I heard the kids these days are calling it the summer of Gaz, so here you go with mando!Gaz...
Hails from Sundari, the city-capital of Mandalore. When the Mandalorian Civil War ended, Gaz's family ditched their beskar armor and weapons, fully embracing the pacifistic Mandalorian movement. He was part of Duchess Satine Kryze's police guard, but became disillusioned with Pacifism-specifically from Satine's inaction after a Deathwatch terrorist attack. After helping Price take down a couple Deathwatch soldiers on Mandalore, he gladly joins 141, snags his family's beskar armor that hasn't been melted down yet, and fully embraces being Mandalorian.
> crossposted from @charliemwrites ‘ lovely server
Soap is your typical mando. Fully customized kit, wanton usage of explosives, constantly cursing up a storm. Frequently on fire. His kit has been modified to allow for more motion with a flex breastplate and braces on the vambraces to allow for him to elbow a bitch. Armor colors are orange and green - a lust for life and duty. His beskar is inherited from a long line of ancestors, and he takes exceptionally good care of it. Concord Dawn prior to glassing.
Gaz is a bit more 'passing' as non-mando. Wears the breastplate, gauntlets, boots, typically tends to have his bucket off but whether that's because he can win more people over with his smile than his blaster is his own little secret. Coruscanti accent, quick with his blaster but can also wield vibroblades pretty adequately. BIG on the jetpacks. blue and green armor - reliability and duty. Got his kit from his great uncle when he retired and Gaz was, like, 14.
Ghost doesn't take his bucket off. Ever. At some point manages to get the darksaber - does not hold on to it. Dry, pops jokes every so often but otherwise kind of looms, speaks almost entirely in mando'a to his vod and it sounds real intimidating but if u understand what he's saying it's just like. the fucking tank joke. black and white armor - justice and fresh starts to commemorate his new life serving as a bounty hunter maybe? Full kit akin to ARC troopers in the clone wars with a big dark cloak thrown over top because he's dramatic. Has cobbled together the beskar over the years, didn't start out with a full kit but quickly earned it beating the shit out of scumbag mandos.
Price tends to have his bucket off about as much as he has it on - 50/50 split, mostly because it's easier to pretend he's not exasperated when he has his bucket on and his vocoder going. Green, light green and brown - duty, a desire for peace, and valor. Earned his beskar piece by piece. Directs his vod in mando'a because not a lot of people speak it which gives them a tactical advantage, but won't do it when they're not in the field like Soap or Ghost will because he considers it kind of rude.
The first night is spent meditating, projecting calm into the force and trying to ignore how loud these men are. You can hear every step, every sharp bark of laughter, every word of murmured mando’a. You can feel their intent. There’s a grim sort of camaraderie that permeates the ship.
It feels like family - like belonging, similar but not quite the same to the temple’s home-sense. Stubborn, more possessive, but that lingering home-sense is thick and heady. You wonder how long they've been a team. From the feeling of it, years. Echoes of them remain in the force, lingering like a blown-out candle, stuck to the walls and ceiling and vents.
If the captain - Price, he tells you, narrows his eyes and puffs it around his cigarra - thinks anything about the fact just you haven’t moved from the stool in the past ten hours, he doesn’t say anything. Merely mutters something about shabu'jetii and drops a mug of tea down in front of you.
You take it appreciatively. Offer him a smile and gesture for him to sit in one of the stools beside you, the baby in your other hand. He does with a groan.
“Swear to the stars, they get more uncomfortable each time I sit.” He mutters, lips pressing thin when his gaze flits back to you and realizes what you’re doing. Admittedly, it’s a superfluous use of the force to float your mug up to your mouth, but you’ve got your hands full of exhausted youngling and tea only stays good when it’s hot. Maybe you should stop. You don’t.
“Have you had the ship for long?”
It’s a polite question - you know he’s had it for years, the pervading home-sense is indication enough of that, but you’re eager to divert his attention away from disapproval and discomfort. You’re here. You’re a Jedi. You’re going to use the force, whether he personally approves of it or not.
“Almost ten years,” He grumbles, chewing on his cigarra, setting warm eyes beyond you. “Been flying her longer than I’ve been in the current mand'alor's service.”
Your brows quirk, hum softly.
“Rare for a mandalorian to be running missions for the republic.” You say, a question but not. Give him space to decide whether he wants to answer or not. The force in the ship is strange - thick with tension, edged with copper and spice and life that feels so alien compared to the serene blanket of the temple. It feels too rich, too vibrant, almost spicy.
You drink your tea. Let the flavors soak your tongue sharp and acrid, pull you out before you sink back into the meditative state.
"Rare for the child of a senator to end up on the battlefield of a civil war," He counters, brow quirking in what feels like another accusation. "Millions of parsecs from coruscant. That not curious to you, jed’ika?"
Of course it’s curious to you. There are countless bad actors that could be attributed to the kidnapping of a force sensitive baby, countless bad actors that could be attributed to the child of a senator, but together? It’s implausible. Strange. Something out of a shab holonovel, not reality.
You don’t voice that.
“You don’t think it’s your…” You trail off, pinch your brows. Search for the word that he’s said before and fail to grasp it, the shapes of mando’a not quite familiar enough to hold.
“Kyr’tsad. Death Watch. No. S'not Kyr'tsad. Would've killed her."
Your eyes go wide at how casually he says it, at the ease of it, and instinctively, you grasp the child closer, brows pinching. You've seen your fair share of suffering - as a watchman, you go where the force feels you're needed, and you're often needed where people are suffering, but..
But the way he says it is too settled. Like he's seen worse. Like he doesn't have any faith in the enemy, like he's seen things firsthand. He probably has. You fight the urge to soothe the stress away in the force, instead wrapping yourself and the child up in a blanket of calm, weave it nice and warm and watertight against the sluice of dread that fills the air.
"Could be one've your dar'jetii," Quips a voice as the handsome one - Gaz, his name is Gaz - approaches, dropping heavily into the space beside Price, loosely clutching a cup of caf in his hand. Once again, his bucket is off, and his face is schooled into neutrality, "No reason to think it's one of ours."
"It's not."
"How d'you know?" Gaz leans forwards, eyebrow quirked, takes a sip of his caf and narrows his eyes.
"Because it's impossible."
"Nothing's impossible, love." Price this time, his gaze still glued to the baby. The anxiety that twists your stomach at his implication is displeasing, and you begin to thumb at the baby's swaddle, realizing there's embroidery across it.
"This is," You say, voice flat, unamused, thumb running over the letters, the aurebesh crisp and fresh, trying to figure it out from touch alone. Mikha, maybe - mern-isk-kreath-aurek - though that doesn't feel right. "We would know if it was the sith. We'd feel it. It's not possible."
Mikha doesn't feel accurate. Micha (mern-isk-cherek-aurek) or Mika (mern-isk-krill-aurek) or something like it. The third letter is strange, the cursive aurebesh almost too vague for you to gauge on touch alone. You ignore the anxiety that tightens your core at the idea of the sith.
You'd know. You'd know.
"You'd feel it?"
You try not to bristle at the incredulity, tell yourself it's not meant to offend, that mandalorians are intense and passionate and unschooled, that they're not held to the same culture of passivity and serenity that you are, but it's difficult when the captain looks at you with pity and condescension. Like you're some child, hopeful and pitiful and naive.
Like you're a fool.
You are definitively not a fool. There's nothing naive about the knowledge that you'd know if the sith were still around - they're all but extinct now, a child's tale to keep crechelings from misbehaving. Kark it, you're a jedi, for force's sake. Clever and encompassing and wise beyond your years.
And yet, the men before you look at you with that same doubt, and you're the first to break the staring contest, glancing down.
Mira. Mern-isk-resk-aurek. A sweet name for a sweet baby.
The ship is warm when you step into it. It’s jarring - in the empty vacuum of space, it’s difficult to maintain warmth, an expenditure of energy that most sentients agree is wasteful at best and suicidal at worst. It’s all too possible that your engine runs out of energy in the middle of nowhere, stranding you for any sleemo to come up on you, especially in the Outer Rim.
And this is deep kriffing Outer Rim.
The airlocks hiss as you step further in, sealing you with the armored man and his crew and the signature in the force that twinkles bright, a splay of youth-curiosity-exhaustion that reminds you of the creche. Of home. Fortuitous, really, that you had been conducting the watchman’s circuit, that you had been so close. A fresh knight in the right place at the right time.
The man before you doesn’t have his helmet on - displays a face that looks older than it should, warm eyes crinkling at the edges even as he looks at you with skepticism and distrust, inscrutable in the force, but mandalorians are like that, are trained to be like that. Jedi hunters, you’re reminded of when your people were at war.
You have no doubt he’s as deadly as any legend of old.
“You’re the jedi,” He says, and his voice is gruff, not a question, no, an accusation. You hum in acknowledgement, hands folding in front of you where you know he can see them, far from the lightsaber hitched onto your belt. "C'mon then - the child is waiting."
You fall into step with him easily, cognizant of him watching you out the corner of his eye. He's good - you wouldn't have noticed if you weren't tuned into his presence in the force. As well-shielded as he is, his awareness is a heavy, distinctive thing, scrutinizing and considering. You think he might be sizing you up. Beneath the armor, you can tell the man is broad, large, surely strong enough to lug around at least seventy pounds of armor, if your own assessment is accurate.
He'd probably give you a run for your money. Your lips quirk at that, curl. It's been a while since you've had a good fight.
He leads you through the small ship to what appears to be a common room - a rounded table embedded into the floor, surrounded by three stools and a backed bench that edges the wall, all smooth durasteel.
In the corner is the largest mandalorian you've ever seen. The man is huge - even beneath his armor, you can tell he's built, broad shoulders and a barrel chest and thick thighs. He'd be downright intimidating - he might still be intimidating - if he didn't have a child nestled into the crook of his arm, dozing happily against the fabric of his cape, one small hand wrapped around his gloved finger tight. She radiates into the force, a steady stream of comfort-safety-sleep that has your own eyes feeling heavy, made worse by how warm the ship is.
You take a step forward as you hear the other man head to the cockpit, curiosity getting the best of you, but the man in the corner's head snaps up, fixes on you like a predator's would, and your breath catches in your throat.
He's like a black hole in the force. It's unnerving - where there should be at least an outline of him, there's a void, unnatural and odd, nearly swallowing the child he's holding and all of her brilliance. You have to fight the urge to snatch her away, to soothe the feeling of strangeness that lingers in the air.
Good shields. Too good - he's all but erased himself in the force. It's a degree of fascinating that has you eager to edge closer and just as eager to step away.
"Tion'cuy?" He asks, voice a low growl, his voice modulator making it worse, and as you approach, you can see that there's some sort of paint along the black beskar, a stylized skull on his bucket and bones etched onto his gauntlets. "Ibic cuyir te jetii?"
"Basic in front of the jedi, vod, captain's orders," Drawls a voice from behind you, a force signature registering alongside the steady sounds of boots on metal grating, lighter than you'd expect for the kind of greaves you're sure he's wearing. "He's askin' what you are, bonnie lass, case you were wonderin'. 'M Soap," He hooks a thumb, gestures to himself, and then to the black-armored mando- "'N that's Ghost."
Unlike Ghost, Soap's armor is lighter, intricately painted in swirls of color that look almost to be like.. explosions against the deep green color, bursts of orange and yellow in sporadic splatters of pigment. His helmet is on, T-Visor dark and obstructive, but his voice is friendly enough, accent thick and warm and low.
"Soap and Ghost. It's a pleasure to meet you both," You say, letting some of the tension loose from your shoulders, gaze flicking between the two of them. "I'm a jedi - a knight. The closest one the council could send. They said it was an emergency case.."
Your eyes trail down to the bundle in Ghost's arms, one brow arching when he shifts to hold the baby girl a bit more protectively, wary of you in the way that mandalorians often are. You don't move from where you're standing - not when Soap leans in to inspect you, not when a third lopes out, bucket under his arm and an easy smile on his face.
"And this one's Gaz." Soap rumbles, and this one - this one is different. An easy smile, long lashes, full lips, he's undeniably beautiful, but more than that -
He's force sensitive. You can feel him sprawled out through the force; easy, confident, not enough to qualify for the temple but enough to notice. You hum softly, rattle off your name, try not to take it personally when none of them take note of it.
There's a lightness to his presence. You wonder how it presents; with those just toeing the edge of sensitivity, it typically manifests in gifts, specializations. There's a clearness to Gaz's eyes as he looks you over, a sharpness.
"So you're here to keep the ik'aad from tearing our ship up more?" His voice is smooth, easy, a crisp coruscanti accent that has you tilting your head in curiosity and nodding. He rewards you with a smile, relief flashing in dark eyes, his posture loose and easy. His helmet goes to rest on the table as he drops into a stool, loosing a low sigh and reaching out to the baby.
"That's the idea. Untrained force sensitives are.. difficult," You respond, doing well to keep the question out of your voice. You doubt he knows, and even if he does, it's none of your business. "It's why we start them in the creche from as young as possible. Big feelings, a lot of power, no idea how to control that power.. it's a recipe for disaster, especially on prolonged trips."
Slowly, you move to sit at the table as well, gaze trained on the faceless man holding the child. You can feel his eyes on you - feel him assessing you, just as their captain had, but there's intent behind it that the other man simply hadn't had. Like if you moved wrong, he'd have no qualms squashing you like a grub.
"And that wouldn't amplify the.. difficulty?" Gaz asks, leaning forwards, brows raising, fine lines on his forehead becoming more pronounced. He looks young - you wonder if he's had his fair share of stress. "All of 'em together?"
"Thankfully, no. Between the crechemasters and the creche itself, crechelings are kept pretty settled," You say, gaze once again flicking to the baby. "We, ah. We project calm."
"Some of that jetii banthashite, bonnie?" Soap drops into the bench beside Ghost, utterly oblivious to the ache.
"Something like that."
"Well, s'long as it ain't pointed at us," He says, smiling with a bit too much teeth to be anything other than perfectly clear - friendly as he might be, the wariness is sharp. "'M sure ye ken not to misbehave with us, hen."
You keep your face schooled into impassive placidity, the perfect image of a settled jedi, even if the hair on the back of your neck rises at the suggestion of a threat. Your own eyes reflect back to you on that mirrored visor, and you swallow, soften your eyes, offer an easy, calm smile.
