Scattered And Fractured: Din Djarin and Bo-Katan Kryze
A/n: Okay, so this started as my response to @beefrobeefcal’s Glandalorian challenge, and because I am the worlds slowest fucking writer I am just now wrapping this one up. This fic took a turn on me that I didn’t expect, in that it ended up being more about Bo-Katan than Din. I kind of reversed their roles post S2. In this AU Bo-Katan is the one who wants to return to Mandalore and Din is the one who is wallowing. This ignores the reunion in The Book of Boba Fett because it felt like a cop-out. Shifting POV between Bo-Katan and Din. I really struggled with the ending. That’s why this fic took one william years. Here are the rules:
Warnings: Gore. Violence. Alcohol and drugs. Brief mention of sex and sex workers.
There is only now, the quartet of Gammoreans charging him, stink of blood and dust and sear of unfiltered sunlight, vibroblade and black saber, cooked flesh and spurting blood and dying screams, no past, no future, just his body doing what it was honed to do, reflex butchery, blades crossed at the Gammorean’s throat, what’s left of her hands raised, pleading. Din looks to his patron, Dyytarr the Hutt, lounging and hazed in smoke wrapped in a green silken robe, and the crowd is on their feet, kill or spare, and his majordomo pokes him in the arm to get his attention, a be-ringed hand with the thumb pointed down. The blades cross and his task is done, raises his weapons to the sky and the crowd roars it’s approval, chants his name, thrown flower fronds and scraps of scribbled flimsi like falling snow and once he’s into the tunnels beneath the arena someone hands him a jug of spotchka and he drinks long and deep and lets himself be led to the baths to shed his armor like a shell, to drown himself there, in willing hands and cunts and arms. To forget.
“Take your credits and get out.” Bo-Katan takes in his lattice of scars, pink, ugly healed against tan freckled skin, long limbs tangled in cheap sheets, weapons and shed armor piled haphazardly in the corner, the darksaber on the spotchka sticky table like an afterthought. The whores collect their payment and vanish. His face is lax, his half-hard cock slimed in drool. “Djarin.” She kicks the mattress and he flinches awake, flails for the blaster on his night table, and she slaps it out of his hand. “Bo-Katan?” Bleared eyes meet hers and slide away. He makes no move to cover his nakedness, “What’re you doing here?” “I saw what you did there, in the arena, and that was not The Way.” “The Way,” he slurs, snatches the darksaber from the tangled nest of shot glasses and spice-straws “You want this blade? Cut my throat and take it.” “I will not. I will not debase myself. Killing a drunken man who capers in an arena at the whim of some Hutt is no honor.” “Then you should leave.” “Not until we can speak as equals.” Bo-Katan hooks the half-empty bottle of spotchka from the night table and takes a long shuddering swallow before setting it out of Din’s reach. “I’ll be here when you wake.”
Din wakes to aching of his joints, the aching of his head, tongue plated to the roof of his mouth, tremors in his hands, reaching for the bottle, but its not there, heaves himself up against the headboard, slits his eyes open against the murk from the window, feels like rain, the pain tells him so and “Dank Farrik, I thought I was dreaming.” “Unfortunately we are both awake.” Bo-Katan leans against the doorway, the blank gaze of her helmet against his exposed eyes, “You are a hard man to find, Din Djarin.” “But here you are.” “Yes.” “You could have killed me in my sleep and taken it from me.” “That is not the Way.” “I no longer walk the Way. I am forbidden.” “I don’t understand. You returned the child to his people. I witnessed it. You completed your quest.” “And in doing so, I broke the Creed.” He pulls himself upright, pulls his armorweave around himself like a shroud, clips the padding and dulled armor over top. “You showed your foundling your face,” says Bo-Katan, “Surely that could be forgiven-“ “It happened before that,” he says,”I had to access an imperial terminal on Morak to find Gideon’s ship. It required a facial scan.” “You didn’t have a choice, Din.” “There is always a choice.” “Is there?”
“I must prepare for tonight. Go to the south entrance at first moonrise and show the majordomo this.” He presses a plast card etched in huttese script into her palm. “You might as well have the best view. You are my guest, Lady Kryze.” “You won’t take that?” She asks, pointed to the helmet that sits dust-dulled atop a weapons locker. “I can’t.” “I did not come here to watch you die,” says Bo-Katan, rests her hand on Din’s upper arm. He stiffens, looks at her but doesn’t quite meet her gaze. “I will not. I am favored by the daimyo.” Like a cosseted pet, she thinks, but does not say, there is no need. Djarin knows what he is now. She can see it in his gritted armor, his naked face. “We will speak. There are things you need to know.” He nods. “After.” He says, and tosses a pouch of credits her way, “See the city. Visit the market stalls-“ “I don’t need your charity-“ “It’s a gift, Bo. Look for the Trandoshan lady with the bright blue scales and the ring through her lip. She cooks with enough spice to pit your armor.” “A gift. While our people are scattered and broken,” “And what am I to do about that now? I am expected in the arena. We will speak after.” “If there is an after.”
Din was right about Sskkaalaa’s wares, pastries filled with spiced meat and local tubers, pleasant burning in her sinuses brings memories unbidden, some feast in Sundari, mouth aflame, eyes leaking, spit the marble of hard candy onto the table while the other children laughed, her sister smugly stoic, red faced but smirking, her father’s big rough hand on her shoulder, you’ll get used to it, Bo, it’ll make you stronger. “Got any Thermal Detonators?” She asks, and the big blue Trandoshan flaps a dismissive hand. “Don’t get brand name sweets out here,” she says, “Got some seed rolls might scratch that itch.” “Give me a half pound, and one of those meat pies wrapped to carry.”
She wanders the city until the first moon rears ugly over the horizon and then heads to the arena, presents her card to the majordomo, an aged twi’lek in shabby robes who takes her hand and bows over it. “Lady Kryze you are our most honored guest, Lord Daimyo Dyytarr the Hutt, Scion of Ques, wishes you to abide with him in his private seating area.” “Of course,” says Bo-katan, miming the purring ever-conciliatory tones picked up from her elders, from her sister, and allows the majordomo to lead her up a winding spiral or stairs. Even with her helmet’s filters, the fermented fruit stink of the Hutt and his bluish rankweed halo cut through. “Achuta, cheeka Kryze, me champio smeeleeya che chula,” the Hutt princeling burbles, “Dopa droideka. Crispo. Ree crispo.” “We shall see,” she says, glad for the blank face of her visor.
The first wave is easy. A clutch of Storm Troopers that fall easily to him, blood and shattered plast and the last of them pleads, hands held over his head before Din slices hands and head from his body, smolder of cooked flesh and armor. Funny how the smell claws into his nose, stings his eyes without his helmet. Maybe he’ll get used to it, the lights, the sounds, the smells, if he lives that long. Another trooper he thought dead flails up a hand and Din sinks the darksaber into his chest, raises it above his head and to the roaring crowd. Too easy, he thinks, and the great bell sounds and the gate swings open and two silver-furred, red eyed missiles streak towards him, Nexu, he thinks before the big one smashes its head into his cuirass, plants his vibroblade in an eye socket and feels the beast go limp even as it knocks him back into the dust, collapses atop him in a nerveless heap. The other shrieks, a high, piercing cry, even as Din rolls the dead beast off him and stands, reek of it’s dying shit and piss plating his sinuses. The smaller Nexu wails, high and gibbering, mouth of bristled teeth, split tail curled defensively over its back, dark along it’s spine with baby spots still lining it’s flanks. A cub, he thinks, as he brings the darksaber down to cleave its skull. Too easy, he thinks, feels adrenaline prick through him, something’s not right, glances at Dyytarr’s box. The Hutt princeling looks more animated than usual. Sees Bo-Katan, shadowed beside him. Maybe I die today, he thinks, probably for the best, he thinks, and the great bell rings again.
Rolling wheels from in the dark throat of the tunnel, legs and spines and cannon and bluish halo of active shields. Destroyers. Three of them. Bo-katan stands, leans against the railing for a better view. A cough from his jet-pack and he hunkers behind the dead Nexu. “Haba chu newpa champio,” The Hutt leers at her, “Hees maya.”
Three destroyers, all targeting him, cooked smell of burned flesh, this humped up corpse will only shield him so long, Din pulls his blaster and fires, not at the clutch of droids but at the weathered stone above, sandy dust and grit raining down and the first rollie falters, fine grit too slow to pierce the shield, so it clings, and the destroyer fires blind, squeals of outrage from the stands, the other two try to crawl around their lurching brother and Din charges them, darksaber blazing, drops and slides between them in the sand, thrown charge exploding, forcing their shields to load at the front, cuts the legs from under one, sinks the sizzling blade through it’s power core, slashes at the other but its already reorienting, manages to damage a leg, and then it turns and fires on him. Din leaps away jets blazing briefly and takes cover behind the dead Nexu again, smell of cooked fur and flesh rising up tp the box. Fly out, she thinks, just bail out, sees the reddish shimmer of ray shielding over the arena. And he won’t fly in to the stands and draw blaster fire onto the gathered crowd. She knows him well enough to know that he won’t take others with him unnecessarily.
“Ho ho ho ho,” Dyytarr chuckles, a thick burbling laugh that sets Bo-katan’s teeth on edge, “Do pateesa ne choo ateema, cheeka Kryze.” Presses a button on some kind of controller held in his be-ringed hand. The dust clouded shield around the droideka blips off and back on, a burst of grit and then it turns and fires. “This isn’t fair.” “‘Fair’ Oh ho ho , stoopa youngee,”
Bo-Katan flings herself over the railing, the Hutt’s outraged cries in her ears, drowned out by the sounds of her own jetpack, “Goola Mando! Chuba nee choo!”'
Din hears the roar from the stands, doesn’t think on it, the one destroyer he damaged is staggering shooting high and wide, cries from the stands when the blaster fire strafes upwards, price of admission, some local got holed, he thinks, the dead Nexu will only shield him for so long, without his helmet the stink of cooked flesh and singed fur roils his insides. “Go for the weak one, I’ll cover you!” There’s no time to react, no time to question, Bo-katan fires at the droidekas, aiming high, catch the shield high up and it reroutes power from the lower aft. Both focus their fire on her, she can feel the beskar heating with each impact, and with their blasters trained on her Din charges between them, swinging the darksaber in a low arc, clipping the wounded one who lurches into it’s brother, shields overloading and blipping out, shoves the saber through it’s power core while a well placed blaster shot takes out the other’s central processor. Bo-Katan lands roughly, cloud of just kicked up at her feet. “I had them.” “You did not.” “Dank Farrik, Bo! You shouldn’t be here! You don’t understand—“ The Hutt princeling shouts commands from above and the high pitched when of weapons priming sounds all around the circle of the arena. A shabby protocol droid speaks to the arena through a handheld microphone with a spiraling cord. “His eminence Dyytarr The Hutt, Scion of Ques, our lord Daimyo demands satisfaction. Lady Bo-Katan Kryze of Kalevala and Din Djarin of Concordia shall fight for our Lord Daimyo’s pleasure.” “We will not. I am of house Kryze—“ “Do you think that matters to them?” Djarin swings the saber high and to the left, brief glow of orange where it grazes her pauldron, fires up her wrist shield and blocks his next swing easily, scrapes her vibroblade along the edge of his curaiss, and he kicks her in the belly, even with the beskar’gam it knocks her back in the dust and he pounces, pins her, leans his face close to her helmet, “We fight to a draw, one yields and one calls for mercy.” “I will not yield to you,” “You shouldn’t even be here--“ She can’t fight the weight of him, smashes her helmeted face into his bare one and he falters, forehead split, dust sticking in the blood that clouds his eyes, raises himself up to swipe at the grit and blood and that’s all the opening she needs, curls and plants her feet against his hips and shoves, rolls him over and presses her vibroblade against the hollow of his throat. “Do you yield?” Din closes his eyes, feels the small motion of the vibroblade hovering over his jugular. “Kill me and the blade is yours,” he says, “I’m tired, Bo, so tired.” “Yield,” she says, “And then maybe we both rest."
“Din Djarin has raised his hand,” says the protocol droid, “Din Djarin has surrendered to Bo-Katan Kryze.”
Din kneels in the dust, still now that the fight is over, darksaber kicked aside in the heat of combat, mercy mercy mercy, the gathered throng chants. Bo-katan circles behind him, blade hovering over his exposed throat, hand fisted in his hair craning his neck back. The Hutt princeling squirms delightedly in his balcony, clapping his hands together like a giddy child, raises both his thumbs in the air. “What does that mean?” “it means that we live.” Says Din, lurching to his feet, he takes Bo-Katan’s hand in his and raises them together and the gathered crowd explodes, clapping hands and stomping feet, a roar so loud it overdrives her helmet’s audio pick ups. Bo wonders how he can stand it. Djarin waves to the crowd as a a blurrg drawn chariot comes out fo collect them and Bo-Katan waves as well, waving to a smiling crowd is something she knows how to do. “What now?” “We parade through the streets,” he says, and waves to the cheering crowds, and it makes her shudder, “And then we attend the daimyo’s feast as honored guests.” “There is no honor in this spectacle,” says Bo-Katan, but waves stiffly as her childhood as a potential heir to Mandalore’s throne instructs her. Djarin laughs, sharp and brittle. “We’re alive, aren’t we?”
Bo-katan knows how to smile and wave, glances at Din doing the same, pasted on smile for the crowds lining the streets. In this moment she pities him. Knows enough of the Children of the Watch to know every eye on his bare face is a diminution, a defeat, a lessening. Her face was everywhere from the time she toddled. Heir to the throne, second behind Satine.
“Mya champio’a grandee gusha!” Dyytarr folds them into his flabby arms, squishes them into his chest like a child cradling a matched set of dolls, vast and fishy stink of him plating the inside of her nose and throat even with the helmet’s filtration, glances to the side to see the Hutt’s oddly delicate fingers twined through Din’s hair, hugging him like one hugs a child. What happened to you? She thinks but doesn’t say. She reads discomfort in his body, the tension of his back, the shift of his eyes that says he’d rather be anywhere but here. The Hutt princeling releases them and claps his hands together. “Mandos!” He says in heavily accented Basic, “Big Crazy! We drink!” And a battered astromech rolls out with a tray holding three dainty goblets of faintly glowing green liquid, this she knows too, clinking glasses and drinking to seal a deal, to mourn to celebrate, tucks her helmet under her arm and drinks, goes down hard and strong, like swallowing an ember, splutters a little and composes herself, sees a faint smile playing over Djarin’s lips. The Hutt claps his hands and the band starts playing and Din grips her arm and guides her to an alcove, a low table with ornately carved couches on either side, upholstered in livid purple. Djarin reclines and Bo-Katan mirrors him. “They will bring us food and drink.” “We eat laying down?” “That is the custom here,” says Din, “You get used to it after a while.”
“Is it safe to speak here?” “The Hutt has already forgotten us.” Din throws up a hand in a dismissive gesture. The daimyo is fixated on a troupe of brightly costumed dancers, “So why are you here, Lady Kryze? If not to kill me and take this weapon?” Lays the Darksaber on the sticky table. “I know you are an honorable man,” she says, “Bound by the Creed in a way that I am not. I would know what happened after we parted ways.” “After the Jedi took the child I searched for my people. And I found them,” he says, thanks the serving girl who lays a tray of delicacies before them, sugared fruits and warm bread and what she assumes is thala cheese, alarmingly green and gelid in its white crusty rind. A half dozen tiny birds glazed and roasted. “Eat,” he says, sucking meat from fragile bones, “We are being honored. If you don’t eat it will be noticed.” “So I must take this Hutt’s charity.” “His hospitality,” says Djarin, his face suddenly hard. “His charity was not having both of us killed for your interference. The Hutt is fickle. We could have just as easily died for his amusement.” “Why are you here at all? You found your clan, did you not? Din, what happened?” He bows his head. “When I found them they were only two. The Alor, and Paz Viszla. They welcomed me as if I’d never gone. I was home.” “Home,” she echoes, sees her own pain mirrored in Djarin’s face, “They cast you out, didn’t they?” “Paz challenged me for the right to wield this blade. I hesitated and the Alor ended the duel, she invoked the Creed. I couldn’t lie to her, Bo. I couldn’t kill him, and I couldn’t lie to her. And now I am Mandalorian no more. I am apostate. The only way I may be redeemed is to bathe-“ “In the living waters beneath the mines of Mandalore.” “The Empire turned Mandalore to glass. Mandalore is cursed. All who go there die.”
“I have to show you something.” Bo-Katan reaches into a pouch slung at her hip, sets her find on the table between them, time dulled metal half crusted in greenish murky glass, faint lines of cast letters, broken sentences in Mando’a, B’adate ruyot — Kaysh meg miit'gaana, oyacyi— “So what? The fusion bombs glassed the surface. Everyone knows—“ Bo-Katan tears off a hunk of bread, smears it with thala cheese and chews, watching him turn the chunk of fused glass and beskar over and over in his hands. “But if—how did you get this?” “Jawas.” “Jawas.” “They came upon it by trade from a traveler who claimed to have visited the surface of Mandalore.” ’Trickery,” he says. “Painted plast passed off as Krayt pearls.” “Test it yourself.” Djarin strikes bit of metal against his vambrace high, piercing ring of beskar on beskar, loud enough that a few heads turn their way, then back to their drinks to the endless whirl of the dancers, the bright horns of the band. Djarin’s hands tremble, tears scrim his eyes, blinked down his stubbled cheeks, “How can this be? The Night of a Thousand Tears, the fusion rays-“ “A scavenger traveled to Mandalore and survived,” says Bo-Katan, “So could we. The mines are deep below Sundari. I can take us there, to the living waters.” “ What do you get from all of this, Lady Kryze? How does my redemption serve you?” “The weapon you hold gives you the right to rule Mandalore,” she says, “In the eyes of my people and yours. We are so few. So scattered. If you are redeemed our tribes could form an alliance. We could retake our homeworld. We wouldn’t have to hide anymore.” “That’s a pretty song you sing,” he laughs, a rough and bitter sound caught in his throat, “You only helped me rescue Grogu to get this. Down there in the arena? You could have killed me twice over and claimed it for yourself. You could have cut my throat while I slept. You could end this here and now and fly back to your fleet. So why don’t you?” Djarin takes a long, shuddering drink from a flagon of spotchka and Bo-Katan feels herself moving, slaps it out of his hand, faintly glowing liquid trailing down the worn stone. “Because I can’t!” The room quiets briefly, varied eyes glance their way and she ducks her head down, the music picks back up and no one seems the wiser. “I can’t keep them together,” she says, “Even if I were to take the blade from you, holding it would not erase what happened—“ “The Night of a Thousand Tears,” he says, “That was the Empire’s doing—“ “We could not stand against them. Our forces were decimated. I surrendered to Moff Gideon. I knelt before him and put the darksaber in his hand, he said the bombings would stop, that we would be left to our own-“ “You acted in good faith.” “So did you. And we have reaped ashes,” She shakes her head, reaches across the table and takes his hands, “If we can breathe the air of Mandalore, if we can reach the mines we could go home.” “Home,” he echoes, “I have no home now. I am dar’manda. I would not expect one such as you to understand.” He tries to pull back but she does not let go, grips his hands to the point of pain. “In the eyes of my people you have acted with great honor, despite your lineage.”
“In the eyes of my people you are a warning.” “And that is why we are a broken people,” Bo-Katan shakes her head, “We fight and draw lines about who is Mandalorian and who is not. By Creed, by blood, by right.” She drinks down the dregs of her spotchka and stands. “I leave for Mandalore at 0900,” she says, “You can leave with me or die in this pit.” Bo-Katan turns and walks away.
