little smaller than she should be at this stage of her development,” the doctor remarked as they reviewed the results with the couple. “I know things are tight with the Federation blockades-”
“-She?” Marian asked, face alight with joy. His hand tenderly cupped Delain’s belly.
“She.” the doctor confirmed, smiling slightly. Then they sighed. “Delain, there’s no easy way to say this. You aren’t eating enough. It’s nothing you’ve done wrong, either. I’m sure the supply issues exhausted any food storage you might’ve had - Marian, you’re looking a little thin, too.”
Delain covered Marian’s hand with her own, stilling her trembling bottom lip between her teeth. She stared pointedly ahead, ignoring the stinging in the corners of her eyes.
“The truth is,” they continued, “nobody in this room has lived through a war before.” Marian nodded. “But the medical literature coming from war-torn systems attributes untold pathological issues to stress. This stress is inevitable. It affects all three of us, but it will affect the baby even more. The only thing you can do is try to manage the stress. Take some kind of positive action. Do something creative, get involved with your community, exercise safely…” they went over the best ways that Delain could get exercise and build her strength.
“Now.” the doctor cleared their throat, frowning. “The Senate has been rolling back pollutant restrictions because of the war. I want you to wear a respirator every time you leave the house. Marian, I don’t have a respirator I can give to you, but I highly encourage purchasing one for yourself as well if you are able. It’s bad out there.”
The appointment eased some of their fears, but the dread already rooted in Delain’s heart started to sprout anxious stalks in her throat. After Marian left for his shift that night she cried herself to sleep, screaming the injustice of it all into her pillow and trying not to let herself regret their decision to bring life into a war-torn, corrupt galaxy.
* ･ ─── ⋆*
Across the galaxy in the Outer Rim, there was no emergency power when the Separatist droid army touched down on Aq Ventina and destroyed the power infrastructure of the small, backwater planet. There was no emergency broadcast system to warn anyone as they began to ravage their way through populated areas in the middle of the night. It was neighborly duty that woke them instead, pounding on doors as the flames spread throughout the settlements and screams started to echo in the air as people were awoken. One way or another. Either by good will of their neighbors or by machine warriors kicking in their doors. Mowing them down in their beds.
All the while dark figures watched from the comfort of their starship poised above the horizon. Two of them, concealed in the shadows of their robes. One of them turned to the other, his voice cold, but not unfeeling. “This was no surprise attack. Not truly.” The words hung in the air for a moment, almost meant to be convincing.
“Of course not.” The other’s voice could only be described as a sneer. “After all, what did they expect? To resist?” the last word was spat out. Venomous. “Aq Ventina’s annexation was inevitable. Their struggle against the Separatists only made it more bloody.”
Meanwhile, Aq Ventina was steadily overwhelmed. Some of them tried to fight it, and failed valiantly. The splinter group of House Vizsla that was taking refuge there was among the fighters, having grown attached to their way of life away from the Republic’s shadow. They may have kept to themselves, any fraternity with the locals having been forbidden by their matriarch, but they would not stand by and watch. Not again.
Jey’s muscles strained as he boosted the small family up the ledge, his eyes lingering on their deep red attire. Some dark part of his mind whispered about the color hiding any bloodstains but he shook it off. His eyes met the boy’s. Small and frightened, he couldn’t have been older than ten. “Keep moving,” Jey said gruffly. The boy’s father nodded, gathering his son up in his arms. His mother thanked Jey with teary eyes, and then they were gone.
But the family kept flashing before Jey’s eyes, haunting him as he mowed down droid after droid. Hours went by and streaks of purple began to mix in with the blackness of night, followed by red and then pink. A gray dawn loomed, but the fighting went on. Exhausted and sore though they were, the band of fighting Mandalorians had not yet decided to jump worlds.
But it wasn’t enough. The second wave of droids touched down that awful morning. Jey didn’t know what they were called, but they were tall. Huge. Constructed of dark, sleek metal they dwarfed their tan, mass-produced counterparts that had comprised the first wave. And if droids could be ruthless, these were it. Indiscriminate. Hardened by years of violence though he was, Jey’s stomach still turned at the sight of all the innocents being mowed down as they fled.
One of the Mandalorians went down, then another. It was time to go. Jey heard their ship powering up as he retreated towards it, having been hastily uncovered where they had obscured it outside their warehouse on the outskirts of the settlement. And then he saw them. They were too far across the square for a clean shot at the big droid that loomed over them.
The parents stood tall as they stared death in the face. But where was the boy? Jey charged toward them but it was too late, he was too late as their bodies slumped. He aimed his blaster as he ran but it jammed, and he struggled to clear it in his haste. The droid kicked them to the side, revealing a pair of cellar doors that were soon flung open. The boy! The big droid raised its hand, poised to shoot. Finally the chamber cleared. Jey took the shot, hitting too low. The plasma bounced off the big droid’s pauldron, but it worked. Distracted, the droid turned just as Jey made quick work of it, aided by another Mandalorian who had noticed his plight and covered him as he went to retrieve the boy.
Jey approached the cellar slowly, weapon lowered. He crouched at its opening, looking down at the trembling boy. He stretched out a hand, not wanting to startle the child with his altered voice. His fingers moved, beckoning the boy toward him. Timidly, the boy took his hand and allowed Jey to haul him up into his arms. Around them, the chaos continued but a strange calm feeling came over Jey. It almost felt like absolution - like saving this one life could sweep away the collective shame of the Tribe.
“Let’s go!” one of them shouted, “the rest of the settlement is dead!” Their ship was already airborne, hovering as it waited for the last few fighting Mandalorians to retreat inside. The boy whimpered as Jey’s jetpack roared, hiding his face in the crook of Jey’s neck as they climbed the sky.
The dark figures looked on from their ship as Aq Ventina was overtaken. At the world before them unchanged from their vantage. The death and destruction was only visible on their screens, live-feed from the mechanisms engineering their destruction. A few bursts of light gleamed in the atmosphere, people fleeing on their ships. The first figure moved towards the controls, but the second stopped him. “Let them go.” he laughed. “Let their fear run rampant across the galaxy...”
* ･ ─── ⋆*
Back on Coruscant, the central power distribution grid needed to be fixed. The wealthy ruling elite surely would not do the labor, nor would they foot the bill. In their eyes the solution was simple, boiling down to just one word. Reassignment. It was unfortunate, really. How quickly and easily a democracy could dissolve after only a few decades of monopolization.
Marian was moved from the power conductor assembly lines to the deepest, dankest sublevels to essentially rebuild the central power hub from scratch. He worked down in the Pits of Hell, so-called by the other poor souls who had the misfortune of working there. The dark was oppressive. Pressurized. The journey from the Underworld to their mid-level residence in the Undercity took so long that Marian and the other laborers worked grueling seventy-two hour shifts - three days on, three days off.
Delain’s courier gig for the Uppers wasn’t enough to make ends meet. Not with the war being a perfect excuse to triple the rent on their already not-quite-affordable apartment. Unwilling to let his pregnant wife suffer his same fate, Marian provided sexual favors to his old foreman on the assembly line. Delain didn’t ask what happened when he came home that night with red-rimmed eyes and an unusual pallor, telling her that she would take his old job on the lines. She knew better.
With war looming on the horizon, industry leaders on Coruscant conveniently forgot about worker protections and labor rights. Their laborers were disposable, after all. As long as they were able to breed the next generation of labor, it didn’t matter if they had clean water or clean air. And the Senate couldn’t be bothered to intervene. Not as long as their pockets continued to be lined by industrial lobbying efforts as the wartime economy boomed.
Mandatory breaks were rolled back in light of the newly-declared war. But the Coruscanti - already starved and priced out beyond their breaking point - would not stand for it. The strikes began towards the end of that year, from the Pits of Hell all the way to the lifts operating out of the Uppers. Even the ‘Scrapers felt the impact of withheld Coruscanti labor, all the way up in their towers of durasteel and glass. The laborers were quickly allowed to resume taking breaks once the wealthy ruling elite’s comfort was impacted.
But the instigators of the strike did not escape unscathed. Hoping to cure the Coruscanti of any thoughts of further organization, industrial leaders sent armed guards - clones allotted from the Senate to protect their investments from Separatist sabotage, allegedly - to round up the loudest voices. Marian was finally detained at the beginning of the new year, missing a full work week and the birth of his daughter.
Delain tried to be brave as she gave birth in their washtub, alone except for a kind neighbor. An immigrant from the Mid Rim, Ruthie had been a combat nurse before moving to Coruscant and was the closest thing the neighborhood had to a doctor. Given the choice between going to the clinic or making rent considering that she hadn’t heard from Marian since that panicked call as he was being arrested, Delain chose having a roof over her head and praying to whatever gods that there would be no complications.
Ruthie was there, but all Delain wanted was to be clutching Marian’s hand instead of the cold lip of the tub that dug into her fingers painfully. Brave as she was, Delain couldn’t help the bitterness that overshadowed the joy of a new life in that moment of limbo as Ruthie caught the baby and cut through the umbilical cord.
Delain gasped as that tie was severed, and a simultaneous cry echoed around the tiny bathroom as her daughter took her first breaths. “My baby,” she sobbed, arms outstretched anxiously as Ruthie cleaned the fluid and tissue from the newborn. The rest of the night passed in a hazy blur of pain and tears, punctuated with the key turning in the lock in the early hours of the morning.
“Get lost! I don’t care where you were, you missed the birth!” Ruthi’s raised voice permeated Delain’s fitful rest in their bedroom down the hall.
“No, please! I need to see them, are they all right?” Marian’s panicked voice fully woke her, and Delain struggled to get up.
“Wait.” it came out as only a whisper, not loud enough to stop Ruthie’s angry tirade. Delain cleared her throat. “Wait!” she called out. The door creaked open, and Marian’s bootsteps pounded down the hall. He stopped in the bedroom doorway, backlit by the weak hallway light.
“Delain? Baby?” his voice was ragged. Ruthie appeared behind him, flicking on the bedroom light after warning Delain to close her eyes. She blinked against the brightness, taking in his appearance in flashes - the black eye, the bruises on his neck and arms, his torn clothing and bloodied, missing fingernails.
“Marian! What happened to you?”
He rushed to her side, drawing her up so that she laid in his lap. “Don’t worry about me,” he murmured, and Delain promptly burst into tears.
“Owww,” she cried, pressing a hand to her aching core. Ruthie supplied an ice pack as Delain tried her best to lay still. “I was so worried when you didn’t come home, ‘Rian… I know you were fighting for us, for our people. And I’m so proud of you, never forget that.” she sniffled. “But I needed you, too.”
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” Marian sobbed, “are you all right? Is the baby all right?”
“Ruthie?” Delain called. She had retreated back to the kitchen with the baby, doing her best to keep the newborn asleep. She proffered the newborn, but not before lecturing Marian about supporting the head.
“She’s so beautiful… like her mother,” Marian marveled.
“No. She’s a fighter,” Delain corrected.
Ruthie hummed. “Iqoria, we would say in my mother tongue. It means perseverance.”
Marian and Delain shared a significant look. Delain cleared her throat. “Ruthie, how is that spelled?”
Return to the Storyboard //⁂\\ Next Chapter ->
Notes: Aaah thank you for reading! For reference: in SW canon, the Coruscant central power distr. grid is actually bombed in 21BBY, but I modified the exact year per my writer's discretion. Expect the general vibe to be canon, but some of the lore won't be accurate. Hence, the canon-divergence tag has been applied
The man who won't rest until the Great Pacific Garbage Patch is cleaned up has successfully tested his system for doing so.
““The Great Pacific Garbage Patch can now be cleaned,” announced Dutch entrepreneur Boyan Slat, the wonderkid inventor who’s spent a decade inventing systems for waterborne litter collection.
Recent tests on his Ocean Cleanup rig called System 002, invented to tackle the 1.8 trillion pieces of plastic pollution, were a success, leading Slat to predict that most of the oceanic garbage patches could be removed by 2040.
Intersections of ocean currents have created the massive floating islands of plastic trash—five slow-moving whirlpools that pull litter from thousands of miles away into a single radius.
The largest one sits between California and Hawaii, and 27-year-old Slat has been designing and testing his systems out there, launching from San Francisco since 2013.
GNN has reported on his original design for the floating device, but his engineering team improved upon it. System 002, nicknamed “Jenny,” successfully netted 9,000 kilograms, or around 20,000 pounds in its first trial.
It’s carbon-neutral, able to capture microplastics as small as 1 millimeter in diameter, and was designed to pose absolutely no threat to wildlife thanks to its wide capture area, slow motion, alerts, and camera monitors that allow operators to spy any overly-curious marine life…
Slat estimates ten Jennies could clean half the garbage patch in five years, and if 10 Jennies were deployed to the five major ocean gyres, then 90% of all floating plastic could be removed by 2040.” -via Good News Network, 10/19/21
Recent update from this org: they’ve launched System 03 (in 2023) and have gone on over 100 expeditions and collected over 1 million pounds of trash! They also are working on cleaning up rivers :)
We are cleaning up ocean plastic in the Great Pacific Garbage Patch. Learn more about the technology used and the cleanup progress here.
did you know if you are good enough at time management you can sleep 17 hours straight and not sleep at all the next night? the reviews are coming in, critics are raving: "this is not a good idea" and "please go to bed" "wow those are some eye bags, are you sick?"
EVERYONE BE CAREFUL. ARCHIVE OF OUR OWN PHISHING SITE (first link)
(the link is purple bc i clicked on it to get the link w/o special characters to report to various phising page report places).
the page leads to what appears to be the normal archive page, w/ the popup about the privacy policy & everything, with the url https://xn--iao3-lw4b.ws/media DO NOT LOG IN. THEY ARE HERE TO STEAL YOUR LOGIN CREDENTIALS. LOOK AT URLS BEFORE ENTERING ANY PERSONAL INFO.
Story Warnings: Canon typical violence, drug use/dealing, dark themes, smut
Chapter Summary: Katya and Viktor reach an understanding. Mostly.
Word Count: 4k
CW: Reactive parenting tactics
Previous Chapter
The walk home was painfully quiet. Viktor’s short, uneven hobble led the way; Katya at his heel. He wondered if she wouldn’t walk with him because she was angry, or because she wanted to make sure he didn’t try to peel away and not go home.
Or both.
Part of him was glad she wasn’t at his side. He was angry, too. In fact, the pulsing rage in his body scared him. He’d never felt like this. It ached like a rotten tooth: pulpy and throbbing, impossible not to focus on.
Another piece of him - a softer part that appeared in the brief moments between the pulses of anger - wanted her to be there. Her presence at his side would’ve felt like a promise. A reassurance that while she was upset, she still loved him. That there would be something to go back to once they got over this hurdle.
But she stayed behind.
A couple times on the way home, Viktor peeked over his shoulder at her, pretending to stretch his neck. He had been hoping that he’d see her face tired and upset, but softening.
However, when he glanced back at her, Katya’s face was as hard and sharp as it’d been in the Doctor’s lab.
He swallowed the bile rising in his throat and pressed on.
When they reached their door, Viktor shuffled aside and let Katya stab the key into its lock like it had wronged her. She pushed the door open, and he limped inside.
“Go to your room.”
He froze; certain he’d misheard her. Turning, he watched her set his boat down carefully before shrugging out of her coat. Her furious eyes looked back at him, sparking like the forge in Pok’s Parlor. Viktor’s face twisted. Fury pulling it one way, disgust tugging it another.
“You lied to me!”
“Go to your room!”
“Who were they? Who’s he?”
“Go.To.Your! Room!”
With each word, Katya advanced on him until she loomed over. As imposing and upsetting as the crows that gathered along the electrical and chem-cables that crisscrossed over the shaft of the Undercity.
A terribly youthful rage bubbled in Viktor’s chest. He badly wanted to yell ‘You’re not my mother!’ at her. And while it was true, it didn’t matter. He glared at her as angrily as he could before stomping off to his bedroom, trying to indent the floor with the foot of his crutch as he went.
When he got to his room, he used all his strength to slam the door shut. It banged in the jamb, and the wall around it shuddered. Viktor looked up, expecting to watch little spider-thread cracks form in the plaster around the doorframe. None did, and it incensed him. A great, feral need to slam his bedroom door again and again until the wall began to crumble clawed inside him. His skin pulled unbearably tight over his bones, and his limbs shook. The near-painful need to do something overwhelming him.
But there was nothing to do. He couldn’t actually keep slamming his door. Katya would stop him. He couldn’t throw his crutch, or beat his bedroom furniture with it. They couldn’t afford for him to damage his cane, nor replace broken things.
Instead, he stomped over to his bed, threw himself face down on it, and screamed.
When Viktor slammed his door, Katya felt it in her bones. They shook as much as the wall did, and it rattled the hot fury out of her. Her body sagged. She put her back to the wall (swearing she could feel an echo of her brother’s anger through the plaster) and slid to the floor. Staring at the toes of her boots, she wondered how things had gone so, so wrong.
Then, a long, muffled wail came from Viktor’s bedroom.
Katya twitched, body attempting to propel itself in his direction, but ultimately remained useless and seated.
He wouldn’t want to see her right now, anyway. Viktor did not tantrum often, even when he was young and such things were more expected; when he did, he pushed away and turned his back on any sort of companionship their papa or Katya offered him.
Katya would need to wait Viktor out.
When another cry swelled up on the tail of his last, Katya’s knees tucked into her chest, and she covered her face with her hands.
How had things gone so, so wrong?
She winced. In the black of her palms, that nasty little fear-creature reappeared, strutting and pretentious. She felt it waltz across her rib bones in a nasty told-you-so dance.
In gorging herself on her own singular-identity and desires, she’d lied to him. Kept him separate, and away. In part to keep him safe. But also, because she was selfish.
A small yip of a sob hiccuped in Katya’s chest.
She wasn’t sure how to fix this. Her mind strained to think after being wrung dry from stress. All she could hear in her head was that she had monumentally fucked up. She hurt her brother, and thus failed him. The life she’d been building outside of the one with him teetered precariously.
There was a knock at the door and Kat jumped.
Wiping her eyes, she staggered to her feet and peered through the peephole. Her heart gave a complicated twist.
She should’ve known Silco would trail behind her and Viktor. Most of her was grateful to see him on her step. Part of her wished he’d listened to her, and gone home.
Hands shaking, Kat unstrung the lock-chain and slipped out the door. Unwilling to put two, fully secured boards of wood between her and Viktor, she kept the front door slightly ajar.
“Hey,” Silco breathed, stepping closer. “Are you alright?”
His hand had begun to reach up, preparing to inspect the slight bruise starting to bloom across her cheek. Kat took it in hers before his fingertips could touch her.
She squeezed his hand reassuringly and lowered it. “Yes. It’s fine. I’m fine.”
Silco swallowed and took another step closer. His free hand came up to rest on Kat’s hip, and she savored it. And wished he hadn’t. Everything felt so unbearably muddled. She let go of his hand, only to let both of hers rest lightly against his chest. It would feel so good to lean in, and just let him hold her for a moment.
So, she did.
Her hands fisted and she fell gracelessly into the shelter of him. Long arms twined around her back and held snugly. She felt his cheek mold over the crown of her head, and both their bodies loosened.
Before she could fully drift into his presence, Kat drew back, but kept her hands on his chest.
“Thank you for helping today.”
“Of course,” he quickly replied, hands shifting to wrap around her arms. His eyes flicked to the door behind her. “How is your brother?”
“Upset.” She sniffed and wiped her nose. Her jaw shuddered, then words tumbled out. “I don’t know what happened. How Viktor found that man. Why would he do something so dangerous? I’m afraid I’ve ruined everything. He’s so angry with me. What if he hates - “
“Kat, stop.”
Silco jostled her lightly. Kat gulped, and finally looked up at his face. He gazed at her intently. His thumbs massaged little circles against her biceps.
“He doesn’t hate you.”
Kat stared up at him. Feeling desperate and confused. She couldn’t decide if she wanted him to kiss her, or go away.
Silco’s expression sombered. “Maybe it is time to tell him.”
Panic tightened her ribcage, choking her lungs and stilling her heart.
“I can’t,” tumbled from her lips without much thought.
“Kat, when I tried to hide this from my mum - “
“It’s not the same, Silco. Enyd is an adult. And lives here. Viktor is a child, and spends most of his time in Piltover.”
“He would not give you away - “
“I know that!” Agitation was rising in her now, overtaking the panic. “Of course he wouldn’t. But if something were to happen, something to jeopardize his spot at school. Jeopardize his safety - “
Kat took a great shuddering breath and covered her face with her hands. Silco inched closer, his hands a heavy, grounding weight on her arms.
It felt like a lifetime ago that they’d stood before her apartment like this, loading a wounded Benzo up in a cart.
“He’s my responsibility, Silco,” she whispered, hands dropping. “I must keep him safe. I am being selfish.”
Silco’s attention zipped tight. His hold on her tensed, but he did not back away.
“You’re not - “
“But I am! I’m hurting him by keeping this from him.”
Silco’s temper sparked. “Then don’t! I understand you want to keep him safe. I understand he is your responsibility, bu -“
“It’s not just that.” Her hands came back up, hiding her face. As if not looking at him made this gross admission any easier. She took a shaky breath, bile rising in her throat. “I have not wanted to share this part of my life with him. I wanted it for me. Just for a little bit. My own life.” A small sob burst from her, spittle wetting the heels of her hands. “I’m such a monster.”
Silco ripped Kat’s hands away from her face, and held her wrists tightly. The look he fixed her with was not quite a glare, but it was close.
“You are not a monster.” He shook her for emphasis. Her eyes were wide, glossy pools of honey, sticky with unshed tears. “It is not wrong to want things for yourself, Kat. You know this.”
He knew it, too. Reveled in how she writhed on top of him chasing her pleasure without a second thought. Took pride in watching her grow bolder around Enforcers, taking up the space she deserved. How she had not backed down in the face of Will’s cowardice.
Kat looked up at him, watery eyes searching. She gnawed on her lower lip, and Silco’s eyes dipped to the motion before locking back onto hers. Her head gave a small nod as she slipped her wrists from his hold.
“I know,” she whispered, though neither were sure if she meant it. Her eyes dropped and she shrunk back. “I need to think.”
Silco’s insides went cold, and his hands twitched, stopping himself from reaching for her. The invisible cord he sensed between them twanged painfully. He fought to keep his face neutral as his mouth went dry.
Kat’s fingers laced together, and squeezed. She sighed and looked back up at Silco. Relief, timid and hopeful, flushed in his chest as she lifted on her toes, and chastely kissed him. He clenched his hands at his side, fighting the urge to pull her in. Wanting to kiss her deeper so the anxiety bubbling in his chest would quell.
She dropped back to the soles of her shoes, and repeated, “I need to think.”
Unease swelled again as Kat slipped behind her door and closed it.
Kat reset the lock-chain. Her forehead bumped against the cool doorframe, and she closed her eyes. She felt numb. And exhausted.
Wearily, Kat turned and saw that Viktor’s door was still closed. The room beyond was quiet. She couldn’t decide if that made her more nervous or settled. Her admission rang in her throat.
I have not wanted to share this part of my life with him. I wanted it for me. Just for a little bit. My own life.
The sentiment was quickly followed by a flash in her mind. How Viktor had stared down at her at the Oases. His face twisted in anger and hurt. He’d never looked at her like that. And it scared her; made her feel ashamed in the aftermath.
She shouldn’t have lied to him.
Not like this, anyway.
Legs stiff and wobbly, Kat stepped towards Viktor’s bedroom door. She leaned in and listened for a moment. The softest, little whimpers made it through the wood, and her heart cracked further. Tongue gluing itself to the roof of her mouth, cheeks growing preemptively warm, Kat knocked and let herself inside.
“Viktor?”
He was laying on his side, back to the door. His shoulders stiffened at her voice, and his legs pulled in toward his chest.
“Viktor,” she sighed. The doorknob creaked under her hand. “Viktor, I am sorry.”
His body didn’t soften. But his head did turn ever so slightly toward her voice.
There was a long, heavy silence that threatened to crush Kat where she stood. Even so, she waited.
Finally, Viktor croaked: “What’s going on?”
Kat bit the inside of her cheek, and slowly made her way into his room. She sat just on the foot of his mattress. Perched lightly like a nervous canary ready to take flight at any moment should she be batted away.
She opened her mouth, but the words floated out of her mind before they could form on her tongue. She owed him everything. But could not ask him to hold it all.
“I have friends who are part of the Children of Zaun, Viktor.”
He stilled, before wiping his nose and gingerly sitting up. He kept Kat at arm’s length. Eyes, red-rimmed, puffy, and cagey looked at her. His cheeks were splotchy, and his nose was chapping from being wiped repeatedly.
“Those were them?”
She nodded. “Some.”
“Are - are you in the Children?”
Kat hadn’t necessarily planned on devolving that information, but she stayed quiet for too long and her eyes flickered tellingly. Viktor swallowed, an audible crinkle in his throat, and the hurt on his face began to morph into fear.
“I am . . . on the periphery,” she finally said.
Not an outright lie. Since the airship crash, she had not been part of any altercation with Topside or Enforcers - something she would consider more direct. She’d just continued treating people and smuggling.
New tears began to well in his eyes. Viktor’s breath caught in his chest, and Kat saw the beginnings of a panic attack in him. Calmly, she scooted closer to him and laid a grounding hand on his leg.
“Big breath, Viktor.”
His shoulders hiked up as he sucked in air through his teeth. It left him in a spitty wheeze. Kat would’ve preferred to slip in behind Viktor and hold him to her chest. Like Silco had done for her months and months before, but she did not feel confident that such a gesture would soothe him.
Instead, she said: “One hand on your heart, the other on your belly.” He obeyed. “Good. Let your fingertips slip beneath your collar. Touch your skin. Good. Breathe again, focus on moving the hand on your belly.”
Viktor did so, closing his eyes and putting all his effort into breathing deep enough that the hand over his stomach moved outward. It was hard, being upset and having weaker lungs to begin with, but it worked eventually. Calming him enough so that he could look at his sister again and talk.
“Why?”
Kat felt the corners of her lips curl up ruefully. “Because we deserve better. You. Me. All of the Underground. Everyone who came before. And Everyone who comes after.”
“B-but what if you get hurt?”
Of its own volition, Kat’s body inched closer.
“I won’t.” Perhaps it was foolish to promise him such a thing, but she would not allow him to entertain anything else. “I do my job for the Cause: treating sick and wounded people. I am not putting myself in any direct line of fire. And I have people looking out for me.”
“Is that what was happening with that man coming in the middle of the night that one time?”
“Yes.”
“And where you’ve gone sometimes in the evenings?”
“Yes.”
“And when you promised to take me to the Oases a couple of weeks ago?”
Kat closed her eyes slowly, and then reopened them. “Yes.”
Viktor’s arms tired, and he let his hands drop into his lap.
“Your friends.” Kat nodded. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
The tears welled up again. This time too fat to stay balanced on his eyelids. They streamed silently down his cheeks. The quietness of it punched Kat in the gut.
She answered honestly. “Because I did not want you to carry such a burden. Especially when you are so often in Piltover. Because I was trying to protect you. I see now I have failed, and hurt you. I am sorry, Viktor.”
Her brother sniffed and wiped at his cheeks. “It - it felt like you were going away,” he sobbed. “Like - like you didn’t - “
He couldn’t bring himself to finish his sentence, and Kat couldn’t bear to hear it. Finally, she closed the distance between them and dragged him into her arms. A joyful, relieved warmth filled her chest when he readily held her back.
She gripped tightly, and said into his neck, “I will always want you, Viktor.”
The boy cried and nodded, pressing himself firmly against her.
The embrace lasted a wonderfully long while. Kat was more than aware she’d only shared with him a half-truth. She would not tell him of her selfishness and resentment. Children can and will mistakenly make everything about themselves. And her shortcomings and trauma were not his to hold. They weren’t his fault.
Eventually, Viktor peeled himself enough out of Kat’s arms just to take a deeper breath. Her own hands came up, wiped his eyes, and petted his hair.
“Can I meet them?”
Kat shook her head before really thinking about it, and Viktor wilted.
“Not right now, anyway,” she rectified. “I don’t want you knowing their names. Should,” a breath, laden with reality, left her, “should something happen, I want you to have as little information as possible. You understand?”
Viktor’s eyes grew wide. He looked disappointed, but nodded in agreement. His hands fidgeted with a loose thread hanging off her vest.
“He called you ‘Kat.’ The one you said wasn’t following us.”
Kat’s lips thinned and the apples of her cheeks pinkened. “Like I said, they are my friends. And they are looking out for me. For us.”
Viktor dipped his chin. In the stretch of silence, his own shame creeped up on him. He sucked his lower lip between his teeth and shifted uncomfortably.
“I am sorry I hit you,” he said quietly. “I didn’t mean to.”
Kat hummed an ascent, then blinked. So lost in her own guilt she’d nearly forgotten about Viktor’s transgressions.
“Viktor, what were you doing today? Who was that man?”
His face turned the hue of a stoked coal as he averted his gaze.
“The Doctor. I am helping him with his research.”
Kat held him, but he felt a subtle undercurrent of protective anger beneath her skin.
“That day we were supposed to test my boat for the first time, and you had to go help your friend,” he mumbled, “I still went to the Oases. I met him there.” He winced as Kat stiffened. “I’m sorry.”
A heavy sigh blew through Kat’s nose. “That was very dangerous, Viktor.”
“I know. I’m sorry. Nothing happened.”
“Then you are lucky. But,” her fingertips guided his eyes back to hers, “you are not allowed to see him again. Nor venture off without my permission.”
Viktor’s heart sank, but he was too tired to fight. He nodded numbly before falling back against his sister’s chest.
The rest of the weekend was quiet. Brother and sister moved around each other carefully, but lovingly. Even though it felt stilted and awkward, Viktor could feel Kat’s presence more clearly. With her secrets laid bare, he saw her again. Her eyes clear, voice less distant, touches more grounded.
Her revelation still worried him. And he was feeling resistant about her instructions to stay away from the Doctor and Rio. As they sat together Sunday evening, Viktor’s back resting against Kat’s side, he pretended to read a book while he debated disobeying her. He could still sneak away during the week. But what if he got caught? What if the Doctor didn’t want him around anymore?
Kat’s fingers scratching his scalp pulled him from his thoughts.
“It is time for bed, Viktor.”
Closing his book, he grabbed his crutch and shifted off of the couch. They readied themselves for bed, brushing their teeth and washing their faces side-by-side at the bathroom sink. Viktor adjusted his brace for bed and donned his pajamas. He laid back on his pillow, and Kat drew the blanket up around him. She watched him for a moment, a strange pensiveness on her face.
“I am sorry, Viktor,” she whispered, eyes shining.
He swallowed, hands fidgeting beneath the covers.
He nodded. “I know. I’m sorry, too.”
This time, Kat’s chin dipped and a weak smile hooked her lips. She kissed his forehead, and wished him sweet dreams. The room slipped into black as she dimmed the lamp on his bedside table. He felt her lift off the bed, heard her footsteps shuffle to the door. He watched her slip out.
It was a bit before sleep finally found him.
Ivy stood a few feet in front of the checkgate as Katya and Viktor approached the next morning. She smiled at them, the corners of her mouth broadening when her eyes locked with Viktor’s.
“Good morning, Viktor.”
“Good morning, Miss Ivy.”
Viktor adjusted his hold on the boat tucked beneath his arm as Kat handed the aide his rucksack for the week. As had been the norm for the past several weeks, his sister said nothing to her. Knowing what he knew now, Viktor worried the inside of his cheek about it.
With her arms free, Kat wrapped them around her brother, mindful of the project in his free arm. With neither hand free to hold her back, Viktor pressed his head against her heart.
I’m sorry.
I know.
He looked up at her. “I love you.”
She smiled, and brushed a hand across his cheek. “I love you, too. Have a good week at school.”
Be careful.
I will be.
Viktor stepped away from her and turned toward the gate that was lifting. Ivy paused, lips tightening.
“Wait for me on the other side, Viktor,” she finally said.
He paused, looking confused. His eyes went between Ivy and his sister. Gripping his boat tighter, he nodded and stepped through the gate into Piltover.
Ivy turned to face Katya, who, now that Viktor was out of sight, looked at her like she was something stuck to the underside of her boot.
“What?” she spat. Her shoulders pinched, preparing for some other form of terrible news Piltover was so gleeful to distribute.
Ivy’s eyebrows curled upward and she carefully stepped toward Katya, adjusting the bag on her shoulder. Her eyes glanced to the guard hut, and back.
“I’m not your enemy, Katya.”
Katya’s brows dropped low and suspicious over her eyes. A frown pulled her mouth down. Ivy dared to step closer.
“I know there is much unrest and tension between Piltover and the Undercity. That certain peoples are demanding freedom from what they feel is an unjust leader. And perhaps there is a case for that.” Katya’s face softened infinitesimally, listening but unwilling to give the aide any quarter. “But, I want you to know that Viktor is safe with me. As are you. If,” her voice lowered, “if you or he need anything, I am here. I am not your enemy.”
Katya’s mind cramped, unsure if it should absorb or repel Ivy’s words. She seemed genuine. She’d never given any indication that she despised Viktor. Or her.
But she was still a Piltie.
Katya allowed her shoulders to drop an inch. An acknowledgement that she heard the other woman. The expression on her face shifted from one of contempt to something cold and distant, but not hateful.
She nodded, and walked back to Zaun.
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Coming Up Next: Silco leans on Vander's shoulder. Grayson pays The Last Drop a visit. Silco asks Katya what she needed to think about.
Arcane fans who are convinced or have convinced themselves that silco is a completely righteous girl dad who'd loves and protects all children like he protects powder are so funny. As if he didn't threaten to take renni's(?) Child out for disobedience and, in that same scene, mocks her by saying jayce already did that for her. Not to mention the whole thing with Marcus' child. Stg all those adopting everyone girldad interpretations are removing the wonderful sauce and cheese of the very tasty complex morally Grey leaning black silco pizza
