Chapter 3: What Goes Around

"New Vertica Control, this is Razor Crest, requesting clearance to land."

Silence on the channel. There was always a short delay while the control tower confirmed an incoming ship's registry, but it soon stretched to a suspicious length. The Mandalorian confirmed his systems were working, and was about to repeat his transmission when the speaker finally crackled to life. "Cargo and destination?" a voice asked in bored Huttese.

He snorted in response to the controller's question. "My cargo is none of your business. And mine is with Madura the Hutt. It'll be your head if you make me late to meet her."

It wasn't just Madura's wrath he feared. With not one, but two high-value targets in his possession, he felt like he had a giant glowing bullseye painted on his back. Nar Shaddaa was the last place the kid belonged, and the last place a hunter wanted by the Guild needed to be. But if he was going to collect the bounty for the assassin, he had no other choice. He'd just have to get in and out quick.

"Transmitting landing coordinates," the controller all but squeaked.

Much better.

But no sooner had he begun their descent, than he heard a faint sound behind him. Something brushed his hip, and in the blink of an eye, he found his own vibroblade at his throat. "Turn this vessel around," a gravelly voice said calmly. "I do not wish to fight you again."

The Mandalorian froze. His mind raced, searching for a way to turn this situation to his advantage. How the hell had the assassin gotten free? And now that he was, why wasn't the Mandalorian dead yet? "You're really getting to be a pain in my ass, Krios," he bit out. "If you're gonna kill me, just do it."

"I will if I must," Krios growled. "Do not—"

Before he could finish, the Razor Crest's proximity alarms blared and the ship shuddered violently. The vibroblade disappeared, Krios's quick reflexes probably the only thing that kept it from slitting the Mandalorian's throat. Hey, he'd take any small bit of luck he could get.

Seizing the controls, the Mandalorian wrenched the ship around in an evasive pattern. "Hold that thought. We're under attack."

Out the corner of his eye, he saw Krios clutch the copilot's chair for support as the ship's inertial dampeners struggled to keep up with the maneuvers. He gritted his teeth, picturing the kid rattling around in his little closet. Hopefully, he wouldn't get too badly hurt—but even so, a few bumps and bruises were preferable to being blown to smithereens.

"Still playing hard to get, eh, Mando?" came a voice over the comm. "Your ship's limping. Hand over the bounty, and maybe I won't blast you out of the sky."

"Shryna Ilii," the Mandalorian replied. "Been a while." He grunted as the Crest shook under another barrage. "Which bounty are you talking about?" Damn it, why weren't the weapons charging?

"The only one that matters," she growled. "Warm or cold, Mando. It's up to you."

"Your deflector shields are only operating at fifteen percent, Mandalorian," said Krios. The Mandalorian risked a glance back at him, and found him strapped in, flicking switches and studying readouts. "Rerouting power from non-critical systems."

There wasn't time to question his attempt to help, but he clearly had a different strategy in mind. "Route to weapons, not shields!" the Mandalorian snapped as he nosed the ship into a stomach-twisting dive. More alarms sounded, and the console lit up with red indicators.

"We cannot take another hit."

"We won't." The Mandalorian leveled the ship out and then threw the engines into reverse. They screeched, something made a loud bang, and one sputtered out entirely. The Razor Crest spun wildly, and by the time the Mandalorian wrestled it back under control, Shryna had brought her ship around to face them head-on. "I need weapons now, Krios!"

"Charging. Fire!"

The Mandalorian jammed his thumb down on the trigger, and the blaster cannons roared to life. An unrelenting barrage drilled through Shryna's deflectors, and then her ship bloomed into a ball of silent flame.

But they weren't out of danger yet. With one engine down and the other wheezing and gasping, the Mandalorian had to fight with his instruments just to control their descent planetward. "Now would be a good time for shields, Krios," he ground out. "This is gonna get a little rough."

"Acknowledged. Deflector shields at thirteen percent—though I'm not certain how long they'll hold."

"That should get us through reentry, at least," the Mandalorian replied. "Theoretically."

"We shall be testing that theory shortly," said Krios. "Fifteen seconds to atmospheric interface… ten seconds… five, four, three, two, one, contact."

The Razor Crest began to shudder and groan as it descended into the atmosphere of Nar Shaddaa. Forced into a barely controlled ballistic trajectory, they overshot their designated landing area by hundreds of kilometers, screaming through the sky like a comet. Flames licked at the shields as the hull temperature crept slowly upward.

It took every ounce of the Mandalorian's attention just to keep the ship from tumbling into freefall. But they needed a place to set down, and soon. "Krios, see if you can find us a landing zone!"

"Scanning," Krios replied.

They continued to lose altitude at an alarming rate. The Mandalorian swore under his breath as he wrenched the ship around skyscrapers and between towers, sending city traffic scattering. "Any time now," he growled.

A second later, the copilot's console beeped. "Landing zone located!" Krios called out. "Hard to port, on my mark!"

"Not gonna happen!" the Mandalorian snapped. "It's all I can do to keep us in a straight—"

"Mark!"

With a curse, the Mandalorian kicked the maneuvering thrusters to maximum, engaged secondary repulsors, and slammed the yoke to the left. The ship swung into a wide turn—too wide, clipping a crumbling tower and sending it collapsing into the layers of city below. Metal screeched, the second engine blew out with a rattling cough, and then the Razor Crest touched down, skidding across a disused landing pad and shuddering to a halt.

Something hissed. The cockpit filled with the acrid reek of smoke. But they were alive.

Rather than let himself relax, though, the Mandalorian stood, turned, and trained his blaster on Krios. "I suppose you want me to thank you," he said.

Krios held up his hands and met his gaze evenly. "Not at all. I merely picked my battle."

"Oh, yeah? What do you mean by that?"

"It was in my best interest not to allow this ship to be destroyed," Krios said drily. "I would much rather fight you, if necessary, than the vacuum of space."

The Mandalorian snorted and lowered his blaster. "You got a point. At least I'll let you put up a fair fight."

Krios quirked his brow ridge at that, a ghost of a smile on his lips. "A bold assumption, that I would fight fairly."

"Yeah, you did jump me from behind—after sniping from a distance didn't work." The Mandalorian shook his head. He was actually starting to like this guy. Something about him just seemed… trustworthy. Genuine.

He'd met his share of assassins before. Most of them were a lot like Fennec Shand—prideful, arrogant, superior assholes who'd just as soon lie as breathe. Shand would have let the Razor Crest be blown to pieces, and herself with it, before she even thought about helping him. Krios seemed to be cut from a different cloth.

The Mandalorian scowled to himself. He's just a bounty. You don't befriend your own damn prisoner.

But what was he going to do, stun him again and drag him around Nar Shaddaa on foot? Tie him back up on the Razor Crest and leave him to the vrblthers while he scavenged for parts? Either option was just asking for trouble. Best to let Krios think he trusted him, for now. Having someone by his side who was good in a fight would be useful around here. Then as soon as the Crest was flying again, the Mandalorian could knock him back out long enough to get him to Madura the Hutt for the bounty.

If Madura didn't hunt them down first.

"So, where did we end up?" the Mandalorian asked.

Krios glanced at the console. "The Undercity, several levels below the Red Light Sector."

"Rough neighborhood." The Mandalorian pushed past Krios and started down the ladder to the cargo hold. "I put your weapons in the arms locker. You'll need 'em. I'm gonna check on the kid."

Alone in the dark, the child shivered, clutching his blanket. The loud noises had stopped, and so had the bouncing and shaking. But now it was too quiet, and his head hurt where he'd bumped it, and he was frightened.

At least he wasn't really alone. The armored man and the hurting man were still nearby. He knew they were coming closer before he heard their footsteps. And when the door slid open to reveal the armored man's familiar not-a-face, the child blinked in the sudden light and reached for him, eager for the comfort of those metal-covered arms.

The armored man scooped him up and held him at arm's length, looking him up and down. "You okay, ya little womp rat?" he asked.

The child didn't entirely understand, but the affectionate tone of the armored man's presence made him happy. He smiled and burbled.

The hurting man came closer. He felt worried. "It will be difficult to keep him safe, Mandalorian," he said. "There are many dangers out there."

"Well, I'm not about to leave him here alone," the armored man snapped. He set the child down on the floor.

The hurting man frowned down at him. "Nor was I suggesting we do so. Only that bringing him with us may not be much safer."

The child started from the hurting man to the armored man and back. The hurting man frightened him a little, because of the way he felt around the armored man. But also because he felt clearer, somehow, than the armored man, easier to sense. The child didn't know what that meant, either. But he did know the hurting man wouldn't hurt him, and more than the armored man would. It was confusing.

"You think I don't know that?" said the armored man. "It's not like we have another choice. Come on, let's get out of here before it gets dark and all the real nasties come out." He looked down at the child. "You, too. Stay close. Don't wander off."

He sounded angry, but he didn't feel angry. He felt worried, too, just like the hurting man. The child knew the armored man felt less worried when he was nearby, though, so he followed as they left the ship.

The armored man and the hurting man were both very tall, and walked very fast. The child struggled to keep up, but soon began to fall behind. They were going to leave him! He stopped, whimpering. He'd be lost out here all alone.

Both men turned, and the child cooed hopefully. Maybe they weren't going to leave him, after all?

"Come on, let's move it," the armored man said.

The hurting man gave the armored man a strange look, then came and gathered the child into his arms. The armored man took a breath as if he was going to say something, then shook his head and turned away again, continuing the way they'd been going before.

The child squirmed and whined. He wanted the armored man to carry him. He didn't know the hurting man.

"Hush, ashi," the hurting man said softly. "It's all right."

The child didn't understand his words, but he could feel his feelings, his intentions. It came through clearer than the armored man ever did. He was safe with the hurting man, he knew. So the child wrapped his arms around the hurting man's neck, buried his face in his shoulder, and closed his eyes.

And before he drifted off to sleep, he could feel that the hurting man was hurting a little bit less.