Chapter Text
Din decides pretty early on that whatever merry band of misfits captured him are close to the stupidest lifeforms he’s ever encountered in this whole hellscape of a galaxy.
For starters, they keep him shackled in the corner of their brig. Shackled. It’s very old fashioned - effective, Din won’t lie, because whatever keeps the bindings tight on his wrists and fastened to the wall is too strong for Din to work through - but still. Shackled .
To make matters worse, they take the armor while he’s unconscious and stack it in a pile on the other side of the room, where Din can waste whole stretches of time staring at it and formulating plans on how to get to it when the chance arises.
They leave the helmet on, which Din is desperately relieved by but is willing to admit is a less-than-intelligent choice. One of the guys explains it as he comes in to throw baseless insults at Din, which they all seem to enjoy doing a bit too much.
“Don’t get too attached to it,” the pirate sneers. “Only reason it’s still on is because Boss wants to be the one to do the honors.”
“Boss?” Din asks, playing dumb. He doesn’t much care who’s at the end of this chain of command, or where they’re headed, or what pirate gang this even is . But these things might hold clues to his escape, so he plays the part.
The guy just laughs. “Nice try. But don’t worry, you’ll meet him soon enough.”
Yeah, because Din was very worried. Another reason these idiots are the worst? They’re obviously of the kind that takes a bit of extra pleasure in roughing up their bounties before delivery. It must be the only reason he’s not in a carbonite slab right now; he’s sure they have the tech for it and are choosing instead to keep him chained in the corner like an animal. It’s a power trip. It always is with these guys. So when the pirate gets too close, aims two smart kicks against Din’s side - pain flares hot and white and he bites it down - he swings out with his feet, knocking them through the pirate’s legs.
The guy falls to the ground, and Din can’t really use his hands, but he’s not going to let that stop him. With the tiny bit of space the shackles allow him, he wraps his legs around the guy’s torso, swings himself up so he’s on top of him, and loops his hands around the guy’s neck, the tail of the chain following behind his bindings and tightening around throat.
Whoops, looks like the guy can’t breathe. His face goes red as his hands scrabble for purchase, and Din feels approximately zero percent bad.
It doesn’t last long though. They must hear the commotion from outside, because two other pirates storm in, look dumb and surprised for a second, and then run up to help. Pirate number one gets a headbutt to the knee. Not Din’s best choice: his already pulsing head goes blurry with the sudden motion, pain flashing lights in the edges of his eyesight. But bone snaps under the force of beskar, and the pirate howls and drops.
Pirate number three uses his miniscule brain, hanging back when he sees what happens to his buddy. Din watches, ignoring the increasingly distressed choking noises underneath him. The guy runs to the side wall, grabbing a familiar looking prod. He engages the charge, and Din’s body remembers what is still fuzzy in his mind: unbelievable pain lancing through his limbs, and then darkness.
His head pounds. His lungs heave. He clenches his jaw and tightens the chain and tries to kick out at the side of the prod, but the pirate holds tight. “Mando scum,” he growls, and then the glowing tip presses against his neck, right under the rim of his helmet, and the shock arches through every cell, every vein, every part of him that knows how to feel pain, even the ones he didn’t think could.
His mind is a tunnel, and he is pushed forcefully back into its depths.
.
It’s almost funny, that he dreams. Din isn’t prone to dreaming. Sleep has always been just that: a moment to recharge the body, and nothing more. But here, his mind wanders. It gives him a memory, something soft and warm and familiar, as if the universe is apologizing for its refusal to change.
The memory is this:
The kid has torn his smock again. It’s a small rip, not too much cause for concern, and Din’s not even really sure when it happened. Somewhere between their close call on Tatooine and their close call on Kalassia and their close call on Shola. Somewhere between Din grabbing him and running or shielding him with a beskar-armed chest or hiding him behind some conspicuous plant while he dealt with the attackers. Somewhere between the general mess that is their current lives, the kid had frayed the bottom end of his robe and it bothers Din like a splinter in the back of his head, small and persistent.
Din remembers watching Omera use tiny needles and a bold blue thread to mend one of the Sorgan kid’s shirts. He remembers watching his mom do the same when he was a child, patching together ripped sleeves and admonishing, always too gently, “remember, treat your clothes like you’d treat a friend.”
Din feels incredibly out of place, asking for sewing needles and brown thread. It seems an out-of-date request at any of the larger planets, but the Outer Rim has no shortage of planets that have stayed small and relatively un-industrialized. He finds one, with a shop just for hand-sewn clothing, and wastes an inordinate amount of time finding the exact shade of brown. The kid peeks up from the satchel, sounding curious. Din looks down at big eyes and a half visible face, shining at the array of colors in front of them.
“What do you think?” he asks, grabbing the small spiel of tan and holding it in front of the kid. His little hands reach over the satchel, grabbing the thread and holding it closer. He opens his mouth.
“ Not for eating.”
He closes his mouth. But the thread seems a near perfect match, so Din pays and heads back to the ship and as the Crest follows a course off-planet, Din figures out how to fit ridiculously small needles in his gloved hands, how to move them just right to create small little patterns of thread.
He tests it out on an old blanket he finds in storage, only calling on the kid once he feels he’s mastered the basics. “Come on, let’s fix that dress of yours, ok?”
The kid hums, always inexplicably happy to be in Din’s lap. Din gives him his favorite metal ball as a distraction, but the kid seems more fascinated by the sewing, eyes wide and mouth a perfect little oh of wonder as he watches Din trail a small line up the tear in his clothes. It’s, oddly peaceful. The hum of the ship is familiar, and the kid is a warm weight against his side, and the task requires an attention to detail that makes it strangely rewarding.
When the little tear is mended, the kid makes a small hum of excitement. Tiny hands latch onto Din’s finger, and he’s careful to move the needle out of the way. “There ya go, kid. Good as new.”
Din goes to put the kid back down, grabbing him by his sides, but the kid immediately protests, digging little nails into his arm and making a show with a loud gurgle. Din sighs. “Fine. But don’t touch anything.”
The kid hums happily, and most definitely does touch things, but Din keeps his head angled slightly so he can make sure it’s nothing too important. When he reaches a hand at the emergency brake button, Din interferes with a small nudge. “Not that one.”
The kid makes a pouty noise, but then distracts himself with his own reflections in the shine of Din’s beskar, making faces and then squealing as his reflection follows suit. He keeps looking up at Din, as if to check that he’s watching, and as they hurtle through space it takes all of Din’s energy not to give in to the smile fighting its way onto his face.
.
Din wakes up. The memory feels distant and cold. His body aches, and his mouth tastes like copper, and the kid is safe. Through the distant patches of memory he can bring up from his capture - his vibroblade in a neck, blood on his visor, the crunch of bone - one is clear. Staring from the other side of an escape pod as the kid made a noise close to crying. Hitting the eject button and watching for a moment as the pod plunged towards Nevarro. Knowing that, despite whatever happened to Din, the kid would be ok.
The kid would be ok.
It’s enough. He adjusts himself against the wall, wincing at the pain, and it’s enough.
.
It’s hard to measure how much time passes. Harder still when he gets less visitors. Apparently news spread of the whole trying to choke someone incident; the pirates keep their distance now. Or at least, most of them do. The ballsier members of the crew still come in, and Din grows used to their faces. There are four that prefer to take a more hands on approach, even after his attack. He gives them nicknames in his head: Dumb, Dumber, Dumbest, and Kung , a little something he’s picked up from the Hutts.
Kung is the worst. A red mass of an alien Din can’t pin to any one species. Big-headed and beady-eyed and way too fond of using the electric prod. It makes time blur into something even more unreal, the measure of awake spent relearning how to move his body and the stretches of sleep largely exhausting and restless. He doesn’t know much about electrocution, but he’s sure his body can only handle so much of it in such a short sitting.
Wherever he’s going, the final intent must be his death. It’s the only reason they’d be so careless with their force.
Or, again, that they’re brainless. Din shouldn’t write that possibility off, as it explains most everything else they do.
When he does find a stretch of lucid time, he spends it one of three ways.
Sometimes he’ll use it to categorize his injuries. Most of his capture is a fuzzy memory, bits of it muddled and lost. But he has wounds to sport, and they tell the parts of the story he remembers most. A shot to the underside of his arm, which has left a now crusted dark patch on his clothes. With his hands bound in front of him, the only thing he can do is look at the spot and guess what’s underneath; likely an infection, judging by the hot itch of skin and the lancing pain that shoots up his arm when he moves it too quickly. He has what he guesses is a similar wound above his hip. This one he’s able to get a look at, using the edges of his fingers to pull at the fabric above his pants. The wound is small and inflamed, a circle of red fanning out of the blaster point. Definitely infected.
Worst though is his abdomen. He’s willing to bet cracked or broken ribs, with the way his whole side aches persistently and his breaths jolt in pain if they’re too deep. He can’t get a good look at them, but he runs the edges of his palms over his torso and feels unfamiliar indents and a swollen exterior. Probably broken.
That’s not to mention the bone-deep exhaustion from the shocking sessions, or the singed feeling of his skin where the prod tip was applied. He’s going to kill each and every one of these pirates, and he’s probably going to enjoy it.
When he’s not cataloguing injuries he’s charting a plan. Nothing concrete, but he runs through courses of action in his head anyway so that if he’s given an opportunity, his muddled brain doesn’t have to think. He’ll revert back to a pre-programmed set of steps, and his body will take over where his brain feels fuzzy and dim. Step one is always to grab the armor. Step two is usually to bolt one of the two entrances shut. Step three is his favorite: destroy everything in his path. Obviously. He’ll trace his way down the ship following the hum of the engine to the back, where the hangar is probably located and the Crest hopefully still docked. He will shoot out into hyperspace, or maybe stick around to scatter the pieces of the pirates’ freighter into deep space. Then he will go back to Nevarro, and find the kid, and something inside him that’s been knocked out of place will finally readjust.
This is where the third train of thought always comes into the play. Alone and shackled and worn to exhaustion, he thinks of the kid. Did the escape pod make it to Nevarro? Was the landing too rough? Din had engaged the safety harness, right? Would Cara know to follow the distress beacon? Would she find the kid in one piece? Would she remember that he prefers bone broth over chowder? Or that he doesn’t like sleeping alone? Or that he hasn’t quite mastered spoons yet?
Sometimes, when Din’s brain feels particularly muddled, the thoughts trail somewhere else entirely, somewhere decidedly harder to turn away from once he’s there: would she know what to do, how to help the kid, if Din didn’t make it back? Din’s not usually prone to dramatics, so it must be the infection talking, or some part of his brain fried by the electricity. He allows himself to consider it, and then it’s like he can’t stop. Would someone else step up to fill whatever role he’s carved out as caretaker of the kid? Or, more likely, would they carve out their own spot, far away from Din’s scattered attempts at - what, parenting ? Would they do better than Din ever could, learn to really talk to the kid, to show him their face, to give him an upbringing Din simply isn’t cut out for?
Maybe this is the universe’s way of reminding Din of the cold truth of it all: that he is not the sort of person who gets to feel belonging, and that he’s certainly not the sort of person who could ever give that feeling to someone else. He doesn’t know when the lie began, when he convinced himself that maybe he could be good for the kid, in some strange, unpredictable way. But he can only really see it now, with nothing but his own thoughts, black and thick like tar, to occupy himself.
He wants, desperately, to be back with the kid. To see big eyes and tilted ears and the little curious glances he steals when Din lifts the corner of his helmet to eat. But suddenly it seems starkly unfair, almost selfish. This can’t be what the kid wants.
Can it?
Dumb, Dumber, and Dumbest walk in as a trio, already laughing as they crack knuckles like some goons acting the part of someone tougher. Din is resigned to what comes next: in his head, he is a million lightyears away.
The kid will be fine, he reminds himself as they step closer. Even if Din can’t make it back to him. Maybe because Din can’t make it back to him. If Din has to choose, he’ll always choose what’s best for the kid. If it’s at his expense, then Din will have to live with that too.
A kick is aimed at his side.
This is the Way.
.
This time, the dream is short. A fusion of mismatched memories. He is a child, and the sounds of explosions surround him, and his parents just died. His parents just died, and he is pressed against a stranger’s chest, and he doesn’t want to feel the way he feels ever again.
They give him his first helmet when he is still young. They teach him how to fight. How to kill. He is good at it. Very good. They tell him this, and it fills something in him that is empty and impossibly large.
He tells himself that he does what needs to be done. It’s the truth. He earns his armor. He grows comfortable in the shadows. He learns that distance is what protects him, and that attachment can grow unchecked into the most dangerous weakness of them all.
He meets the kid. He risks his life. He shares his rations. He buys a satchel. He talks to him. He feeds him. He learns to sew. He tries to be softer. He tries to be better. He does things he knows he shouldn’t.
He is stupid enough to be surprised by how much he cares, how large this weak spot has grown, when he’s helped it along every step of the way. It is his own fault. He sees the kid’s arms reaching out at him, little hands clenching and unclenching, and turns away from the escape pod. Again and again, he turns away, and it sits like a boulder in his chest.
.
Din can tell something is different the second the pirates walk into the room. It’s Kung and Dumbest and two unnamed faces. They all look agitated. Din’s brain feels foggy, but not so foggy that he can’t see fingers tapping against thighs and jaws clenched tight.
“Who did you call?”
Din tries to make sense of that. He can’t. “What?”
Kung steps closer, their whole body strung. “Who did you call? Don’t play dumb, Mando .”
“I didn’t call anyone.”
“What is it, a tracker? You have a tracker on you?”
“I don’t - “
“Search him.”
Din is pinned to the ground. His body aches to retaliate, but he knows better than to do that now. This is something new; he’s not willing to test it yet.
Hands pat his back, dig into his pockets, and Din fights the urge to kick and punch and break. “He’s clean,” Dumbest finally says. The hands leave. Din forces himself to breathe
Kung takes a step closer. Their eyes burn like small flames in a thick skull. “How did they find us?”
Din can’t keep up. “How did - I didn’t send any - “
The kick is expected, but it blows into already torn ribs and Din’s vision blackens from the corners in, a backwards rippling that leaves the group of pirates clear in the center.
“Don’t kriffing lie!” Kung spits. “Get me the Stinger,” he throws over his shoulder. Din’s chest heaves; the pirates look at each other, vaguely on edge.
“He already got it once today, don’t you think - “
“ Now .”
Din watches as two of the pirates skitter off, heading to the prod.
“I’m going to ask you again,” Kung says. Din sees: an exposed jugular, an anger that means distraction, a positioning a step too close, right in Din’s range. “How did they find us?”
“How did who - “
Kung steps closer. Din measures: severity of attack: lethal, time required to execute: three seconds, expected retaliation: severe.
The pirate behind Kung holds the prod at the ready. Kung takes it and angles it towards Din and says, “I can think of more creative ways to use this thing.” It’s a threat, clear and likely meant to intimidate him. Din is way past things like intimidation .
“Yeah, me too,” he says, and it pieces together just as he telegraphed it in his mind. In one burst of motion, he uses his feet to smack the base of the prod out of Kung’s hands. He relies on surprise to make the alien’s grip weak, and it works. The rod drops, skitters and rolls towards Din. He can hardly move his arms, his wrists bound at a shared point, but he can still grab the pole with scrabbling fingers. He whips it around in his hands in one quick motion and sees a flash of shock on Kung’s face before the prod tip embeds itself in his neck.
He goes down instantly, thrashing, and the satisfaction is hot and nauseating. Din’s brain works to churn forward, but he’s been running on nothing but pain and lukewarm water for however long he’s been here, and it shows. His fingers are like lead, and he tries to pull the prod back out as Kung gurgles awfully, but it doesn’t budge.
He’s shoved back into the corner with rough hands. Someone removes the prod; Din can only tell because the thrashing noise stops. His head is banged against the wall. A foot stomps on his shin. There is a horrible anxious chatter that amplifies until it rattles inside of his skull, and Din thinks he twists someone’s ankle or snaps someone’s wrist before there is a sudden and flaming pain circling his neck, under his helmet. Fingers wrapped around his throat; he can’t breathe. He kicks out but his foot meets tough skin, and when his brain finally connects the dot he realizes it’s Kung.
The alien bleeds sluggishly from the neck, but their eyes burn hot and alive. “I don’t go down like some little human, Mando ,” they growl. Din’s vision blackens, his lungs burning with need.
So. Possible miscalculation on Din’s part; he barely has time to think of the kid, of the kid, dammit , before the grip tightens, Kung’s other hand arches and is handed that same kriffing prod , and the tip burns hot and angry against Din’s ribs.
.
There is no dream this time. No memory sent his way. There is only darkness, and somewhere in his stomach, the strangest pull. A rope around his waist, attached to something far away, tugging and tugging and tugging. Pulling him closer even as he’s dragged further and further away. The rope tightens, and shortens, and snaps.
.
No one visits him the following day. He thinks it’s the following day. It gives him a chance to run the conversation back, pick up whatever pieces Kung had let fall.
How did they find us , they’d said. That much Din remembers. Being searched for a tracker, pinned to the ground, and then possibly strangled? His neck aches, and for a horrible moment, he’s sure that they’ve taken the helmet.
But the weight of it is heavy and familiar; he lets out a breath, and tries to think.
It’s unlikely that anyone has come for him. More than unlikely, it’s impossible. No one else got a look at the pirates, and the kid is safe on Nevarro – has to be safe on Nevarro, or it’s all been for nothing – and there is no long list of people who would feel galvanized enough by Din’s capture to attempt some sort of rescue mission. Even if there was, they’d have nothing to go off of. Din’s known this from the beginning; he either gets out of this himself, or not at all. The latter seems more and more likely now than it did even a couple, what, hours ago? Days? Weeks? It hurts to swallow and Din’s stomach has long since given up begging for food and he’s having trouble stringing his memories together in any resemblance of something linear, or something that makes sense.
He feels almost kind, that he doesn’t leave his bounties to sit and stew, hungry and alone. Carbonite is much more forgiving.
He blinks; how much time has passed? Unsure. He feels that misplaced pull in his stomach again, an unidentifiable feeling that isn’t so much bad as it is out of place, like someone’s tugging on a muscle he didn’t know he had, fastening an invisible cord around him, even as he feels himself drifting further and further away.
He’s not afraid to admit it anymore. He misses the kid. Time feels long and pointless without him, and he tries to grab at the memories from before but comes up dry. Din doesn’t cry; Din never cries. He presses his helmet against the floor and squeezes his eyes shut and swallows down something massive and stays like that until the darkness surrounds him again.
.
When he wakes up, it’s to an alarm blaring. At first, his brain can’t pinpoint the sound to anything identifiable; he just knows it’s loud, and obnoxious, and rams against the inside of his skull.
Then, the entire ship shakes. He’s thrown forward, the shackles rattling as they keep him from going too far. Suddenly, he’s wide awake. The ship is being attacked. The ship is being attacked .
He won’t get a chance like this again; even as he knows this, it’s like his body won’t cooperate. He feels sluggish all over, even as he glances at the armor and then back at the shackles, bolted into the wall. He presses his feet against the metal, pushing out as hard as he can and yanking backwards with his hands. Nothing budges. His head spins. He tries again, but the ship slants suddenly to the side, and his feet slip.
A new alarm joins the other one; perfect.
He readjusts his foot, this time trapping some of the chain underneath to make the space he needs to pull shorter. He puts all his weight in leaning backwards, the force of it burning in his wrists, but not enough to snap the bindings. He glances at the door; no one’s come in yet, but he knows it won’t be long.
Biting his bottom lip, he presses the base of his thumb against the binding, then presses his hand against the floor and pushes as hard as he can. His thumb pops; he throws the pain somewhere he won’t think about it, and slides his dislocated thumb further towards his palm, making his hand smaller. He braces his feet against the wall again, and pushes, and pushes , and just as he feels his hand slide the slightest bit, the door crashes open behind him.
He’s starting to think the world really does just hate him.
“Grab him,” Kung orders. There are four others, including Dumb and Dumbest. Their eyes are all blown wide, and their movements are quick and scattered. Din’s seen this enough times to recognize it easily; fear.
Dumb and two of the others run straight to him; this time, they pull out blasters aimed at his head (seriously?) and chest and shoulder. He expects a taunt or two, but they’re silent as they hold him against the wall and keep him there with threat of blasters humming between them. Din finds he’s more concerned with the others. He watches as the alarm screams and the ship lurches awfully and Kung and Dumbest close the door and bolt it from the inside. “You two,” he says, facing Din. “Man the door, I’ll stick with the prisoner.”
They switch spots in a quick shuffle, and Din doesn’t ask, just lets them scurry around as the alarm, abruptly, flashes into silence. The constant hum of the engine flicks off. The overhead lights give one last surge before shutting off with a definitive click . There is a second of total darkness; Din tenses to fight.
Then, the back-up lights click on, filling the room with a dim red glow. Still, no one says anything. Din’s heart is loud and present against his neck.
There are a few moments of stillness. Then, the door rattles. The pirates step backwards a bit, blasters angled outwards. The door rattles again, but the bolt holds. The rattling stops. Din watches as the pirates look at each other, uneasy.
Kung opens their mouth to say something, but before they can, the room fills with the sound of ripping metal. Din blinks: the door folds in on itself, crushing inwards like a ball of foil. It shouldn’t be possible; it isn’t possible. But it’s tossed aside like a used can, slamming against the back wall.
The two pirates at the front waste no time; they point their blasters out, but before they can fire, they are lifted into the sky – lifted into the sky – and slam against the ceiling with a horrible sounding crack. They are dropped to the floor, and don’t move again.
There’s a feeling in Din’s chest, a feeling like he knows what’s about to happen; he’s only seen something like this once before. But it doesn’t make sense. It can’t make sense, because it isn’t possible. The remaining pirates push closer to Din, and he almost doesn’t feel them, doesn’t hear Kung shouting orders over the rush of blood in his ears.
It can’t be, it can’t be –
There is the smallest noise, a high little gurgle that echoes into the room, and then, as if nothing out of the ordinary is happening, the kid shuffles in, big ears and all. His eyes find Din and his ears shoot upwards, the gurgle becoming a familiar coo that Din feels squeezing his lungs. Little hands stretch outwards and a laugh somehow strangles itself out of Din and Kung shoves the tip of his blaster right in the space under his helmet.
“Step any closer and he dies.”
The kid tilts his head, and blinks. Big eyes narrow; Din’s blood goes suddenly cold.
“Don’t –“ he tries to say, but it’s too late. The pirate to the right of him makes an awful noise, and Din doesn’t look but hears as his body crashes against the back wall with an echoing snap. Dumb goes to fire his blaster out at the kid – Din’s whole heart shoots up his throat – but his hand suddenly freezes. He screams as the hand, as if wrenched out of his control, swivels and points out his own chest. The blast goes off, burning a hole in his ribcage. He crumbles to the floor, and in a second it’s only Din, and Kung, and the kid.
The kid .
“Just let –“ Din starts, but Kung cuts him off.
“Fine, rat , have it your way.”
Din hears the trigger click, but nothing happens; the kid’s eyes are closed, face twisted in the middle. He stretches his hands out, angles one the slightest bit, and the blaster is ripped out of Kung’s hand, hard enough that Din hears the crack of bone. Kung howls, and the blaster is tossed into the corner before it finally goes off, shooting uselessly against the wall.
“What kind of –“
Before Kung can say anything else, the kid’s hands form tiny fists, curling in on themselves. Kung makes a low gurgling noise, and Din spares a glance for him. He’s clutching at his throat, eyes bulging, and Din sees a flash of Cara mimicking the action cycles ago, when the kid had mistaken her as a threat. Invisible hands, wrapped around throat. The same hands squeeze tighter around Kung’s, and the alien is lifted off the ground, scrabbling for air.
Din feels the slide of something cold and unwelcome in the room, making the air around them thick. His heart hammers. “Kid,” he tries, but it comes out as a wheeze. The kid’s eyes squeeze, an unfamiliar anger in the lines of his little face, and it strikes Din as horribly, tangibly wrong. He tries to scoot closer, but he’s still trapped against the wall.
“Kid, stop ,” he manages, but nothing happens. The air grows cold; Kung’s feet kick in the air, the desperate kick of near-death. There’s something clogging in Din’s throat, making it hard to speak, hard to breathe, hard to make sense of what’s going on.
He pushes past it. “It’s alright, I’m ok.” Heat pulses behind his eyes. “I’m fine, you don’t have to – you can stop. Kid, you gotta stop.”
Kung spasms horribly, eyes blown huge. The kid’s little fists tremble, whole body trembles, and Din’s heart aches . He presses his palms against the ground, vision blurring, and his lips are numb when he speaks.
“Kid, I’m alright . I’m here.” He feels it, thinks it, pushes the words past whatever darkness is clouding the room. “It’s ok. It’s ok .”
The thickness in the room, something tangible and alive , slips into his throat and seems to strangle him for a half a moment before, suddenly, it recedes. A pressure against Din’s lungs lets up, and something dark and heavy seems to slither out of the door, leaving them alone and shivering in its wake. Din feels a million things at once, and then a small push of something almost apologetic against his wrist. The second binding snaps open with a hiss, and he’s free.
Kung slumps to the ground behind him; he spares a glance - the alien’s breathing - and that’s the last of it. He has eyes only for the kid, who stumbles and falls the small distance to the ground. Din feels panic hot and present, stealing his breath again. He goes to stand but his legs protest loudly, so he crawls the space between them.
As soon as he gets there, the kid’s eyes flicker open. The anger is gone; instead, there is something raw, something like an open wound, bleeding in his eyes. His ears tilt, downcast, and Din sees as he takes in what’s left with a small, scared sound.
“I’m ok,” Din repeats, and then, “I’m sorry.” He says it and keeps saying it, and the kid reaches his little hands up and Din knows the gesture like it’s his own at this point. He grabs the kid and holds him to his chest and it’s like something dislodged inside of him finally clicks back into place.
This is when Cara decides to burst in. She barrels through the doorway, sweaty and panting, blaster out, and he sees as her eyes shoot from the dead pirates to Kung to the kid to Din. She sags, pressing a hand against the wall.
“Unbelievable,” she says, and the kid makes a small coo, and Din’s body decides it’s time to tap out. His vision crumples inwards and this time, he lets it.