Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The distant horizon is a wall of dusty brown. Combine that with the unusually strong wind, and any man who can see it knows that there’s a sandstorm on the way. But Cobb Vanth has known about this one for days, has felt it rattling his bones long before he first spotted the dark shape creeping up on the town. It’s been a little while since the last one passed through, but the season isn’t over quite yet. There’s still time until it hits Freetown, though, and he still needs to get out there to check one of the faulty vaporators at the edge of town before it does.

But right now, he’s busy tethering the tabletops to their stands in Miyo’s diner, because one had come off completely while she’d been cleaning up last night and she’s no longer young enough to duck under the tables to tighten the bolts herself. Of course, he’s not too young himself these days, but she’s still got a good twenty years on him and it’s only polite for a man to help his elders- just as it’s a marshal’s duty to serve his townspeople.

He really should have been done a good quarter of an hour ago, though. And six months ago, maybe he would've been. Cad Bane, the modifications, Bray Ealdel...the year’s not been kind to him. But he's on the last table, now, and it won't be long before he's beneath the twin suns once again.

“You’re goin’ to want to board up the door an’ windows b’fore the storm hits, alright?” He tells her from beneath the table. "Keep the sand from gettin' in."

“I think I already put up the shutters.” She assures him from somewhere across the room, where she’s resting her legs. “Don’t you worry your pretty little head. You just get done what you need to get done and scurry home yourself. Stars know we don't need you gettin' caught out in that mess."

“Oh, I think I could handle it.” Cobb says, and grits his teeth as a particularly painful tremor runs from his chest out to his fingertips. His nerves haven’t gotten any better since Bray’s EMP fried him out those few months ago. "I ain't as old as you, yet. Still got some fight left in me."

Miyo hums her disagreement, and he’s almost glad he can’t see her face. “You’ve been all stiff for days, boy. If you ain't careful, that girl of yours will be buryin' you before you can say 'Mandalorian'."

“Ah, it’s a long word, I’ve got time.” He decides, and laughs when Miyo curses his stubborn streak. “I’ve made it this far, you don’t gotta worry ‘bout me, Miyo.”

He doesn’t tell her how he could hardly drag himself out of bed when the suns crept over the horizon that morning, nor how difficult it had been to get his food down before he'd left the solitude of his home to accompany the miners out to the ravine. He’s only a few years past fifty, it shouldn’t hurt this damn much to do the things he’s been doing every day for the last two decades.

His body shouldn’t be this broken until he’s on his deathbed.

But the truth is that the muscles in his arm and chest are slowly giving up, and it hurts like hell to do even the simplest of things seven days out of ten. He's lost weight, and he's lighter than he's been in years.

Knowing he's crashing, that his body can't properly support itself the way it used to no matter how hard he tries, it's a scary thing. The people can worry all they want, but this isn’t something that he knows how to fight on his own. If anyone can help him, it’ll be the man whose technology saved him last. Tuk, the modifier- Cobb’s going to have to swing by the city and see him, isn’t he? Stop by the palace while he’s up there, blow off the gotra’s own concern over his declining health…

Blast it.

It doesn’t take him long to finish up his work in the diner and bid Miyo a good rest of her day, and his boots are in the sand once again. The wind's gotten stronger, the wall of dust closer. Phantom pain makes his shoulder throb when he looks at it. He understands that he’s going to get caught up in the storm in his duties, but he retrieves his toolkit from his home and heads out toward the vaporator anyway; they’ll need it once the storm’s over.

It probably would be more sensible to wait until after the weather’s passed to figure the thing out, but Cobb has got enough energy to get on it now, and he’s not letting that go to waste. So, he starts by checking and replacing the filter, despite knowing he’ll have to check all of them once the sand’s settled.

When he pries open the panel to the mechanical parts, he finds that the power core is surrounded in corrosion, the familiar chalk-white substance coating a good portion of the vaporator’s inner workings. Cobb reckons that the corrosion just might be the problem with it, and sets to scraping it off. He pulls out the power cell, too, and makes note of grabbing another one before he closes the vaporator back up.

The townsfolk make their final preparations for the sandstorm. He catches a glimpse of Taanti hurrying across the street once the cantina's boarded up, and another of Zana’s mother ushering her inside. He checks the progress of the storm, pulls on eye protection, and resumes his work. The sand swirls around his ankles.

A short while later, the wall of grit swallows him up.

He pulls into Mos Espa two days later, his jumpspeeder in better condition than himself. Skad greets him at Tuk’s doorstep, his modified eye looking just a little different than how Cobb remembers it. They shake hands- and if his grip’s a little weaker than usual, the kid doesn’t go out of his way to mention it.

“I’m surprised to see you up here, Marsh’. The Daimyo didn’t say anything about you coming this week.” Skad comments, arms folded respectfully behind him. “Guess that means it’s not a social call?”

“Got some business of my own to attend to.” Cobb admits, with a nod to the parlor. “But I’ll stop by the palace b’fore I leave town, you have my word. He busy in there?”

The Mod shakes his head. “Empty. The boss has us out helping a few of the nearby areas clean up from that storm the other day. It hit some places pretty bad.” He pauses. “Did it hit you?”

“Yeah, but we’ve had worse. Cleanup’s already underway, should be near to done by the time I get back there tomorrow evenin’.” He answers. "A bit unusual, getting hit by a sandstorm this late in the season. Reckon all the fodder with the Pykes stirred up the sand.”

Skad nods in silent agreement, and opens the door to the mod-parlor, stepping aside to allow Cobb through. “I’ll let the big man know you're in town, make sure he's home to greet you when you swing by.”

“Appreciate it.” Cobb says, and bids him an uneventful day. The other man returns the favor and heads on his way, ducking between the buildings and reappearing shortly after on a chrome-red speeder bike. It’s not long before he’s out of sight, and Cobb turns back to the room he’s just entered; he has got some business to attend to.

He never has been directly to the mod-parlor, has only interacted with Tuk up in the palace. Of course, the mod artist himself had given him the directions when they last parted- Cobb never actually thought he’d take him up on it, though.

Yet, here he is.

Cobb isn’t sure what he expected of it, not really. It’s a bit smaller than he thought it would be- but, then again, Mos Espa is a rather compact city; the biggest place in it has got to be the sanctuary that’d been bombed the night he was shot.

He lets his eyes roam for a moment, taking it in- the way that the corners are bathed in shadows, that the only lighting within comes from four overhead bulbs and a few pieces of equipment off to the side- and then lets his gaze come to a halt on the familiar figure hunched over a cart covered in various tools and arm attachments. He clears his throat.

“Marshal Vanth.” The man doesn’t even turn around. Cobb’s eyebrows raise before he can stop them. “What can I do for you?”

“Now ain’t a bad time for me to ask you to take a look at my arm, is it?”

And that’s how he ends up in the chair on the left side of the room, shoulder open, his body subject to being poked and prodded with a collection of various instruments and needles.

At Tuk’s questioning, Cobb tells him how he was attacked by a thug with an EMP. He doesn’t tell the full story, doesn’t think he could bring himself to if he had absolutely no choice. The details don’t matter- all that does is that an EMP short-circuited his shoulder, and his body hasn’t been the same since. He accidentally lets the time frame of it slip, and the mod artist’s frown is nothing if not disgruntled.

“You should’ve come in months ago.” The man says, and Cobb is too tired to argue with him over it. It seems that the damage is something that Tuk himself fears he cannot repair- and he'd bragged about replacing the heart of a Twi'lek when they'd first met.

Cobb can feel his own heart sink in his chest. Part of him knows the verdict even before he hears the words leave Tuk’s mouth:

His arm, the only way to fix it- the only way to stop the deterioration…

Tuk’s offering to replace it.

Entirely.

He’s shaking his head before he realizes it. Furiously. The weight of the world closes in around him and presses on his lungs so hard that they forget how to hold air for the longest of moments. No. There has to be another way. Another option. Something just as effective, something that’ll feel like a new arm yet isn’t one-

The room spins briefly, and Cobb's hands fist themselves around the fabric of his trousers. Bile rises in his throat, a trail of fire coming with it. He feels so horribly ill. His face must show it, too, because Tuk’s hands are quickly upon his shoulders, trying to steady him despite the tools in his grasp. But the gesture doesn't help; nothing does. How does one console a man they've just told must lose his arm? How do they make light of an amputation?

It’s probably a might easier when you do that kind of stuff for a damn living, Cobb thinks bitterly. He wants to punch right through Tuk’s perfect teeth, give him some on-the-spot grief of his own to cope with.

And Tuk seems to know it, dimming his already-muted vanity down yet another level when he reaches to recapture his attention. “Your arm’s shot, Marshal. I might be able to make a few adjustments to lessen the tremors- and the pain- but until you know for sure, all I can give you is time.

“As for the payment? Don’t bother worrying about it. I’m sure I could convince Fett to cover the expenses if you’d like me to.”

Owing Fett is a more unsettling notion, really, but they both know that that isn’t his issue here; Tuk is asking to replace his arm, and money is Cobb’s least concern. This right here, this is why part of him was glad that Taanti and Jo spoke on his behalf for it the first time. It’s almost an impossible decision. 

His arm is a faulty piece of machinery, like half a dozen parts on his speeder are. But the thing is, there’s no going back if he accepts Tuk’s offer. One and done, and he’ll never be the same. Is it worth it? An arm is no small part of a man. Even just his shoulder, a whole chunk of him is already metal.

But, to the contrary, is it worth it to keep the arm, to drive himself into the ground as the shoulder between it and the rest of him continues to eat away at his bodily systems?

In the end, Cobb doesn’t make a decision. He just sits there and lets Tuk make small adjustments to the shoulder’s mechanisms, letting the modifier do what he can to lessen the spasms and agony that the thing brings him. He chases the idea of losing his arm in circles, and it makes him restless; he thinks he’s about ready to get a move on, to visit the palace and head home. There’s much to think about. Much to consider.

Tuk finishes his work no more than an hour after Cobb arrived, years of practice making him more than a little efficient in his field. He helps him up, and sets to organizing his tools again. Cobb is silent as he puts himself together, dressing to leave.

“You said it was an EMP, right?” Tuk asks him on his way out, to which he nods curtly in response. There’s a concerning, thoughtful note to his voice. “You been feelin’ any chest pain since?”

That makes him pause.

It makes him think about the way his heart’s been flighty off and on since that night. About the way that the sharp sting of an undetectable blade will sometimes pierce him straight to the core and leave him groping for purchase on the nearest object while he stops to press his palm to the center of his chest.

And then he’s angry, suddenly, and he forces his next words through gritted teeth. “That ain’t why I’m here.”

Tuk knows. It’s slipping through the steely mask of indifference over his eyes. But still, he tries once more anyway, because a man has to have a backbone to live on a planet like Tatooine. “I’m no expert, but I’d go see a real doctor, make sure it isn’t serious.”

“I appreciate the concern.” But I didn’t ask for your advice.

He leaves without another word.

When he returns to Freetown the following evening, his arm still trembles beneath the weight of his blaster.

[19:43] CV: You remember when you came to visit that one time, before Bane came through? I told you about the Pykes I chased out?

[19:44] DD: I remember.  

[19:44] DD: That was some time ago.

[19:44] CV: Yeah, it was.

[19:45] CV: After I shot three of them down, I told the last one to leave me the chest of spice they had with them. He told me it was worth more than Freetown. 

[19:45] CV: You know what I said?

[19:46] DD: What did you say?

[19:48] CV: "Well, then maybe I'll retire."

[19:57] CV: I'm getting too old for this, Mando. I’m not sure how much longer I can keep it up.

[20:01] DD: Do you want me to find someone to help you?

Cobb already has the perfect person for the job: a scarred orange Twi’lek with aim as impeccable as Jo’s.

At his doorstep two mornings later, he holds himself tall and shakes the firm hand of Issa-Or with what he hopes is some semblance of a smile on his face. “Glad you could make it.”

Chapter Text

It takes a couple of days to get all of Issa’s stuff down and put away in one of the few empty homes down the road. Cobb does his best to help her, around his own duties.

On the third day, he has her accompany him. She’s familiar with Freetown- and them with her- knows how most things work out here, but he still has a few tips and tricks to show her, a few routines to introduce her to. He finds that, despite his recommendation, he’s glad she didn’t agree to be mayor of Mos Espa. The people trust her, and they’re adjusting well to the sudden shifting of authority.

They spend most of the week splitting responsibilities, and it’s not long before Issa is offering him suggestions where he’d never considered improving things. He knew that bringing her on would be a good idea. Still, he can't help but be the tiniest bit skeptical when she proposes setting up some wireless holocams around the town's borders.

“For a town as small as yours, you sure get a lot of unfriendly visitors.” She points out, and he reluctantly gives in. She’s not wrong. Not at all.

So, he helps her set up the cameras. Links them to a console that she throws together in the main room of her home. It’s odd, seeing the boundaries of the land from inside one small building. Makes him feel like an outsider looking in. But if Issa truly thinks it’ll work…

He trusts her judgment. Better than his own.

Cobb helps her thrice days more, and then sets her loose, watches from the sidelines and offers pointers where she needs it. They’re few and far between, however, and he finds his guidance called upon less and less. He’s never had so much time on his hands before, and he’s yet to figure out what to do with it all. Retirement is a foreign thing to a man who’s worked all his life.

He takes to helping Ann with her own chores before the second week is up. A lot of it is cleaning and cooking and sweeping sand out the door, but he doesn’t mind. It gives him something to do with himself, and it lets him spend more time with her. There’s something refreshing about it all- soothing, almost.

His health continues to worsen, and one day a wave of dizziness so powerful comes over him that he nearly falls over. Ann makes him lay down in the spare room, refusing to allow him to help her until he’s rested.

"A third of the town's older than me, an' they're in better health." He grumbles.

Her eyes are kind when she pats his arm, her voice fond. "Well, they never run headfirst into danger like you do."

He has to admit that she does raise a good point; Cobb is so reckless at times that it’s a wonder he’s alive at all. He has Boba Fett to thank for that, he knows, and he’ll never forget it. He takes things a bit slower the next day.

But no matter what he does, there’s an itch at the back of his mind that won’t go away, and he sometimes finds himself staring at the holoprojection image of his old master that Bray had brought along with him those months ago. The damn thing is calling to him, taunting him- mocking him.

He tries to ignore it.

Ignoring it doesn’t work.

"You're looking a little rough around the edges." Boba Fett remarks once Cobb’s stopped before the palace throne.

He takes in the sandblasted green armor and shrugs, making no move to defend himself. “Ain’t lookin’ so hot yourself, there, partner.”

There’s a small group of Mods gathered behind him at the back of the room, and one of them whistles as the others suck in their breath; he reckons that the only person most of them have seen talk to the Daimyo this way has been Fennec. They’ve no idea whether they should laugh along or back their boss like the loyal folk they are.

A tense moment goes by before Cobb lets his expression shift into a grin and Fett laughs with mirth, stepping down from the throne with an outstretched hand. “It’s good to see you, Vanth.” He says. “It is always a pleasure to have you here.”

Cobb clasps the offered hand, and blinks when it ends up being a warrior's grasp instead of a handshake. He just about freezes altogether when it turns into a hug. But it’s over as soon as he’s been pulled into it, and he huffs at the friendly gaze that meets his. “The pleasure’s mine.”

“And how are things in Freetown these days?” Fett asks.

He takes a minute to think about it, humming thoughtfully before he settles on,“Quiet, at last.”

Marshal Cobb Vanth officially hands over his stripes forty-eight hours before Din Djarin comes to town. The people make a public event out of it, and a celebration follows. There isn’t a single person absent, and so many come up to him directly. To thank him for his decades of protection, for his unyielding devotion to them both wholly and individually. But, mostly, they thank him for liberating them all those years ago. So much time has gone by, and they’ve not forgotten it; they never will.

He drinks a little too much, and he feels empty the next morning. I’m one of them, now. And isn’t that a strange feeling?

Cobb spends the day recovering from the hangover, and then he meets with Ann and Jo for dinner at the older sister’s place. He finds that he much prefers it to the spectacle the rest of the townsfolk had put on the night before, even if he has to put up with Jo’s persistent teasing regarding his feelings for Ann. He’s never denied it, though, and he won’t start now. Not even when her son chooses to sit next to him; he’s always loved their family like his own- and that won’t ever change, either.

Even as the suns claim his old life with their next setting, he keeps his blaster at his side. Never know when he’ll need it again. His name’s still too big out in the wide world of Tatooine, and he’s not willing to be caught off guard.

His people keep calling him Marshal. It feels wrong.

But his name sounds just as foreign from their lips, so he lets them continue with it anyway.

Most of them, that is- he makes sure to correct the kids. He doesn’t want them forgetting who the real figure of authority is in these parts, and it wouldn’t be fair to Issa to train them to call someone else by a title rightfully hers. Her reign will be their future, their livelihoods, and he wants to do his best to reinforce that thought upon them. His time has passed, and the mantle has been handed over to another.

Cobb thinks he might truly be okay with that. His body certainly is.

He doesn’t see the ship’s approach, deep under his speeder as he often seems to be when the Mandalorian swings by, but he doesn’t need to. Cobb recognizes the whine of the starfighter’s engines immediately. He’s heard the thing come and go a couple times, now, and no one else is going to fly in like that; they’ve known each other for the better part of a year, and Fett’s yet to visit- but he’s a busy man, fixing a planet done centuries wrong, and Cobb can let him off the hook for that one.

After a moment’s consideration, he settles on staying put. Because Din knows where to find him, and the podracer won't finish replacing its worn parts for him. He’s got nowhere to be, not today. So long as Din doesn’t drag him off somewhere, that is.

He twists a cable out of the way so that he can pop a part back into place above it. It leaps back into its previous position when he lets his hands fall away. Cobb hums to himself and lays back in the sand. It used to be easier to throw himself under a broken-down speeder. Now, the pain in his back makes him question a great many things.

“Hey.” He says to the nearing footsteps that pack down the golden grains. Silver reflects sunlight back at him in response. “Those boots look cleaner than I remember. Did you by chance polish ‘em just to come out here an’ see me?”

Din Djarin’s vocoder catches his amused chuckle. “I cleaned them yesterday. My last job was more...violent than I intended it to be."

"Let a man dream, Mando." Cobb shoots back, and his smirk is in his voice. He moves to pull himself from beneath the podracer, missing the shade before he’s even left it. "I don't envy you. That line of work ain't pretty."

“No.” He agrees quietly. And then, falteringly: “You gave up your title.”

"I did." The words come out easily, all honesty and no bite.

“Why?”

His good shoulder rises in a shrug of its own, and he leans back against the speeder. “It was just time, Din. Nothin’ more to it than that. Sometimes, you just know.”

Din nods and stays silent for a while after that, observing the street from the front of Cobb's home. A few people wave to them in passing. With the miners out working and most of the children in school, it's a quiet day. The suns aren’t high yet, and the air is almost comfortable in temperature.

Give it time, Cobb thinks, and says hello to Grogu when the satchel at Mando’s hip shudders awake with a yawn. The child blinks at him with wide eyes. Cobb smiles, and the silence resumes for a time longer. It’s nice.

Eventually, after he stands himself, he says,“I’m still a consultant, Mando, don’t you worry.”

"I'm glad." Din replies. "These people could always do with your expertise. You have led them well."

A small smile rises to his lips, then, and he almost regrets stepping down. “The way I see it, it was more of me servin’ them than leadin’ ‘em, but I did do it well, didn’t I?”

Another nod and a small hum of acknowledgement from the man next to him. He seems caught on something, but Cobb's patient enough to let him sort his words through. "You were marshal for a long time. What will you do now?"

He thinks first of Ann. Of what they had been when they were younger, before he freed them all and just after. How he had been so paranoid that he had pushed her away. She had gained another lover, and then had birthed Tenn. But the boy’s father is long dead, and each of them has been gravitating more toward the other in the years following the Mining Guild’s brief intrusion. Cobb isn’t the marshal of the town anymore. His past could still harm her, but there’s few new enemies he could make that would come after her. Maybe they could restart, pick up where they left off those decades ago.

But then he remembers the hologram of the Pau’an, of the man who had once called him his property. One of the many things that’s been eating at his thoughts over the past several months, one of the many things hindering his movement forward. Cobb can’t let it go, he let this monster send his attack dogs after him far too many times. Who’s to say it won’t happen again?

If he wants to truly settle down and live what years he has left to their fullest, he needs to get this situation sorted. For good. But where would he even start? His past, all of this, it’s half a century in the making. And that’s just his part in it all.

After a long moment’s pondering, Cobb just shakes his head. He doesn’t know how to explain any of it to Din. "Not set on anythin' yet, but I have a couple of ideas."

"If you ever need any help..." The Mandalorian carefully offers. "You may have riled the Pyke Syndicate before I asked for your help fighting them, but I still feel responsible for what happened to you. I should have made sure I hadn't been followed."

“I appreciate it, friend, but whatever happens next is my fight.” He tells him.

And then, perhaps more earnestly than anything he’s ever said before: “No one blames you for Bane slippin’ in but you. It’s nearly been a year, Din. I’ve moved on from that, an’ you should, too.”

It’s true enough. What happened then, it’s in the past. He has a new fight, and dwelling on what happened that day isn’t helping him move forward on that front. And Din Djarin? An elusive bounty hunter like him? He definitely has more pressing matters than what had happened close to nine months ago. Cobb doesn’t want to see him killed or hurt on the job because of a regret like that.

It’s a bit hypocritical of him to think this way, he knows, but he and Din really should have had this conversation as soon as he woke up in the bacta tank. It would have done wonders for them both. What happened that day is a guilt neither of them should’ve chosen to shoulder.

No sounds escape from behind the Mandalorian’s helmet as his visor turns away, struggling to accept blatant forgiveness in place of anything else.

Cobb lets him brood; he understands better than he’d like to. He’s only just accepted everything himself, after all. And he’s learned by now that there’s no moving forward if the invisible wounds don’t heal themselves up- that the stubborn streak their type carries will only tear them open time and time again.

His left hand extends to touch his friend’s nearest arm, and he musters up what words of comfort that he can when the helmet is pointed back in his direction. Din had helped him after Cad Bane, and again after Bray. It’s his turn to return the favor. 

“You’re alright, partner, know that. It’s good to see you. Always is.”

Cobb feels lighter for a few days more, and his shoulder holds steady- just as it should.

He decides that it’s about time to figure out what to do about Brarkesh Zerem and his so-called bounty hunters. He’s cut his ties and set up the town to be protected without him, now it’s time to get done what he never could before. The question is, how?

Chapter Text

Tatooine is a remote planet, occupied mainly by slaves and gouged largely of ore. Its cities are few in number, but they stand tall against the horizon. Littered with thieves and hunters, scoundrels and smugglers. Stinking of spice and what ex-Marshal Cobb Vanth thinks oughta be thousands of different types of drugs.

Well, maybe not Mos Espa. But Cobb isn’t in Mos Espa.

He’s in Mos Eisley, a place as lawless as the mines in the middle of nowhere.

He hates it with all his guts.

But any contact worth anything out here is shady, and the shady folk know where it’s best to plant their feet; there’s nowhere else on Tatooine useful to them that happens to be tolerable of their type. Not with Boba Fett on the throne.

It's hard to be a good man on Tatooine, Cobb's long-since learned. Someone like him has to have questionable contacts to get by. A tragic irony, given that he's a lawman. Was a lawman. He doesn’t know what he is, now. It doesn't matter much, though, because there's people of all types in this city.

Hence why he’s here, why he’s so deep in the city for the first time since the slaver started sending out his hunters again.

Cobb needs a tracker; a tracer. Because, a man of his background hasn’t had the opportunity to learn such skills in technology. He’s good with that he’s got, but this is new. And he wants to keep it under wraps.

He knows a guy. If he’s still alive.

The speeder bike that Cobb’s chosen for the trip is an expendable one. Plain, one that could be stolen and be of little consequence to him. He almost never brings his podracer into Mos Eisley, wary of the Jawas and scavengers that pop their heads out when a man’s back is turned. No sense in being taken for a fool, after all. Only a naïve man would head in on their most valuable possession- and they certainly wouldn't be leaving on it.

He feels painfully bare atop of the skeleton frame, the hairs on the back of his neck rising with unease beneath the stares of some of the people. Many know him. He’s hardly a stranger here, needing somewhere to buy supplies in the years he’d avoided Mos Espa after he liberated his people. But he’s not come past the outskirts in recent months.

Word of Bane’s actions has undoubtedly spread; the Pykes had been based here in Eisley, after all. The inner-city folk probably thought him dead- stars, he hopes his contact is receptive to him.

As if he’s not got enough souring thoughts. Cobb hates going in blind like this, almost as much as he hates being here at all. He wonders how people live off of this kind of lifestyle and stay relatively sane through it all. His jaw is clenched so tight that his very teeth hurt. This was a bad idea. I should’ve just taken it to the palace.

But they can’t know. Din would catch wind of it, and Din wouldn’t let him offworld like this if that’s where the damned hologram traces back to.

So, he keeps on. The speeder glides forward over the sand with surprising grace beneath the occasional spasm of his arm. He’s not got far left to go. Three blocks, to a small establishment only a handful of streets away from the spaceport. The scenery meshes together around him as he goes the final stretch, blurring around him, and he’s drawing up to a halt in front of the place not but a couple of minutes later. His eyes flick around at the people milling the road as he climbs off the bike.

“Vanth, you dog, you’re alive!”

Cobb whips around to raise a hand in dejection of a pair of spread arms. It doesn't take him more than a moment to recognize the Mythrol coming at him- because, really, it’s a wonder there’s any on Tatooine.

"Whoa, there. Keep to yourself, Vitzen." He taps the holster at his hip. "It's good to see you, too."

Vitzen takes the warning to heart and backs off, arms falling back to his sides. No doubt he remembers their first encounter, where he and six other thugs had tried to mug Cobb. The others had all been shot dead on the spot for it. The man before him has learned since then, it seems, his smile ruefully subdued.

"Shot by one of the biggest bad in the galaxy, an' you haven't changed a bit.” He huffs abashedly. “Should've known. Unkillable son of a gun."

The smile that Cobb forces in return doesn’t reach his eyes, but he doesn’t intend it to. "Forax still around?"

Vitzen’s guard raises. "You gonna kill him next?"

"All goes well, I won't have to kill anyone today.” Cobb says. “I jus' want to talk to him."

The Mythrol jerks his head to the door of the building. “He’s inside, put my tab on the house earlier.”

He nods once, keeping his hand down by his blaster and side-eying the other as he passes him by. Never too cautious. His fingers press against the panel, and the door slides open, but Cobb pauses and glances back. “Do me a favor an’ leave the bike there, would you?”

And Vitzen nods right back, so hard it looks like it might even hurt. “But of course, Vee! I’d never touch it.”

“Right.” He rolls his eyes. “Stay out of trouble, Vitzen, you’re an interestin’ fella.”

Cobb ducks through the doorway and palms it shut behind him. He stands still for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the sudden decrease of lumination, taking in the lively crowd that occupies the room. He doesn't remember what the place itself is supposed to be- perhaps one of those illegal nightclub, it’s never mattered to him- but he does know that this is where Forax has always operated out of. And if Vitzen's not just lied to him, the man should still be here. Somewhere.

He grits his teeth against the grating sound of the music, and draws his shoulders up. There’s no point lingering, he supposes, and makes his way across the room towards the bar with a practiced presence that could almost make him pass as a regular.

His eyes scan the scenery with careful precision, and he ignores the surprised stares of recognition that a small few of the patrons shoot at him. It’s almost funny how deep the rumors of his demise rooted themselves, but this is no time nor place for Cobb to lose his focus. Not unless he actually wants to die. Which he most definitely does not.

He orders up a shot of spotchka when the unfamiliar woman behind the counter asks what she can get him, and nurses it in his hand when he turns his gaze back to the rest of the club, quietly searching for any sign of his elusive associate. Forax isn't expecting him, won’t know to hide from anyone seeking him out. But the place is full enough that it’s a challenging task anyway, a blonde head of feather-hair tucked somewhere behind the dancers on the floor.

Cobb takes a moment to review what he already knows about Forax: the man, while being an outstanding tracer, owns the club around him. Owns a handful of the businesses in town, in fact, his disagreeable occupation earning him many credits. But this is his main hangout. Forax practically pays the workers here to pour cheap alcohol down his verminous throat; he has to be here.

He downs his drink in one go, and this variant burns more than what Taanti’s got back at his cantina. It makes his lips curl. His eyes scan the room once more, and he orders another. He drinks it more slowly and tries to blend in. This might take some time. Time, that’s already starting to blur together around him.

Cobb sighs, and leans back against the counter. Might as well get comfortable.

He really hopes that Forax isn’t wearing a cloak. He’d hate to hang around in the musty establishment any longer than necessary.

Cobb leaves the club with a migraine. And a name. He’s not yet sure if it was worth it, probably won’t be ‘til all is said and done, but he’s a step closer to his goal; a step closer to killing Zerem. Bray and the others that have been unwillingly sent out and killed, they're a step closer to being avenged.

The suns are low on the horizon, and he’s so tired that he almost laughs when he finds his speeder bike in one piece right where he left it. He takes a long drag of water from his flask, mounts up, and sets back out across the Dune Sea.

He'll sleep with the dawn of the morrow.

As he passes the first house on his way into town, Cobb knows that he’s just tripped the perimeter alarm on Issa’s holocam setup. He hopes, for her sake, that it hasn’t woken her. Not that he goes to check- him visiting certainly would get her up quick. She’s always slept just as lightly as himself, something that had been handy when they had partnered together in the past. In a place as quiet as Freetown, it’s both a blessing and a curse for those of their profession.

The triple moons are well into their descent, the dark shadows of the buildings stretching long across pale sands. A couple hours more, and the suns will rise again.

Cobb pulls the speeder bike up to a halt alongside his parked podracer, and cuts the fuel completely. The thrum of the engines whines, chokes, and dies. It’s quiet once more, the silence more befitting of the hour. But the air also holds a familiar chill, and Cobb stumbles off the speeder to head up his porch, dully hoping that the inside of his home is warmer.

The difference is minimal.

He lights a candle and settles in close to it, trying to will the dancing droplet of fire to generate enough heat for it to be meaningful. A tremor runs from his chest out to his fingertips, and his stiff joints ache anew. At least the couch is more comfortable than the speeder’s saddle.

A few minutes pass, and the wax starts to melt. He watches a thin stream of it trail down to pool in the base tray. His head is heavy, but there’s an unfortunate new muscle memory that drags his fingers to his pocket and pulls out Bray Ealdel’s holoprojector. His thumb clicks it on, and his tired eyes are drawn to the flickering blue image that appears where he’d left off at.

Cobb wonders if a Jedi could kill someone just by looking at a graphic of them. He’s suddenly glad that no one who’s ever come after him has had those kind of abilities. He and Freetown alike would be long gone, otherwise.

He shakes his head at his wandering thoughts, and rises to fetch himself something to eat from the kitchenette.

He’s been awake all day and all night, yet he’s not ingested anything solid. Makes sense that he’s so exhausted, then, running off of nothing but alcohol and water; it’s no way to live, that’s for sure. Especially if he wants to keep himself running long enough to see through whatever his subconscious has started planning.

His eyes stay on the blue Pau’an atop the central table as he works. The whole time.

Cobb’s stomach rumbles with the first mouthful of haroun bread, and the motion of swallowing gives birth to a shuddering pain that almost makes him spit the stuff right back up. He manages to keep it down, though, and closes his eyes in a mix of shameful relief. Four months ago, he'd been the marshal of this town. He’d been nice and fit- and how the hell he's thinking it possible to kill Zerem like this is beyond him.

He forces down the rest of the meal, and stops by the refresher on the way back to his spot on the couch. The gaunt face in the mirror is almost unrecognizable to his eyes. Trimming his beard and straightening his hair hardly helps; there’s not much in the way of meat on his bones, and it’s a wonder he didn’t retire sooner. He’d been quite the looker, once.

And he’d still intimidated Vitzen.

Cobb laughs. Hard. He’s wheezing when he finally makes it back to the couch; he should be dead. He should be dead, Vitzen had overestimated him, and he’s not. His life has never made any sense to him.

He’s glad.

Silence falls upon the room once more, his breath steadying out as the chuckles fade. He settles back into the cushions, gets comfortable. Stares at the hologram. His chrono ticks with the start of the next hour. Then the hour after that. 

Light starts to slip in through the cracked shutters, the darkness creeping back into the corners. The suns will begin to rise, soon.

The blue image wavers more strongly than before, and Cobb remembers that the power cell needs replacing. His brittle old bones are heavy, the warmth of the swiftly-approaching dawn gradually leaking into the air and settling in his limbs. He sighs. Keeps his tired eyes trained on the hologram. He doesn’t quite fancy moving- and, so, he doesn't. Not now. He’s got nowhere to be. The holoprojector can hang on for a little longer.

He loses track of time.

His shoulder jolts him out of the beginnings of a doze with its next aching tremor. There’s a knock at the door right after, and he turns to blinks at it. He can’t find the energy to get up, though, and hopes it’s nothing urgent, that it’s not Issa in immediate need of his second opinion.

Cobb rests his head against the back of the couch once more, and glares into the hologram’s soulless eyes. The door hisses open behind him, and he recognizes the footsteps that follow to be Ann’s. His wiry muscles lose the rest of their tension upon her approach, and he almost leans into her touch when her hand smooths over his outward shoulder.

She doesn’t say anything, and joins him in looking at the slaver’s headshot profile. She’s a smart woman, she already knows who the Pau’an is. Doesn’t even have to ask.

“I’m goin’ after him.” He says, and suddenly he knows it with absolute certainty. “He’s off on some city-world named Corellia.”

“Are you sure?” She questions, voice quiet.

He nods. “Positive. Had the best tracker in Mos Eisley on it.”

It's a long moment before she speaks, and he knows she's trying to find a way to talk him out of it, to convince him not to go. But it’s already far too late for that. “Will you go alone?”

“He’s goin’ to keep sendin’ hunters after me, Ann.” Cobb points out, finally lifting his gaze to meet hers, willing her to understand. “I have to put an end to that b’fore anyone else is caught in the crossfire.”

“What happened to Bray wasn’t your fault-”

“-Yes, it was.” He cuts her off. “I should’ve dealt with him a long time ago, you know that as well as I do.

“You know how many of his hunters I’ve killed? I think about it every day, how many of ‘em might’ve still been chipped like Bray.” His mouth twitches, and he turns away before he can lash out in his anguish. “I can’t keep lettin’ him do this.

“An’ I can’t risk takin’ anyone with me. This is a score that I have to settle alone.”

He takes a couple of days to recuperate and gather supplies. He eats as much as he can, to try and regain some lost muscle, and sleeps whenever he has the time; he doesn’t know when he’ll be able to do either again. Before he knows it, Cobb has everything he can foresee himself needing and it’s time to head out.

Ann comes by again, the morning he’s to set out, to try to talk him out of it one last time. It turns into an argument, and every word of it hurts. He doesn't want to leave her.

“I have to do this.” He reinforces desperately, knuckles white around the canvas of his pack.

“It’s dangerous out there.”

“Can’t be any worse than Tatooine, can it?”

“Cobb.”

"I'm serious." He is. There can't be a place in the galaxy more despicable. The suns kill almost as much as the people here do, and most of the people do worse by the day.

“So am I!” She exclaims, and he can see the despair painted into her features. The tears haven’t spilled over yet, but she’s crying, begging. It makes him want to give in, consequences be damned. “If something happens to you, we’ll never know, Cobb. He could kill you.”

“Then I go out with a bang.” Cobb says as nonchalantly as he can, spreading his arms wide in a gesture near to a shrug. He points back at his own haggard features. “Better than whatever the hell this is.”

He could’ve gone to Tuk. Still could. But there’s no guarantee that replacing his arm will fix the other parts of him that have already been messed up by the busted shoulder. In his mind, it’s not worth it. He’s as good as dead. Might as well actually die trying to do some good for the people he’ll be leaving behind. Zerem won’t stop until he’s dead. Cobb knows this better than anything. He can't leave Freetown to pay for the things he'd done even after he's gone.

“I’ve made up my mind, Ann. I have to do what’s best for the people.”

“Why can’t you ever do what’s best for you?” Her voice breaks, and he very nearly lets himself cave to her desires just to calm her, just so she doesn’t look at him like this. He’d spent all those years distant for good reason.

For a long moment, he doesn’t know what to say. He’s at a loss for words, his silver-tongued charm failing him. And it shows. He knows it does.

Even before she steps into his arms and presses her lips to his.

The tears have let loose and are streaming down her face before they’re done, and his own eyes burn with the traitorous desire to allow himself the same. All these years he’s yearned for her- to let himself finally give in just before he leaves the planet, it’s a cruelty to them both. And the way Ann presses her forehead to his, the way she doesn’t yet leave his embrace…

Cobb swallows back a surge of emotion rising from deep within him. It’s hard, especially when her hands grip onto his new coat with ferocity, fingers curling into the lapels to keep him close to her. He tilts his head, and initiates the second kiss himself. She melts into him.

The moment doesn’t last nearly as long as it should. But there’s an understanding in the air, now, and there’s less fight in Ann when they part.

"Don't be a martyr.” She whispers against him. “Please. Come back to me.”

“I will.” He promises, and slips out the door with his gear. Don’t got a choice, now.

In the Mos Eisley spaceport, a transport begins to rise. Cobb Vanth is aboard it, and he decides that looking over the land from a ship is mighty different than it is from the cliffs in the Wastes.

Chapter Text

“You tell your spice runners Tatooine is closed for business. This planet’s seen enough violence.”

The red-dressed man he’s looking at, it’s himself. Standing opposite of- “You should’ve never given up your armor.” 

Standing opposite of Cad Bane.

He feels himself recoil, but whatever form he’s occupying, it doesn’t move. The tension in the air could be either from that moment or from the sick feeling twisting in his gut with the horrible realization that he’s trapped in the body of another, witnessing his fall from glory through someone else’s eyes.

The buildings across the street tell him exactly who he’s standing in as. Scott really had had a clear view to the whole thing, hadn’t he?

Poor kid.

A slow step forward has the bounty hunter’s mouth twitching even though his eyes are pointed dead ahead. Scott’s body is tightly wound, and his twitching fingers feel mechanical in a clunky sort of way. No wonder he had died.

Cobb watches his own head tilt to realign itself upon his shoulders. That had been the moment he’d known Bane wouldn’t back down.

And he feels that again, watching through Scott’s cursed eyes. His head turns the slightest toward the cantina, and Cobb wants to scream at himself, to tell his intact past self to keep his focus. But he can’t, and he meets his own eyes when they flick over to check in on Scott’s impulse control.

The suddenness of the shot surprises him even now, and he jerks back as he watches himself get thrown backward. Except he actually moves. It’s too late that he registers the pain stabbing into separate parts of his chest, and he doesn’t even feel the fourth shot he’s been told about-

He hits his head on glass. Transparisteel.

Cobb opens his eyes, and lets out a breath of relief. Because it’s dark outside, the black abyss of stars and planets all around him, and that means he’s not waking up in the bacta tank with a foreign shoulder again. Because he’s sitting upright- and freezing- on a ship, as far from that day as can be. He never has been this far from home before.

It’s near silent for the most part, aside from the murmurs exchanged between close-seated families in front of and behind him. He doesn’t recognize anyone, and it’s a weird feeling; on Tatooine, he saw regulars more than strangers, even in the Mos’es. Most of these people must have been visitors, or had gotten on when the transport had stopped at the Glavis Ringworld- and hadn’t that been an interesting place - some hours ago. The alien across the aisle from him is one of the latter.

Alien in the sense that Cobb isn’t sure what he is. Looks like a cross between a Weequay and a Klatooinian, but he’s polite enough not to go asking the guy. But he can’t deny that it reminds him of Taanti, and that takes him back to darker thoughts; he’d rather not focus on the guilt of not telling everyone close to him of where he’s headed. Only Ann knows, and he’s happy to keep it that way. He’ll return, and that’s all that matters. Doesn’t need anyone coming after him to drag him back, as he’s sure Din would do.

The seats of the transport are firmer than the one of his podracer bike- newer, more maintenanced. He’s not quite sure how long the journey’s been so far, but Cobb still isn’t quite comfortable where he sits. How he managed to drift off long enough to have a nightmare, he doesn’t know. But however much he shifts, he can’t get the slightest bit settled. He’s almost surprised that the Weetooinian hasn’t mentioned it- he can feel him watching out of the corner of his eye- even if just to snap at him to stop making the bench creak.

But then again, they’ve not really spoken at all throughout the extent of the flight. A shame, because Cobb’s learned that flying solo is a rather boring affair once one’s gotten past the awe of flying at all.

Maybe that’s why he’d fallen asleep, then.

Something else he should have thought about while buying his supplies, he supposes. He’d only thought about the essentials, hadn’t realized that entertainment would be one in itself. His mistake, thinking that exchanging sarcastic messages with Fennec would be humor enough for him.

He wonders how long it will take her and the gotra to realize his absence from Tatooine, doesn’t know if he should be offended if it takes them a while. Something tells him that Din will be the first to figure it out, being the only one who regularly visits Freetown. The Mandalorian might just rip the galaxy apart looking for him, too; Din Djarin is a right loyal man.

But there is such a thing as being too loyal, Cobb thinks. Knows.

Because he knows that Scott’s final words were not simply his ego alone. He had been a good man. Young, reckless, but good. He’d just been a tad too loyal to his tired old marshal. That kind of thing bites far too many men in the back, and Scott is just another one on that fading list.

“You would've made a helluva marshal yourself, one day.”

He still means it. Scott would have been incredible.

The intercom crackles without warning, and Cobb tenses straight out of his thoughts. His honed senses are struggling to adjust to the environment, still, not that it matters- he won’t be here much longer. Because the copilot droid speaks up with the announcement of their arrival: “Ladies and gentlemen, we have just been cleared to land at the Coronet City spaceport.

“Please check once more that you are strapped in; there may be some turbulence as we break through Corellia’s atmosphere. Thank you."

He’s not as quick as he probably should be about locking the belts across his chest, but the damn things really are uncomfortable. At least to him. Especially when the edges dig into his chest with each lurch of the transport. But he’s smart enough to know that getting thrown into the seat before him would be more unpleasant, so he locks himself in anyway. Throws an elbow on top of his bag to keep it in place, too.

His thoughts trail off, and he stares at the leather in front of him for a while, a globe of blues and greens and whites rising just outside the window. It’s upon the ship before he knows it, the transport jolting with the aforementioned turbulence, and Cobb turns his head to look out at the sight- turns to look at the first planet he’s to ever land on.

Corellia.

His breath is taken away; Corellia is a beautiful place, from above. The sky looks artificial, so deeply blue in comparison to the emptiness of Tatooine's, gray clouds smudged together across half of it, their edges light and vibrant beneath a hidden sun. But beneath it, the water…there’s so much. More than Cobb’s ever seen, ever drank in his life. The surface of the ocean is far smoother than in the tales he’s heard, and it almost looks like a man could step on it.

Even the southern cityscape that the ship is headed towards, many of the gray buildings rising taller than Tatooine’s cliffs…

Cobb’s never seen anything like it, and he’s in awe of it all.

Of course, that beauty just means that it’s rotten at its core, but that’s not something he’s going to let himself think on at present- it’ll be a problem for when he sets his own two feet on the ground.

The view below, he wants to soak in the sight of it as clearly as he can, something to take with him when he returns home after he’s completed his mission; something to tell the people back in town, who will never take more than five steps from the furthest building. They’d like to hear of what he’s seen in his absence, even if they don’t yet know where he’s gone. So, he keeps watch, his eyes memorizing the shapes of the clouds, the tiny ripples in the water. Because he will never step foot from Tatooine again, either, once he’s back there.

“Where are you from, Coruscant?” Someone asks, and Cobb turns to the Weetooinian with a huff of laughter and the shake of his head.

“Tatooine.”

And then he refocuses his attention past the clear wall between him and this foreign land, on the growing city not five minutes away. He says nothing more, nor does his companion, and he’s alright with that; as nice as the exchange was, he’s not here to talk. His purpose on Corellia runs far deeper than that.

There’s a strange feeling in his chest as he acknowledges that, and it’s not the atmospheric pressure: 

He never thought he would get this far. 

So far from Tatooine. This close to doing his kind justice, for avenging those who were birthed, worked, and starved to death in captivity. Because this is for them as much as it is for him. As much as it is for Bray. As much as it is for Freetown.

Cobb made it this far for all of Tatooine’s slaves, and he’s gonna see through the rest of this adventure for them, too. He has to.

Chapter Text

The city is unsurprisingly less-majestic down on the ground. The streets and alleyways are about what Cobb would expect of somewhere so industrial, some of it more similar to the worker’s district of Mos Espa than he’d have thought. It’s just grayer. And darker. The air is warmer than the shady atmosphere- and that’s about the most surprising thing that Corellia’s Golden City has to offer him.

He quickly comes to understand that most of the people are like those in Mos Eisley- thieves, smugglers, bounty hunters; the damn planet is as rotten as he’d suspected. But he knows how to get around these types of people, reckons he’ll be fine if he plays it careful. Cobb’s good at careful. He just has to find somewhere to hunker down and listen, to get pointed in the right direction. He’s good at that, too.

After he retrieves his blaster from lockup, he lets himself wander a bit. Not so much exploring as it is getting a feel for the place, looking for moderately-populated establishments he can lay low in. He puts some distance between him and the spaceport, leaving the busiest spot in the city behind.

Even still, it’s a huge place and there’s still more people around than he’d like after he’s crossed more than two hours of it on foot. Things are a little seedier this deep in, though, and he reckons it’ll be somewhere near here that he’ll catch a lead.

He ducks inside a cantina, finds an open spot at the bar, and kicks back for another long afternoon.

The cantina turns out to be vastly different from those on Tatooine. The drink options, the music genre playing from the back- Cobb can’t say that he’s a fan. He’s lucky enough to find a couple of drinks that are familiar, and goes with one of them. It’s not one that’s ever had much of an effect on him, though, and it doesn’t quite drown out the herglic rage-metal.

It’s a sad thing when a man misses Tatooine’s high-pitched jizz.

He keeps his ears open, his eyes peeled. But of all the people hanging around, there’s not much serious talk going on. Not much talk at all, really. Most of the occupants seem too busy drinking, dancing, or playing sabacc. And a younger couple had gone down in one of the empty booths a little while ago; they haven’t surfaced yet. 

Any conversation is of interest at the moment.

But he hadn't expected to be addressed himself. 

Which is about why he flinches when a Twi'lek suddenly appears on either side of him, the one on his left leaning forward on the bar and placing a hand on his forearm. He has an idea of what she's going to say before the words leave her mouth, and he's only amused by the ones he hears:

"Those lips are looking pretty lonely. If you’re feeling down, handsome, we can feel you up. I've always been told that good things come in threes."

Cobb doesn't try too hard to suppress his smirk. "Is that so?"

She smiles wide, leans further into him. There's alcohol in her breath, but she's still as sober as he. Her green-toned partner looks a bit more out of it though, he notes when he glances over. But he's not worried:

He knows these kind of folk, too. He'll play along, and send them on their way long before they get what they're after. While he has no use for their company, he might as well get some humor out of being here if he doesn’t end up getting the answers he’s after.

"That's right." The first whispers, and the hairs on his neck raise beneath the heat that comes from her mouth.

He pretends to consider it, drawing up an expression of playful thought, clicking his tongue. "Hate to break it to ya, darlin', but I reckon I'd need a few more drinks b’fore I go takin' anyone up on requests."

"That can be arranged." She purrs into his ear, fingers digging into the hair on the other side of his head to hold him still.

Teeth nip at his earlobe, the partner's hand dives into his shirt, and he's almost tempted to take them up on their offer. But Cobb is a man of honor, and he wouldn't agree to such a thing even if he hadn't kissed Ann before he took his leave. He’d put these days behind him, well over a decade ago.

He turns the trunk of his body slightly, just enough so that he can get a look at the room over the Twi’lek’s lekku. Target acquired, he tilts his chin down to her own ear. He can barely hear himself over the raging music. “You’re pretty fine lookin’ yourself, darlin’, but that fella over there looks a might more lonely than me. Prettier, too, I reckon.”

And, for good measure: "And if there ain’t anythin’ else, I think I’ve got my sights set on somebody else tonight."

Their hands linger as they pull away from his skin, and he points out the poor soul he's chosen as their next stooge. He sees the glance that the two Twi'lek exchange before they bid him a pleasant evening and leave him to himself. Cobb rolls his eyes as he watches them head off, and sets to readjusting his clothing. He almost forgets to fix his hair, too.

He settles back into listening for word of Zerem, and the afternoon draws on.

Hunger draws him out. Well, and the need for a walk.

But the only diner Cobb had seen was back up by the spaceport- not that he minds, he’s been wanting to get a look at the water, anyway- and that’s where he finds himself going. The sun is hidden behind the buildings, and the city is far darker now than it was when he’d arrived that morning. He makes his way through the crowds with ease, weaving past strangers and keeping his distance from the shadiest of them.

He finds the diner again with little difficulty, and he’s in luck that the prices are cheap. What credits he has with him won’t last him forever, and he needs to keep a firm hold on them for when they’ll really be necessary. He buys something light, because eating still hurts, and scrounges down as much as he can manage.

It's a wonder how different the food here is from what they’ve got back home. Nothing like what he's used to.

Cobb feels eyes on him on his way out. He thinks nothing of it. Just pays and walks out, though his pace might be just the slightest faster than before. Just in case, because a man in his condition can’t be too wary. A lawman in his condition can’t be too wary.

It’s not long before the ocean is in sight, a long stretch of water as deep and endless as Tatooine’s sands.

The transport bridges and slipways are all but empty, and it’s not hard to guess that there aren’t any more ships scheduled to come or go for the remainder of the day. There’s something soothing about seeing a busy place so empty, and Cobb settles himself down on a small patch of the sand that remains near the water’s edge. The sand here is softer than the stuff on Tatooine- weathered by the sea as it’s been- and that’s a bewildering thought indeed.

He gets settled easily enough, and the sigh that leaves him takes the pressure of a several hours’ space travel with it. Almost takes away the headache that he’d gotten in the cantina, too, but he’s not lucky enough to shake it completely. 

Across the gangways, the sun’s rays bleed through gaps in the spaceport. The light reflects off the water, their colors melting together on the surface, and it might just be the most beautiful thing that he’s ever seen; the view from Fett’s palace back home is pretty tough competition, though, and Cobb wishes he could see both side-by-side to compare.

The blazing, soft tincture on the water ripples when he tosses someone’s abandoned wrench out into it, the small waves rolling up to kiss the boots at the ends of his crossed legs.

And to think there are places in the galaxy with more color than this.

Cobb’s willing to bet that he’s the only man from Tatooine who’s seen such a sight that will ever return to Tatooine, the only man willing to smother that galactic curiosity with the safe stability that he knows is awaiting him back where he came from. A younger version of himself might’ve kicked him for thinking such things; he'd hated Tatooine, once, for a while- had wanted to pull his head from the sands and never go back.

If he sits here at the oceanside long enough, lets his mind drift too far, he might even be able to pretend that the water before him is the flat plot of land that Freetown itself sits upon.

It’s funny. How time changes a man.

There are voices, back behind him somewhere, at the edge of the catwalks. Cobb can't hear them from where he sits, but he strains to listen anyway. He’s quick to catch onto the fact that whomever it is, they’re not speaking Basic. It’s some language that he’s probably never even heard of. Because he knows Bocce and Huttese, and it’s neither of those either. He purses his lips. Something feels off. 

His muscles tense up with the rest of him, leaving him on edge. He feels cold, suddenly, his back exposed. His fingers twitch with the urge to clasp around the grip of his blaster. Refusing himself that is one of the hardest things he’s ever done.

And potentially one of the biggest mistakes he’s ever made.

Something grabs the back of his jacket and pitches him forward into the water.

He goes under fast, shallow as it is, his vision blurring for just the briefest second as his airways close tight around themselves. His eyes sting. The closest he’s been to this was in the bacta tank, and it turns out that water is still thicker than he’d have thought. He almost chokes, and that alone is enough time lost for something to pin him down to the wet sands below.

His lungs burn and his stomach roils in protest to the pressure on his back, but all he can do is kick and thrash against whatever might be holding him down. Hell, and Cobb thought cave ins were bad. He can’t breathe.

The air in his lungs is escaping faster than he can find it. But there's no way he's letting himself lose consciousness, not now. I promised.

So, he gathers his strength and bucks that weight right off.

He emerges with a hefty gasp, coughing and sputtering as he shakes wet hair from his eyes. And then, he punches a man square in the face because he’s surrounded and they’re clearly trying to kill him.

Whoever he hits falls back to the water with a loud splash, but he doesn’t spare it a moment’s notice. He throws an elbow at someone behind him, and ducks aside a knockout blow from his right. The first chance he has, he whips his jacket off- because it's heavy with water and no use at all- and lashes it across someone's chest before he lets go. The assailant staggers back at the force of it, and one of the others merely sneers.

And then his attackers are stepping it up, and Cobb’s lost his opportunity to draw his blaster on them. There are too many of them, too few of him, and he's still breathless from the impromptu bath.

He's a scurrier caught in between the claws of a womp rat.

A foot slams heavily against his spine, and he’s nearly thrown off of his feet when he staggers forward, only to catch a right hook and stumble right back. He doesn’t have time to hope that his teeth are all still slotted in place, ignoring the sting of his jaw in his efforts of evading a cuff thrown at the side of his head. He barely catches it in time, jerking the offending arm the wrong way before spinning to face his attacker and throwing his boot into their groin. He hears a yelp as they go flying backwards, and he grunts as something sharp slices into his good shoulder.

The sharp tang of blood hangs in the air, but Cobb can’t stop to worry about just how bad they got him. His arm still works, better than his other, and that’s all that matters; he can get out of this yet.

Or so he thinks, before someone stronger than the first man tackles him back into the water and presses him down.

For a moment, Cobb panics. His thoughts blur together into a current of their own, a tide that threatens to overwhelm him. If he drowns out here, he realizes, his body will simply be dumped into the ocean and left there. He’ll drift away, will never be found. He’ll never return home to Freetown. No one will know what happened to him. Ann will be alone.

He can’t let that happen, he has to keep his promise.

And that's the thought that steadies him, wet sand scratching his face as the rest of the precious air in his lungs slips past his lips. Do this for her.

He resumes his struggles with vigor, dividing the attention of the man atop of him. The hold on his bad arm loosens significantly, and Cobb subtly begins to slide his hand from beneath him, down toward the holster strapped around his thigh.

Even as a hand closes around the back of his neck and squeezes, his fingers latch onto the grip and pull the weapon free. He redirects the barrel somewhere and fires without a second thought. He sees the beam of red in his peripheral, and it’s an unfortunately welcome sight to his waterlogged eyes.

He lets loose a couple more shots, and catches a cry of alarm from where he lays submerged. The bruising grasp on his neck is gone entirely, and another couple of angle adjustments have the weight on his back falling away altogether. It’s no question that he’s hit his target, and he doesn’t even hold still long enough to feel that sharp relief before he surfaces.

His body shakes with wracking coughs as water sputters from the depths of his lungs, but Cobb doesn’t let himself have the mercy of breathing before he unleashes his fury upon the rest of the thugs. Three fall before they take flight back to the catwalk, and he doesn’t stop there. 

As he sits there, burning holes into the backs of the fleeing thugs while the sea leaks from his mouth, Cobb thinks that maybe Ann was right. 

The water pooled around him is red. 

Maybe, he shouldn’t have left Tatooine after all.

Chapter Text

After he recovers from the attack and tends to his shoulder, Cobb heads back up to the cantina. 

With the night approaching, workers will be heading to taverns and such to get in a good drink before they return to their homes. Cobb’s sure that offering to pay for a few rounds will get a couple of men drunk enough to spill the information he wants, and he finds that true long before the dawn.

He finds a room to rent and finally lays down to put the day behind him.

He ends up sleeping longer than he’d have liked, but he feels well-rested enough to get back to work. He mends the tear in his shirt, pulls on his now-dry coat, and turns himself to the streets once more.

It takes some asking around to get directions to the address he’d been given, but he’s finally properly en-route after a couple of hours. But this is the easy part, he knows, because he has absolutely no idea of what to expect once he arrives. He doubts that he’ll be on his way back to Tatooine by nightfall, and it truly is a good thing he’d paid his rent ahead for four nights. After the previous evening, something tells him that sleeping on the streets is a death wish for a non-local like himself.

Cobb keeps a careful eye trained on his surroundings during the extent of his search, his lesson learned- he should’ve known better than to have let his guard down, anyway. He gets a few odd looks, though, and clearly he’s not being subtle enough. Oh well. It doesn’t matter- perhaps those around him being aware that he’s on the lookout is warning enough for them. No one leaps out at him. 

The journey is rather uneventful, actually. A surprising thing, given that it’s a twenty klick walk to the place from the motel. He’s tired enough when he arrives that he decides to consider investing in renting a speeder, too. But that’ll depend on how long he ends up sticking around for. Hopefully not for too long.

He stops in front of the building to take it in. There aren’t any visible guards on the exterior.

Tatooine has more plantations and mines than it does factories, but he knows a factory when he sees one- and the towering smokestack on top is the biggest giveaway, rundown as all of the exterior walls appear to be.

Zerem’s hideout is quite the large facility, shaped like the High Republic letter L, and wraps around the smaller building on its left. A walk around the outside reveals a flat expanse of metal in the ground that Cobb thinks is large enough to support an underground hangar- and that makes sense, because he’d done his research and learned that Corellia’s biggest export is starships. Part of him already knows what kind of folk oughta be building the ones that come from this particular manufactory.

Nothing like a blast to the past, Cobb sighs, and begins scouting for a way in.

His entrance ends up being a bent panel in the back wall, a piece of durasteel peeled away from the building by someone like him. It’s not as tight of a squeeze as he expects, and he knows that he gets through so easily only because of how much weight he’s lost in recent months. Never thought that’d be an advantage.

The inside of the factory is dark, the minimal lighting sparse and just enough to get by with. It makes the place feel a bit more ominous than the outside did, and for a moment Cobb wonders if his intel was wrong. But then he remembers how rundown the home of his younger years was, and the doubt fades. This is the right place.

There’s not a noise to be heard in the warehouse, and Cobb practically holds his breath as he makes his way through it, sticking to the shadows unless there’s no choice. Rust and grease linger in the air stronger than he’s ever caught wind of before, and he finds himself envying the Mandalorians and their helmet filtration systems. But he’s smelled worse things, and his focus on pushing forward keeps him from wrinkling his nose.

He falls so deep into concentration that the scuffing of his boot on the floor nearly scares him out of his own skin when he doesn’t raise his foot high enough. The decision to lead with his blaster is unanimous after that, and it puts him at ease enough to continue.

After a few good minutes of trying to navigate the room, he catches sight of a large open doorway. With it comes light, and noise. Voices. Tools. Machines. Cobb lowers his blaster to point at the floor, because he already knows what he’s going to find. He doesn’t want to spook them. These folk don't deserve that.

He slips along the last few crates and presses his back up against the wall, lining himself up with the doorframe. He pauses. Listens. Checks to see if he’s judged the situation right, or if he should leave while he’s still alive.

There’s fear in the air, thick and heavy, but he doesn’t hear any guards. Cobb holsters his blaster.

Perhaps it’s his gut leading him, perhaps the morality to do right by these people, but he knows one thing: he needs to enter this room. It doesn’t matter if Zerem’s not there, not yet. Cobb has time on his side- but he can’t say the same for the bastard’s slaves, and they feel important.

Let's do it. He takes a steadying breath, raises his head, and pushes himself off of the wall.

Cobb enters the room cautiously- keeping himself toward the center so as not to hide himself from their uncertain eyes. He wants them to see him, and he wants them to understand that he’s not a threat.

Even so, from the bunk areas that line the lengthy wall on his right, it takes the assorted group a few long moments to notice him. Those that do first are some of the few still returning from the oceanic workshop through another doorway on the left. They freeze as soon as their eyes land upon him, and the last couple hardly dare slip inside before the door hisses shut behind them. It’s a sound of finality that seals a deadly silence, and those who hadn’t yet spotted him do now.

For his part, Cobb says nothing yet. He lets them observe him, fully take in the sight of him. In turn, he does the same, letting enough curiosity show that those who cower in the corners slowly draw forth from them with their own. A dying bulb flickers above them, and he throws a glance up at it because it’s better than studying the shadows between the men's ribs.

When the silence has gone on long enough to unsettle them, he draws his blaster, lowers it to the ground, and meticulously kicks it their way. He holds empty hands in the air for reassurance even as he speaks. “I ain’t here to hurt you.”

His rebuilt shoulder spasms in time with his words, backing him up; no hunter of any kind would show up to the job with such an injury.

The enslaved believe it, too, he can tell. They relax, even if only fractionally so, and their postures shift into more cautionary stances as opposed to fearful ones. Something in his own chest lightens at that, and the careful tension in his wounded shoulders eases. Nonetheless, he keeps his hands in full view, because he’d been in their place once, and he knows exactly how to spook a slave.

“Who are you?” Someone dares ask, and Cobb follows the voice to a dark teenage boy.

Cobb understands where the boy’s coming from, he really does, but to give his name would be to alert Zerem of his presence. 

That can’t happen. 

Thus, he pulls up a favored alias of old- the very same he’d listed his name under for the transport- and answers readily. “Now, it ain’t my name, but you can call me Vance for now. I’ve come from Tatooine to kill your master.”

They break off into fearful murmurs, and Cobb lets them. Their suspicion is valid- more than valid. After all, he is a stranger. They don’t know him, but they do know Zerem’s punishments for such rebellious activity- the Pau’an would make their lives worse tenfold if he knew of his presence.

“Why should we trust you?” The boy finally questions.

“‘Cause I used to be jus’ like you.” He discloses, tactfully shrugging off his coat.

Deft fingers move to his shirt, and Cobb works that up and over his shoulders, too. He doesn’t try to hide the seams of his right one, nor the bandages bundled around the left. His hands in the air again, he slowly rotates to offer the room a glance at the star-shaped scar between his shoulder blades.

“You’re hurt.” A small voice says, and Cobb almost laughs.

“Yeah, well, I’m new to the neighborhood.” He fesses, and shoves his surprise-borne amusement back down. He almost slumps in relief at the lighter shift in the atmosphere. “A few of the locals tried to jump me.”

And that’s enough, it seems, the last of the tension seeping through the cracks of the floor until the next flood comes through. The slaves turn toward each other with bright eyes, chatter breaking out among them. Cobb finally lets his arms fall back to his sides, and the pressure that had begun to build in his shoulders gives way to quiet reprieve. He’s ready for the further questions that get shot his way.

“How did you escape?”

“What happened to your arm?”

“Does Tatooine really have two suns?”

“Where did you learn how to shoot?”

"Why would you come here?"

He lets them draw on for a moment before he raises a hand to stay them. Lets them finish their final thoughts as he drafts up his own next words. “You want to know why I’m here?

“The lorda blew my parents’ chips when I was twelve. Another family took me in, and the father went out the same way a few years later. The mother died of illness, then it was just me an’ their son ‘til I cut out my chip an’ led everyone out. He left Tatooine. Showed up just recently, an’ tried to kill me ‘cause he never cut out his own chip and the lorda wanted me dead. He offed himself so I could live, so here I am avengin’ all the folk that never escaped.” Cobb smiles a little at a new realization. “I guess that means I’m rescuin’ all of you as well, then.”

Some of them are in awe of him already, and Cobb can feel how his heart has already pledged itself to them. He’s going to need to revisit his timeframe. This game is certainly one that cannot be successfully beaten in just a few days, and there’s no way he’s letting himself fail. Enough blood has been shed.

Chapter Text

He pulls his scarf from his shirt after he’s got it back on, readjusts it to sit as it normally should around his neck. Makes sure the knot is tight. It’s when he’s bending over to retrieve his coat that the boy from before approaches him, quietly holding his blaster out to him in a sign of clear trust.

“Thank you.” He murmurs, slipping it back into the holster at his hip. “What’s your name, kid?”

The kid freezes in surprise before he speaks, and Cobb doesn’t blame him; once someone knows one is a slave, they usually don’t get into familiarities. “Zart.” He finally says, and he seems almost happy in the way that a kid should be.

Good, Cobb thinks, and pats the back of the boy’s shoulder. In the past few minutes, he’d gotten glimpses of the people’s relationships- and Zart seems to be a rather prominent figure among them. And that’s a lot to put on a kid like him, he doesn’t look a day older than sixteen. But it’s good, too, because they trust Zart, and Zart clearly trusts him. He reckons that it won’t take long for the majority to fully warm up to him.

“Alright, Zart. I think you an' I are gonna get along jus' fine. What can you tell me ‘bout this place?"

Cobb learns a lot in the next few minutes. Like how the warehouse goes untouched more often than not. Like how the facility has two floors, minus the lower-leveled hangar. Like how there are at least two or three dozen guards spread throughout the factory. Like how each shift is twelve hours long and has two crews- one for building the parts and one for ship assembly. Zart even draws a layout of each floor for him; turns out Zerem’s throne room is somewhere around the center of the ground level.

All in all, Cobb finds that it’s a surprisingly educational conversation. He already has the beginnings of a plan in mind even before their talk comes to a halt and Zart retreats to someone’s aid. The kid reminds him a lot of his younger self, but without the anger, without the impatience. Which is good, Cobb thinks, because the plan he’s formulating- it's going to take a few weeks, maybe more. He doesn’t know for sure.

But this boy should be able to keep his people quiet and level-headed until the time comes to kill the bastards keeping them here.

Cobb will spend the next few weeks preparing them and himself, and then when the time to act arrives, hopefully things will play out as they’re meant to. With his schemes in full swing, he bids them farewell and heads out the way he came, pleased with the way his first examination of the situation had gone. It’s time to get to work.

Most of the first week is split between gaining the slaves’ trust and getting himself back into fighting condition. He checks on his shoulder every day- cleans it, applies medicine to it. It’s finally beginning to heal, but Cobb worries how long that’ll last. With the way things are around here, he probably should’ve stitched it up. Probably should’ve done it regardless of the type of people on Corellia. But he’s wrapped the bandages tight enough to keep the bleeding at bay, and that’s shown enough progress to settle his nerves about the matter.

On his third day onworld, he buys various antibiotics and supplements to counteract his slow starvation, to make it easier to get the cheap hashery slop through his dry intestines. It seems to be working so far, and every morning he wakes up with just a little more energy than the one before it. 

He knows that it’s no permanent solution, but he thinks it’ll be enough to get him through this last big fight, and that’s all he really needs at this point. His body can deal with the fallout once he’s returned to the familiar lands of Tatooine. Hell, he might even finally be ready to take Tuk up on his offer by the time his boots touch those horrid sands again.

But despite all the progress, there’s no change in his mod shoulder. Cobb finds himself rather impartial to that. It is what it is, and at least the rest of him is making improvement. That’s enough for now.

Unfortunately, with his credits being spent on temporary health improvement, his supply has begun to dwindle down. But that’s hardly a problem, because Cobb Vanth has always had an unnatural knack for gambling victories. What little currency he has left is a good start to get him back in the business, and he’ll need to get the money to buy weapons en masse from somewhere; can’t liberate a factory of slaves with only his blaster and the guards’ sharp-ended staffs at hand.

As a result, he spends most of his nights in cantinas and casinos, snagging pools of credits and building a new reputation for himself. His opponents hate him quickly enough, and Cobb's constantly looking over his shoulders to make sure no one tries to get a jump on him and steal back what they lost. One fella even compares him to a man by the name of Lando Calrissian, though Cobb can’t honestly say he’s ever heard of him. He’s not entirely sure the comparison is such a good thing, either.

He accidentally sleeps in late on more than one occasion, and Zart hooks him up with an older cousin of his who works on the day crew and rests at night, for when their timeframes don't meet up. The guy goes by Arik, and he's definitely closer to Cobb's own age than that of his younger cousin. Nonetheless, Arik is just as helpful as Zart, and Cobb is more than happy to make his acquaintance.

It’s ironic that he’s not been found out already if Zerem has as many henchmen as they say he does; Cobb isn’t being as subtle with his comings and goings as he could be. But he's not going to go mentioning it and bringing hell down on them all. He’s smarter than that.

At this point in time, Cobb’s getting ready to start looking into the local black market, to see what weaponry’s going around. And, understandably, he needs a place to store it all as he stocks up on what he can. Because he can’t damn well keep it at the motel, he’d figured it best to keep it as close to the factory as he can- and what’s closer than in it?

It’s funny, he tells himself as he squeezes into the warehouse one night. A lawman like me about to smuggle arms into a place like this.

He knows quite a few people who’d find humor in the notion alone. Though, he supposes that far more would be concerned that he’d finally been pushed to the brink of insanity. But thankfully, he’s still a ways off from it.

Or so Cobb would like to think, weaving through crates in a dark abandoned warehouse as he now is, knowing full well that it’s owned by a man who views him as his property. He probably is insane, doing this. But he’s long since passed the point of backing out. He’s in this to the end, whether that end be victory or death- because Cobb Vanth isn’t the type of man to get scared out of doing the right thing, never has been. It’s why he got shot by Cad Bane, after all, sticking up for those who couldn’t.

He doesn’t regret it, not even for the world of pain that’s come after.

This’ll go better, he promises the flickering old lights above him, and he knows with near absolutely certainty that he’s right. It will go better, because the only other option is for it to go worse- and that just can’t happen.

So he keeps moving, lets the light pass over him and cast his shadow, like oil spilling over his skin. Lets himself plunge back into the darkness between the hanging bulbs, hidden from watching eyes. He certainly doesn't feel like he's being watched, but he's more comfortable out of sight nonetheless.

Almost makes it funny when he hears a sound right in front of him.

He jerks his head around so fast that another one of his dizzy spells swamps him, and he collides with something before he can ground himself to the floor. The yelp that follows when he grabs onto the thing isn't his own, and he cringes as he finally gets himself sorted and finds that he's run into a hoary-haired older woman.

“Whoa- easy there, I’m a friend.” He says as he steadies her, loosening his hold on her arms and hoping they don’t bruise. “Didn’t mean to startle ya. You alright?”

Her gaze settles on him at long last, and she frowns. Looks him up and down like she’s seen him somewhere before. It’s then that he realizes that there’s something familiar about her, too. The angles of her cheeks, the knit of her brows, the dark wisps of hair weaved among the whitening-gray…

It’s like from a dream, a distant memory. And all he can do is tilt his head curiously, because it’s her who beats him to the punch, recognition flooding her eyes. Hazel eyes.

“You’re Idith’s son…”

It’s quietly spoken, meant for only herself to hear, but he picks it up all the same. His throat bobs in a strange twist of unease, the sound of his mother’s name coming from behind a stranger’s lips. “You know me?”

“Your mother. She was my sister.” He can't hide the grief from his face any more than she can from her voice. "I'm sorry."

His hands fall away from her then, as do his eyes. This woman, his aunt… Cobb never would’ve guessed that there was anyone still out there who shared the same bloodline as he. He doesn't even remember her. But the resemblance is uncanny. Undeniable. And the tired mourning in her expression, the regret…

It’s all true. True and clear as the difference between night and day. He hadn’t just lost his parents that day, so long ago, but this woman her sister.

His throat is suddenly dry again, and he swallows as he meets her gaze. "So am I."

She doesn't say anything after that, and a silence falls between them. Cobb supposes that it's alright, he's in no rush, and that their run-in is probably more meaningful to her than it is to him; he doesn't remember much of his youth before the Ealdels. It’s been over forty years since then. For her to recognize him, he must look more alike his parents than he thought.

He couldn’t possibly imagine how it must feel for her to see him alive after so long, the grown-and-gray son of her long-dead sister. It must hurt her, that circumstances have left them strangers.

Well, he thinks to himself, better to start rectifying that sooner than later.

He sticks out a hand. “Cobb Vanth.”

Dots connect behind her eyes, and she’s finally more fond than sad. She takes his hand and brings her other up to clasp it between them in a gesture of gratitude. “Trala Chey.”

And in that moment, amidst the flash of long-repressed memories that accompany the sound of her name, some small part of him remembers her. A woman, teasing his mother. Laughing with his father. Ruffling his hair. She'd been happy, once. Like he had been. And, then, they'd lost everything. All because Brarkesh Zerem decided to press a button. One damned button had separated them for a lifetime, and he’d forgotten he’d ever had any family at all.

Cobb blinks the images away and offers the hint of a smile, because that’s all he has the energy for. “It’s good to see you.”

Her smile is wider, and there’s no mistaking the tears in her eyes upon his recognition of who she is. She’s too choked up to form words, but that’s fine with Cobb, because he doesn’t see how any would be needed anyway. This sort of joy is born of grief, after all.

He stands there with her until Arik hears his voice and calls to him, and Cobb heads over to meet up with the man. They exchange new information, and Cobb tells him of how he’s nearly ready to start looking for all the gear they’ll need. Arik leads him back into the warehouse some time after Trala’s retired for the day, and between them they find the perfect place to store weapons while the storm brews thicker.

Things are finally coming together, and Cobb Vanth can’t help but to be excited. Because the end is near. At long last, his nightmares are almost over.

Chapter Text

Another week goes by, and Cobb decides that he’d be a content man if he never had to step foot in a casino again. It’s exhausting, really, the way he’s living now. Spending his days in the presence of Zart’s shift, gaining their near-absolute trust, and his nights gambling. But he’s wracked up quite the credit count, and there are several crates of weaponry stored away in one of the warehouse’s darkest corners.

There’s one night where he stops by to talk to Arik that his body just collapses, Trala and the other man hiding him away in the warehouse and watching over him in four-hour shifts as he rests. When he finally wakes with enough energy to leave, it’s Zart he finds at his side, the working shifts having switched over while he was out.

Cobb stares into the dark corner hiding the blasters. “You think we’ve got enough?”

“I think we’re close,” is all Zart says.

“One more crate, then.”

He spends the rest of that day in his motel room, memorizing the factory’s layout and just barely remembering to eat every few hours. Makes sure to get a couple more of sleep before he gears up and heads back out to gamble the night away. 

It turns out that his mind is far too foggy for a game of chance, and he loses nearly everything he’d had left from the last purchase. Cobb sleeps long and hard after that, because he’s not willing to come so close to losing that last crate again; he doesn’t want anyone without a weapon when the revolution breaks out.

That second week on Corellia is drawing to its end when Cobb settles on approaching the cousins about de-chipping everyone in the factory. He times his arrival just right, showing up when the shifts switch. Arik reluctantly agrees to bring it up with his crew when they return to the bunks come nightfall, and Cobb convinces Zart into speaking up before his own. They stand before the gathering together, the two of them, and lay out their plan.

The news goes over about as he expects, though he's pleasantly surprised that the slaves' fear expresses itself in way of an uproar of questions rather than the lot of them shutting down completely like they had the first time he’d intruded upon them.

One man that Cobb's long-since recognized as so afraid that he’s against the whole motion stands up and asks why they should trust a man they’ve only just met to dig a knife into their heads. Several more people than usual side with him, and Cobb supposes it’s a fair question- they don’t know him, not really.

"You don't take out your chips," He calls over their outburst, "there's always the chance you'll get snatched up in all this again. I've seen it b'fore, an' it ain't pretty.

“The choice is yours: You wan'ta risk it? Keep those damn things in your head rather than trust an old sand-rat an’ his knife?” Cobb shrugs and hopes his quiet sneer looks as self-derogatory as he means it to be. “Go ahead. No one's makin' ya have it done. But this is the safest bet to stay free forever."

Look at me. Twenty-plus years and still going, he doesn’t say. He’s made himself enough of an example over the past couple of weeks- they already know that he’s been a free man for many blessed years.

In the end, it takes Zart raising his voice over the crowd and turning to Cobb- the stranger he had so graciously offered his trust to- to silence his people. And Cobb sees again the respect they hold of him, the confidence, the side of the boy that’s so alike himself. He’s not sure that he’s ever been so proud of someone in the moment that the kid volunteers himself to have his chip removed first. His heart swells, and Cobb wonders if this is how a father feels when his son becomes a man.

"I'll go first. Today, even, if that's okay."

It is.

The procedure is more than successful, and the others bravely step forward, falling into line in a manner not unlike dominoes. By the end of the third sequential day, even the man who had been so against him from the start bows his head and offers his reluctant allegiance.

Another three sees the other shift done and recovering, too. Standing before them as the last de-chipped woman settles into a ragged hammock, he turns to Arik and tells him to make sure that he spends some time with his cousin. Because once the action breaks out, who knows what will happen, what will be lost.

Arik thanks him most profoundly for his kindness, for helping them all where no one else had ever bothered before.

Cobb sleeps well that night.

Chapter Text

The next time Din Djarin visits Freetown, the air feels strange. Quiet. Empty. He doesn't understand why until Cobb Vanth doesn't come to greet him. Until he can't find him on his own. It doesn't make sense; the man’s always out and about doing something when Din visits. But not this time. No one greets him.

On his way back to the starfighter to retrieve Grogu, he sees Vanth in his mind's eye, the day Din last came to Freetown. Subdued. Distant. Tired and gaunt. His dark, sunken eyes swimming with the weight of unfinished business. The skin around them stretched far too thin over the fragile bones beneath. And the voice that had come from his meatless throat, it had been raspy and more hollow than any Din’s heard before. He almost hadn’t recognized the man.

“What will you do now?" He asks.

Vanth might as well be a statue up until he shakes his head. "...Not set on anythin' yet, but I have a couple of ideas."

Din wonders what he'd meant by that. If his sudden disappearance has anything to do with it. If it was an act of impulsiveness or if it had been planned. If it had been a mix of both, one last big adventure before he finally settles. Din wonders, suddenly, if it’s all one big, elaborate dying act.

Would he do that?  

He’s struck, for the first time in a long time, with the realization that he doesn’t really know Cobb Vanth. He knows who he is, what he stands for, what he stands against. He knows what kind of life he’s from, how far he’s come. He knows the respect that he holds for those honorable enough to go about earning it the right way. But beneath that? The man behind the front he’s always projected?

It isn’t Cobb Vanth the man that he knows, but Cobb Vanth the Marshal. And Din is beginning to suspect that they are two completely different things.

Could Vanth have gotten himself killed in the few weeks since their last meeting?

Seems unlikely. The people that he sees don't appear to be in any state of mourning, going about their business like they always are when he's around. Like it’s just another day, that his stops are more frequent than they are. And that prompts him to comm Fett, perchance Vanth’s up at the palace.

Fett’s response is of no help: Cobb Vanth is simply nowhere to be found.

The only thing left to do is to start asking around, to see if the town knows where their wayward ex-Marshal might've gone. The man might have a lot of secrets, but one thing Din does know about him is that he’s a talker.

So, with Grogu at his hip once more, Din sets off. He makes his way down the street and asks anyone who’s willing to acknowledge his presence. He starts with the toolsmith, who’s sitting outside his forge, diligently whittling away at the handle of a new shovel.

“Left b’fore dawn a few weeks back. Haven’t heard word of ‘im since,” says the toolsmith.

Unease gnaws at his gut. He had a feeling that would be the case, that Vanth might’ve picked himself up and left as soon as he’d hit the road himself. Din nods, utters his thanks, and moves on. “Could you tell me where Vanth is?”

“Might’ve headed down beyond the Anchorhead Great Chott flats. He’s been talkin’ about establishin’ trade with some of the farmers down there forever.”

“I heard he was headed toward Mos Eisley. Must’ve passed it.”

“Bestine. Probably traded places with Marshal-Or.”

One of the older townsboys tosses his head and shrugs. “Maybe he finally had the sense to leave this dustball behind. Couldn’t blame him.”

Din frowns, asks for directions to the mines, and makes the trek out to the ravine Cobb’s mentioned to him. He winds his way down to the first tunnel he can see, activates his night vision, and ducks inside. Perhaps one of the miners knows something that the rest of the people don’t.

But his luck down there is just as dry as the sand itself.

“Wouldn’t surprise me if a slaver got ahold of ‘im. Tuskens, maybe. He’s not been lookin’ great, y’know? Easy pickings. Probably buried b’neath the sands by now.” The Dathomirian doesn’t hesitate.

His friend hits him.

“What? He’s never been away this long.”

Din has lost nearly all hope of getting a feasible response by the time he stumbles into the cantina an hour later, Grogu dozing at his side. He nods to the Weequay behind the bar, sighs heavily, and leans on it as soon as he’s close enough. Underneath his helmet, sweat streams into his eye, and he takes the beskar off to rub away the sting.

He glances up at Taanti, who tries to pretend he hadn’t been staring. “There something I can help you with?”

“Do you know where the Marshal is?” He puffs out, the words heavy and robotic after the number of times he’s asked them. Then he remembers and adds- “Vanth.”

The bartender shakes his head. “He didn’t say. Been real secretive ever since that Bane guy shot him.”

Part of Din really wants to drop his forehead against the countertop resting beneath his palms, no matter the pain bound to follow such an act. But he’s not quite sure that he really expected an answer, and at this point he’s just plain exhausted . “Does anyone know where he is?”

“I know someone who might.” A voice says from the doorway, and he turns just in time to see Jo step inside the building. It takes him a moment to recognize the terseness of her voice, and he knows at once that this someone had told her a little too late. But even still, the nod she gives him is more friendly than business, and he rises to follow her upon her request.

If anyone knows, Din thinks, it’s her.

They head back outside, into the sunlight, to where the sand crunches beneath their boots no matter how a man could try to silence it. The midday glare blinds him this time, and it’s only then that he belatedly realizes that he’s left his helmet on Taanti’s counter.

It’s a realization that doesn’t draw as much alarm from him as it would have those many months ago, before he’d gotten more comfortable removing it; he trusts these people with his life. With his life and the protection of his sacred armor. So, he leaves it. Because the nagging thought at the back of his mind won’t let him head off without it when the time comes anyway.

Din does his best to let his companion lead as they walk along the road, always keeping a pace or two behind. It’s not a long walk, really, the house is almost directly across the street from the cantina, and they’re stepping up onto the porch not quite a minute later.

The door is already open- and by Jo’s lack of reaction, this is a normal thing- and he follows her through. It's a quaint home, lined with decorations of a light green that almost remind him of the tint of Corvus’s morning mists, and Din is immediately at ease where he’d normally have felt an intruder. A small draft drives out the dust in the air, and he’s almost in disbelief that the house is real.

He doesn’t dare touch anything.

“Hey.” Jo hums, bumping his arm with her own, and he blinks. “Stay here for a sec, Mando.”

She disappears into what he thinks might be the kitchen, and if he hadn't felt even the slightest sliver of self-consciousness before, he certainly does now. Domestic settings never have ended well for him, he's noticed. Sorgan had proved that.

But he tries not to let it bother him now, and he allows his gaze to drift. To the translucent willowy curtains in place of closed shutters. To the spinach-and-tawny stripes of the round rug occupying the room's center. To the kneeling boy atop of it- to his rich, russet-brown skin and his dark amber eyes.

Din freezes beneath the curious stare. He jumps at the suddenness of Grogu’s chirp, and glances down to the child at his hip. “Do you…want to play?”

Those long ears of his raise in interest, and Din lowers him to the floor.

And they seem to get along just fine, judging by the enthusiasm of their greetings. Din watches the human offer one of his wood-carved toys with a smile on his face, and his concern follows the airstream back out beneath the suns. It's good- soothing, one might say- to see Grogu interact with another child; their way of life hasn't given him nearly enough opportunity to do so as a being his age should.

He doesn’t know what draws his attention to the muffled voices in the kitchen, but the excited chatter of the children can’t even block it out once it’s caught Din’s attention. His carefully honed senses catch the tone of the conversation, and he quickly works out that an argument has captured his focus; whoever this boy lives with, they have no desire to offer the information that Din has come for. He doesn’t even need to be able to distinguish the words to know it.

And then there’s a shrieking trill off to his left, and Din flinches so violently he just about trips over his own feet. Grogu silences, his huge eyes rounding fearfully for the briefest of moments, and then his little body slumps in relief as he realizes that Din is well.

“Are you okay?” The other boy asks, eyes as wide as Grogu’s had been, and the Mandalorian winces.

“I’m fine,” he promises. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

The kid just shrugs. “We scared you first.”

“I guess so.”

A beat of silence goes by, and it takes a moment for that knowledge to catch up with him. That there’s no sound coming from the kitchen. Din can feel his face burning even before he glances that way, and in that split second he does wish he hadn’t left his helmet behind. He doesn’t know what to make of Jo’s smirk.

He doesn’t know what to make of the woman beside her, either, but there’s no thought involved in recognizing her as the boy’s mother. And as-

"This is my sister, Ann. 

“She’s a widow, but no one's closer to Cobb than she is, if ya get what I mean."

Din understands completely, and there's a sense of honor in being introduced to the woman. To the lover of one of his most trusted allies. Even in his covert, before it was destroyed, it was rare to know of the familial statuses of his kin. It was Creed not to ask of one's chosen life partner, though rumor and speculation certainly went around. Privacy, secrecy…they were the Way of his covert, and were to be respected in every form of it there is.

A moment goes by, and he dips his head in formal greeting once he realizes his name has been handed out in turn. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

Her eyes are softer than her sister's, and he finds that her voice is as well when she returns his words. "And it's a pleasure to finally meet you. You have done so much for us.”

“Your people have done much in return.” Din points out, because if there’s one thing he’ll never forget, it’s how the citizens of Freetown saved him and Fett. How they helped reclaim Mos Espa from the Pyke Syndicate. And that might just be a bigger deed done than how he had taken down the krayt dragon for them.

Cobb Vanth lost the functionality of his arm for that cause, and Din will never stop trying to repay him for that. He remembers how Fett had once pointed out that nearly every decent man in the galaxy comes from some horrible place, and well- Good people deserve good things.

And that’s one belief that he refuses to let slip with the others he’s shedded.

Din likes to think that he’s somewhat of a decent man himself, in comparison to much of the rest out there. Despite the mistakes he’s made. Despite breaking his Creed.

Ann just nods in response, but there’s an understanding in her eyes. He wonders if she simply knew what he was thinking and connected with it, or if it had shown on his face. He’s been practicing the art of masking his thoughts, his emotions, but the empathy of others makes it difficult to know if he’s been successful yet.

“Thank you.” She murmurs, and they watch Jo kneel down in attempt to ruffle her nephew’s hair and tweak Grogu’s ear at the same time. Ann’s smile is distant with a worry that he doesn’t have to ask about.

Din swallows. “Where is he?”

"Bring him home."

"You have my word." Din vows. Exiled or not, this is the Way.

Chapter Text

The boy is kneeling in the scorching sands, scrubbing at the anvil held in place between his knees, when the attack comes. The ambush. 

It comes without warning. One second he’s hunched over the thing, his bare upper body coated in a sheet of sweat. The next, pain explodes between his shoulder blades beneath a heavy, very-much-unprompted blow.

He drops instantly, bowing forward into a slump, the side of his face gracelessly burrowing into the sand. Pain shoots up his neck and races down his spine, makes his sweat feel cold in contrast. A boot presses down to rub it in- smug bastards, the overseers- and the hot grains shift beneath his lips as he groans.

He swallows the dry lump of nothing at the back of his throat.

“Get him up!”

“I didn’t do anythin’.” He mumbles into the sand, hands that aren’t his own pulling him up by his shoulders.

They haul him upright nonetheless, drawing his wrists together behind his back- and a flare of panic comes over him. Mixed with a pinch of raw, unfiltered rage. His eyes land on those of the slave driver across from him, and the boy almost spits in his face as he tries to wrestle his arms free from the brute behind him.

His punishment is a warning jab to the ribs.

Cobb Vanth snarls. Bucks harder against the guy behind him. “I didn’t do anything!”

But the words come out too loud, and he takes a fist to his jaw for his troubles. And more than that, as it turns out, for the force of the punch knocks him from the brute’s hold while he himself could not have wrenched his thin body free.

He stumbles. Loses his footing.

His vision flares white when he falls, then descends into darkness.

Cobb swims in and out of consciousness as they pick him back up. The world spins around him, blurring and blackening, and he watches the sands turn crimson as they drag him along- spot by spot, growing bigger. His ears ring, and his face is wet. A coppery substance zips up his nose when he tries to snort the offending nostril clear. 

He almost passes out all over again when he sneezes.

Somewhere, there’s an anvil covered with his blood. Parts of his cheekbone, maybe, too. His teeth feel loose in their sockets, and his mouth tastes of metal.

His stomach churns at the thought, and he feels an uncomfortable warmth trickle past his lips. He doesn’t even realize that his hand is reaching for his chin until it makes contact, and he flinches away from himself. His captors jostle him at the sudden movement, but all he knows in that moment is the sheen of red clinging to his fingertips. He stares.

And stares.

And keeps staring.

Then he’s hitting the sand with a moan when the slave drivers drop him. Traces of it stick to his bloodied face and make his skin itch something horrible. His blood…

He watches it seep into the grainy soil, and he’s almost overcome with the impossible desire to soak it back up. And then it hits him that he can hear again, that the impact with the ground fixed up his ears on him. There’s a crowd gathering around.

There’s a crowd gathering around, and he’s the center of attention. It’s like coming-to right after his parents’ chips had gone off all over again.

Cobb scowls and gets his arms beneath him. Fights the trembling of his body, the spottiness of his vision. Pushes himself up to his knees as Bray calls his name from the sidelines upon his arrival. He’s still out of it enough that words are a foreign language, and his tongue is far too submerged within the scarlet river that his lips can’t quite contain.

All that comes out of his mouth when he opens it is a heavy spattering of blood as he coughs his lungs dry.

He hunches over himself as he gets it under control, and wipes his jaw across the back of his hand as his breathing begins to settle. That’s when the slavers straighten him out and draw his arms taut, parallel with the tops of his shoulders. He blinks dumbly and wheezes. Wishes the fog around his brain would clear a little faster.

It comes to him in pieces, and only because he manages to hold focus long enough to dig into some of the conversation around. He’s a popular kid, unfortunately.

“Poor boy doesn’t deserve this after all he’s been through.”

“...was gonna happen eventually…”

“Oh! Would ya look at what they’ve done to him already?”

“...takin’ it better than I expected…”

“...he’s of age…”

“...down to the mines.”

It’s the words of the last two voices that really click, and suddenly everything makes sense. He hadn’t done anything wrong. He’s just been sixteen long enough that he’s forgotten it. Long enough for them- the slavers, his lifetime captors- to get impatient in their waiting: It’s branding day.

All his breath leaves him with the next exhale. 

His eyes flutter around in a panic while he’s frozen, and he sees Bray. Bray, his brother in all but blood, straining against the hold that Jeree has on him. Desperate to spare him this fate. Desperate to spare him of the mark that gets their kind worked to death, killed- just like Cliff Ealdel those ten weeks past. Cobb sees this, and he reaches out for his buried anger and gouges it from its cave.

It tears through his lips in a belly-deep caterwaul, and turns into a scream when the searing iron presses into his flesh moments later.

He probably made the damn poker himself, once, upon one of the very anvils he’d been fixing up.

He’s lost in the dry, gray sea between consciousnesses for three days. No one knows if his skull ever healed right.

When he’s thirty-three, he spends weeks planning and scheming. Spends weeks subtly removing the chips of the slaves on his block. And when the eve of the escape comes, Cobb finds himself standing at the edge of the Slave Quarter, staring out into the rest of Mos Espa. Some distant part of him memorizing it all as he stews on his anxiety in the evening’s darkness.

Not even the sound of Jeree’s footsteps startle him, the large man coming to a stop by his side. He’s silent for a long moment, supportive, as he drafts up a quiet question. "How are you holding up, boy?"

Cobb shakes his head. He feels so many things that he’s not sure which is most prominent. And yet, he still settles for, "I'm scared, Jer." Might as well tell the truth. "So many people are gonna die tomorrow. Hell, I might." He pauses for a moment, collecting his thoughts. "But ya know what gets me?

"What if we don't make it? This could all be for nothin'. What then?"

"Then at least you tried,” Jeree says. “You're doing your folks proud, Cobb, no matter how things turn out. No one else has ever gotten this far before; if we don't get out this time, at least those that come after will know there's a chance."

"Yeah..." He blinks then, and turns to meet the older man’s eyes, clap a grateful hand on his broad shoulder. "Get some rest, Jeree. We've got a long day ahead of us tomorrow, everyone's gonna need all the energy they can get. Don't know when we'll be able to sleep properly again."

Cobb doesn’t sleep. He knows that Jeree doesn’t, either. Maybe that’s why the man doesn’t even get through town before he’s gunned down.

“Vance?”

A moan drags from his throat at the sound of his chosen pseudonym, his eyelids fluttering toward open without his consent. He gets them under control, and the blissful darkness persists.

Leaning against the long-ago-opened crate at the foot of one of the end bunks, only Cobb Vanth’s lips move when he finally probes. “What’s up, kid?”

"Do you really think we can make it?" Zart quietly asks.

If there are others awake and listening, Cobb doesn’t have to fake his answer for them. “I do,” he says, because it’s true.

And if, for whatever reason, they don’t- well, that’s on him. He probably shouldn’t keep planning these things by himself; slave revolutions are delicate operations, and there’s no guarantee that this one will end as successfully as the last. These last couple of years have proven to Cobb that he isn’t quite as successful as he used to be, either. He could have completely missed something- hell, he still might.

He just needs his deteriorating body to get the message and pull itself together long enough to see this through. If he fails because he didn’t heed Tuk’s advice, he’s not quite sure what he’ll do with himself. If he survives.

He’s done his best. Checked everything once, twice, thrice, and then some. If he’s missed something…

Whatever happens, he will have to live with the outcome forever.

“I trust you,” Zart murmurs, all naïve faith.

I know, he doesn’t say back. He doesn’t have to. “Get some sleep, Zart. You’re gonna need it.”

No response follows, and Cobb figures the kid’s taken his words to heart. Another painful jab stabs into his chest at that. Because, despite the respect the other slaves put in this boy, he is just a boy. Zart’s got people that he looks up to, too, and Cobb’s somehow become one of them in such a short span of time.

Part of him wonders. Wonders what the kid would say if he offered to let him tag along back to Tatooine and Freetown with him. He’d fit in quite well, with his quiet eagerness and bravery.

Cobb shakes his head. Zart’s young, and he’s got much room to grow yet. While he may be able to adapt to life beneath the twin suns, he could easily thrive somewhere safer, kinder. If anyone had asked a younger Cobb if he’d like off of Tatooine, he’d have left it behind without a second thought. But, in truth, he was a captive there long enough to tie all his sentiments to those sands, lethal as they’ve proven to be over the course of these past twenty years. He’s not sure if Zart’s got those same ties to Corellia; he hasn’t gotten to know the boy that well, yet.

Maybe he never will. He’s already told them that there’s no guarantee of survival. They’re already on borrowed time, given how long he’s been here. Funny, how he hasn’t yet been detected-

Pshrrrffffffff.

Cobb’s heart leaps from his chest at the sound, and his body moves on instinct. He’s halfway to his feet by the time his eyes snap onto the closing door. And, ever so briefly, halo-ed by the dim hallway lighting, is the one man who’d questioned him at every turn.

“You’re late,” Cobb offers tersely, muscles tight. He can feel the tension in the air from the slaves that have yet to drift off, waiting for an explanation.

The man doesn’t move. “I’m sorry.”

And in those two words, there’s an undertone lurking. Cobb catches it fast, some weird mix between bitterness and guilt, and dread settles cold and heavy in his gut. “What’d you do?”

Back through the doors, a horrible sound answers his question. A scream.

No.

“You didn’t,” he manages.

And the man has the audacity to wince. “Sorry, Vance.”

They’ve been ratted out.

Chapter Text

Cobb is on his feet in an instant, body tight with energy and adrenaline that he hadn’t had before, his fingertips brushing against the grip of his blaster. Nevermind being ill and bone-tired, everything he’s been preparing for is upon them- the past few weeks have boiled down to this moment. And too soon, damn the snitch.

Behind him, Zart’s recruited a few of those who’d not yet fallen asleep to rouse those that have, trying not to instill more panic than necessary. But he tunes them out, because, beyond the door before him, he can hear a couple dozen pairs of racing footsteps- the current shift, running for their lives, towards the sleep room. He leaps aside just in time, the door opening with a sudden whoosh, bodies pouring into the room.

Through the thicket, Cobb’s eyes land on armored figures that he knows, without a doubt, are the guards he’s been told about. “Aw, hell.”

His teeth grind together, but that’s all the concern he lets himself show as he draws his blaster from his side and raises it. He steels his face into a mask of focus, and peers back over his shoulder, scanning the chaos of both combined shifts for Zart or Arik.

An endeavor that he quickly gives up on, because there’s too much going on.

“Get ‘em to the warehouse. Now!”

It’s then that Cobb Vanth whips around and fires his first shot into the hallway, into the chest of the leading guard. The henchman crumbles, and something inside of him growls. Let’s get it done.

The last of the slaves passes by him, and he lets loose, firing into the crowd before him without abandon as his rescuers rush out of the room in a frenzy, intent on reaching the hidden gun cache before he’s shot down. So long as he can keep a distance between them and him, though, Cobb knows things will be alright. It’s not like the guards have blasters, after all- their halberds will do nothing from afar. The odds are in his favor.

Until his shoulder spasms. Until his arm jerks so hard that his next shot misses.

He curses. Then, things really turn ugly.

WHAM!

Cobb doesn’t fully manage to bite off a cry, staggering beneath the weight of the flat side of an axehead. His eyes blink back open, muscle and bone protesting on the right side, blood trickling warm and sticky down from a small cut at his hairline. His ear rings, but he ignores it and regains his footing just in time to avoid another swing from the halberd beside him.

“Oh, kark,” he realizes with a groan, “you fellas have actually been trained.”

An under-the-arm shot sends the guard next to him flying into the wall. He grits his teeth, shakes his head- he can do this. He can.

He doesn’t hesitate to open fire again, and some distant part of him is back in Taanti’s saloon in Freetown, gunning down the goons from the Mining Guild. Cobb is angry. Cobb is laughing. The guards are all going to die.

There are too many of them. Their halberds are too long. He has no armor.

His arm spasms again.

A blade digs into the skin on his side, the side of his bad arm. He gasps, suddenly breathless, and then he is on the ground, slowly bleeding out. An ax raises high above him, ready to come down-

Ptcheeew!

A flash of red flies over him, and the armored body falls back with a thud.

Suddenly, Zart and Arik are on either side of him, hoisting him up, a flurry of blaster bolts all around them. Cobb grunts, the pain shooting from his side to his neck, but he hasn’t felt this relieved in a long time. They came back. He’s been saved.

“You okay?” One of them asks.

“Yeah,” he wheezes. “Good timin’.”

“We got you, Vance.” Arik vows, a nod of dark promise on his right. He presses Cobb’s blaster back into his hands. “Can you stand?”

Cobb nods. “Jus' gimme a minute. You boys got this?"

"You bet." Zart grins.

"You just sit tight for now, Vance," Arik assures him.

"Okay," he murmurs, and suddenly he's alone again, wobbling as he staggers over to the nearest wall for support. He leans one hand up against it, using the other to probe at his wound. He winces against a wave of throbbing pain, and curses. That guard got him good.

Deep breaths. He needs to get his breathing under control. He needs to focus.

He inhales, and the air tastes as coppery as blood. With his next exhale, the sounds of the battle return to him- the blasterfire, the screams. Cobb chances a glance up; the floor is littered with bodies from both sides. His only consolation is the fact that most of those bodies are clad in dark brown armor: The guards are struggling.

His wound isn’t deep; it’ll stop bleeding soon enough. He can go on.

Cobb pushes himself away from the wall, and raises his weapon back up. It’s time to finish what he started, once and for all.

With that thought comes a new burst of energy, of strength, and the painful points in his head and side fade into the background with his shoulder. He raises his chin, and follows the direction of the action, fading down the hall and around the bend. He feels a spark of pride for these people, their progress. They didn’t need him to escape, but the push of courage and the resources he’s given them. Not that Cobb would ever leave them now, when they’ve- when he- have come this far. They’ve almost won.

He catches up quickly with victory on his mind, nodding to Zart when the boy spots him. “How many we got left, kid?”

“Not many. We’re close.” Zart smiles, then, giddy and genuine in the youthful way that he probably never has been.

Cobb can’t hold the quirk of his own lips, and lays a hand on the kid's shoulder as he passes by him. "Good. Let's make it count."

Together, they weave through the group- and, oh, a few more had abandoned them for the warehouse exit than he’d thought- ready to lead the others to the end. Arik joins them, and the trio is complete again, marching at the head of a revolution almost seen through. He and the people behind him, they make a beautiful picture of defiance, the young and old alike, armed to the teeth and standing so straight that their postures rival that of a Pau'an's. 

A few more guards fall, and their path is finally clear.

This is it.

The back entrance to the throne room is around the next corner, and they face no resistance other than the door- and it’s open in seconds. The others swarm into the room around him, taking down the minimal security within. These last guards are too surprised to react before they’re lifeless corpses laying on the floor.

For a moment, everything is silent. And then, the unmistakable hiss of rage echoes off the walls.

Zerem, Cobb already knows. Some part of him freezes, overcome with emotion. Fear, anger, glee- it’s all there. The man who had ruled the entirety of his youth is about to die. At last.

Arik glances at him in concern, his eyes asking a single question.

Cobb smiles, and then he enters.

"Funny,” he says even before he’s stepped around the throne and laid eyes on him. “All the shit between us, an’ this is only the second time we've seen each other in person."

And then Zerem is in sight, statuesque in build, his ashen-gray skin a contrast to the dark color of his throne, the mahogany of his robes. The carmine strips on each side of his nose are pale, bringing out the utter shock in his silver eyes. He doesn’t settle nearly quick enough for Cobb to miss it. "Vanth."

Cobb would offer a mocking bow if he didn’t think he’d double over in pain.

"How is it, kung,” Zerem spits, “that you looked better off when you belonged to me?"

He can’t withhold a scoff of contempt. "Well, actually, I looked jus’ fine until you sent Bray after me. Chuba doompa, dopa-maskey kung." Cobb catches himself. "But you were wrong to think he'd actually see it through." Feeling bare, he shrugs. "I'm only here 'cause he killed himself. Good man 'til the end, unlike some.

“All this, it's on you. You made the wrong call, Zerem, and it's high time someone remedies that."

A look of sudden understanding flashes across his face, followed by a flicker of fear that's quickly masked with absolute rage. "Kill him."

No one moves. Cobb can practically feel the uncertainty radiating from those behind him, and his lips twitch in amusement. “Yeah, that ain’t gonna work, pal. There’s been a slight…change in command.”

The slaver snarls, beyond words, the light catching on his pointed teeth.

Cobb takes that as permission to continue. Bray is on his mind again- Bray and all the other bounty hunters he’s faced, and he’d never forgive himself if he didn’t try to ask. “Tell me, all the hunters you’ve sent after me, did you hire any of ‘em?”

“One more word, wermo, and I’ll blow them all,” Zerem warns.

He doesn’t know, Cobb recalls, with the raise of his eyebrow. “You really think I forgot ‘bout the chips? C’mon.” He’s almost embarrassed for the fool. “We could shoot you just as fast, anyhow. I have half a mind to get up close an’ personal with it, but- quite frankly- I really don’t want to be that close to ya. Might have a knife hidden over there somewhere, an’, well,” he gestures to his bloodied side with his left hand, his right unholstering his blaster and clicking the safety off. “I’ve already been stabbed today.”

Those eyes are overcome with a sudden horror as he puts the pieces together, wide as disks- as if, after everything they’ve each done to get this far, he hadn’t expected Cobb to kill him in the end. "Now, Vanth, hear me out-"

Bray had lied to him all those years ago, when he’d said he never had a chip in his skull like he had; he never escaped that life. Walked away from Tatooine just to get dragged back down into this mess. As a hunter of the runaways their master set him upon. The tall bastard’s been the one sending men after him for all these years, and Bray was his last-ditch effort.

He’d really had no choice, and he’d decided that he’d rather die than kill the man he’d called his brother.

He presses down on the trigger.

Zerem howls as a blaster bolt pierces his gut, his body sagging bonelessly into the throne.

Cobb doesn’t mean to step forward, but the next thing he knows, the barrel of his gun’s pressing itself up against the front of the Pau’an’s skull. "I'm listenin',” he growls, and lets another shot loose right between the monster’s eyes.

The colossal form bows over, then, lifeless as the guards strewn across the room.

It’s over.

He doesn’t have but a moment to process it before-

Before a blastershot rings out, loud and clear, bouncing off the walls. Two of them.

The impact tears his leg from underneath him, and he pitches forward toward the ground, pain rippling up and down his body upon collision. The fall’s ignited the fire in his torso wound, and he can feel copper at the back of his mouth, bubbling up to his lips. Disoriented and grabbing for his abused left leg, Cobb snarls through the agony. “What the hell?”

“Shit,” Someone says, dropping their weapon with a clatter. “Sorry, sorry, sorry-”

Trala appears at his side, resting a gentle hand on his good shoulder to settle him before he can properly react to the sudden threat. “Cobb. It’s okay. He didn’t mean it.”

It’s the first time he’s heard his name from someone else’s mouth in weeks, and, somehow, it’s all he needs to relax. The tension seeps from his body to the floor, and the growing haze around his mind feels a bit safer. A misfire. He’s fine. The threat’s done. He did it. I did it. I really killed the bastard.

“Are you going to be okay?" Trala asks, her voice soft in that foreign motherly concern of hers.

“Yeah. It’s jus’ the leg.” He mumbles, shifting and then pulling himself upright. Now that he’s out of danger, he can feel the two points in the limb that’ve been hit; his thigh, his knee. Nothing feels irreparable.

Cobb can hear someone arguing with the poor fella who’d pulled the trigger. He winces. His eyes are glued to Brarkesh Zerem’s corpse. The specks of blood, the cooling hole in his head- it’s all surreal to him. He’s really gone…

The room is quiet.

“Hey.” It’s one of the galaxy’s newest ex-slaves, all nerves- no wonder he accidentally shot me- who stands over them. “I’m so, so sorry."

Cobb lifts his eyes. He feels more tired than he ever has before. He’s not even mad at the guy. “Jus’ help me up.”

Cobb makes sure everyone is somewhat sure of what they want to do with themselves before they leave and head off into the unknown. When they ask him where he’ll go, he asks himself the same thing. Maybe it’s time he embraces his retirement for what it is. But, first, he has one more thing to do before he leaves for Tatooine.

Chapter Text

In the aftermath of the events at the factory, Trala and Zart decide to stick with him. And so, Cobb leads them through the streets, to his motel room, and sees to it that each of them gets patched up; he’s far from the only man to be wounded in that fight, even if he’s one of those who got it the worst. Once his side’s been stuffed with bacta and stitched up, they head back out- and he sees to it that they get the first proper meal of their lives; they've long since earned it, after all.

Cobb doesn’t feel quite well enough to eat much himself, but he provides good company and conversation as the others eat their fill. He finally gives Zart his full name, too, as the reason he’s kept it hidden has been taken care of. Zerem has finally been taken care of.

It’s over, two simple words that keep repeating in his head, turning over and over and over again. It doesn’t even feel real. Bray, Jeree, Cliff and Lera, his parents- all of his people have been avenged. What he started those twenty-ish years ago, he’s finished it at long last. It’s over. It’s over. It’s over.

It’s over.

He thinks of Zart’s people, now under the leadership of Arik, who’s given his promise to lead those who wish to remain among their own to a safe haven. Arik, who had promised to do right by them for his cousin, who had promised that they would meet again. It reminds Cobb of how Bray had left him on the edges of Mos Espa, and he hopes that when the cousins meet again, it plays out nothing like how things had for them. And with Zerem gone, he’s sure there’s nothing to worry about. Happy endings at last.

Womp rats might not have wings, as he’d told Din, but free-falling sure does feel an awful lot like flying. He’s a man on top of the world. A tired man on top of the world, one that’s more than happy to settle down for one last night in the motel before he leaves Corellia behind.

He’s about out already when he remembers to shoot his friend a message for a ride; public transportation would be risky, he knows, after the stunt he’s just pulled. Sooner or later, the factory and all of the bodies inside will be found, and the authorities will start looking for someone to lock up for it.

[18:39] CV: You know where Corellia is?

[18:43] DD: Yes.

[18:43] DD: Why?

[18:43] CV: I have a few things there that need transportation to Tatooine. Was wondering if you could lend a hand?

[18:45] DD: I’ll need to rent a bigger ship. There’s not much room on the starfighter.

[18:45] CV: No rush, partner. Take your time.

They spend much of the next day resting and talking. He feels light, and talking feels easy in comparison to all the work he’s been doing in recent weeks. But eventually, the conversation turns years back in time, and Trala’s recounting the events surrounding his parents’ deaths, of her subsequent transfer to Corellia. Cobb, in turn, tells her about the decades between then and his first slave revolution. He tells them about Freetown. About the Red Key Raiders, the Mining Guild, the krayt dragon. About the Pykes, Cad Bane, and his shoulder. About Jabba’s death and the gracious new daimyo, Boba Fett. And, of course, about Din Djarin.

“Now, Tatooine’s nowhere near safe, never will be, but I’m willin’ to bet it’s better than it’s been in centuries. Fett knows what he’s doin’," he concludes. "There ain't a better man who’d dare sit on that throne.”

“And if anyone were to come after us?”

Cobb huffs a laugh. “He’d do anythin’ for Freetown- an’ for you, by extension. I don’t reckon anyone will come after us, but if they do…he’s got our backs.”

“Good.” Trala finally smiles, and nothing could hide the decades of weariness on her face.

The conversation falls away for a while after that. Cobb quietly packs his medical supplies and other meager belongings until Zart speaks up and asks what Tatooine was like before Boba Fett rose to power. He helps Trala fill him in on that, and it’s not long before his communicator pings with a message from Din:

The Mandalorian’s just come out of hyperspace above the planet.

Cobb sends back an affirmative, and tells the others. “I want’a show you both somethin’, first, b’fore we leave. It’ll be worth it, promise.”

That, of course, is how they end up down by the slipways- by the ocean. He knows it’s something they’ve never seen before, something they’ll- something that he will- never again have the chance to see once they leave for Tatooine.

Corellia’s single sun is already sinking low on the horizon, bleeding color out into the fading blue of the daytime sky. The radiance of it lights up the dark city behind them, makes it look golden- an ironic deception, really. Cobb’s come to know better about the place; he’s faced the evils that hide within its darkest corners.

But all the same, sinful city or not, the sea that stretches forever and ever rolls in gentle waves, lapping up at the sand the same way it had the last time Cobb was here. It’s down at the shoreline that Trala and Zart stand, taking in this new experience with the same awe and admiration that a people might show their reigning monarch. Some part of Cobb is still marveling at it himself: there’s a certain beauty in the unfamiliar.

He watches them from afar, a small smile occasionally playing across his lips at a particularly cheerful sound, from where he sits on the side of the last pier.

For the two of them, this is likely the happiest moment of their lives- the first of which they don't have to worry about anything; the first of which they don't have to worry about being too slow, the first of which they don't have to worry about going hungry, the first of which they don't have any expectations sitting heavily on their shoulders. They've earned this, and he's pleased that he's aided them to this moment. Soon, they will leave Corellia behind and return to the dry wastelands of Tatooine- but for now, they can revel in the simple pleasure of the ocean's embrace.

As Cobb sits on the worn gangway, his tired eyes drink in the sight before him. The soft orange hues dance upon the small waves in that reflective way that could never be reciprocated on the sands of his homeworld. The salty breeze kisses his weathered face, carrying with it the faint scent of freedom-

Pure, unstifled freedom. It's going to take him a long time to accept that it's finally, kriffing finally real.

The afternoon draws on long, and Cobb thinks that it might be the best one of his life, too.

Eventually, of course, the sun begins to melt into the horizon, and the golden-orange bleeds into red, the edges of the red purple, and the afternoon is at its end. His weary gaze lifts to Trala and Zart, their silhouettes illuminated by the soft glow of the setting sun. It won’t be much longer before Din finally figures out where on this galaxy-forsaken planet they are. Cobb probably should have been less vague in his messages, but- where’s the fun in that?

Nonetheless. Din is a Mandalorian; he'll find them, no matter how vague the coordinates.

Cobb Vanth built Freetown with his own two hands, and it’s time to get back. Marshal or not, he’s needed there. And he needs to be there. It’s his home, after all, and it always will be.

The final glorious rays of light are receding into the horizon when Din finds them. It's the heavy footfalls of the armor that tips Cobb off to his arrival, preparing him for the suddenness of the Mandalorian's voice:

"Vanth?" Din inquires, modulated voice more cautious than surprised.

Cobb half-turns to glance up at him in response, good arm grabbing at his side with a wince. “Hey there, Mando. Glad you could make it.”

“What are you doing offworld?”

“Had a few scores to settle.” He shrugs.

Din stares at him, silent for a moment, and Cobb can feel the skepticism radiating off of him. “Did you win?”

“Wouldn’t be here if I didn’t,” he tells him, his voice more serious than the near-grin on his face. It’s true; if he’d failed, he’d either be dead or a slave again. Some deep part of him shudders at the thought, but it doesn’t breach the ease of mind he’s reached. Everything’s over, and it ended well.

The Mandalorian pauses, taking a moment to study him from head to toe, to take in the bandages that peek through the holes of Cobb’s bloodied outfit. “Are you alright?” he asks.

“Oh,” he says, “I’m good. Hurts like hell, but I can still walk.”

The helmet tilts. “What did you do?”

Cobb shrugs again. “Led a slave revolt, killed the bastard in charge, made a few connections along the way.” He finishes with a gesture toward where Zart and Trala have waded into the water, the pair having yet to notice his companion’s arrival.

“Are you… feeling any better?” Din wonders aloud, following his gaze out toward the shoreline.

He doesn’t answer.

“They say that Tatooine was covered in water once. A long time ago. This right here?” Cobb nods out at the infinite blue waves. “It’s a once in a lifetime experience for someone like me. It must be nice, bein’ able to travel like you do, seein’ all sorts of places, meetin’ all kinds of folk. I get why it keeps you away as long as it does. You ever been here?”

The Mandalorian is quiet for a moment, debating whether to entertain his train of thought- wondering whether he’s still sound in mind, Cobb knows. “No. I prefer to stick to the Outer Rim.”

“Cities an’ politics. I ain’t fond of ‘em, either,” he scoffs. “Hell of a galaxy we live in.”

Din’s silence voices his agreement, and Cobb joins him in withholding conversation. He focuses back on the scene before him, of Zart and Trala and the ocean, because they will leave before darkness truly sets upon the planet and they might as well enjoy the peace while it’s there- Tatooine is far from peaceful, as violence has proven to him again and again. Every time he’d thought Freetown safe for good, some man in a hat with a gun would show up to try to shoot him down. 

Darkness looms on the horizon, both literally and figuratively. Cobb knows that they cannot linger here for long. Tatooine, his home, may be a harsh and unforgiving desert, but it's a familiar kind of harshness.

"How'd you find me?" he finally asks, breaking the comfortable silence. "This is a big city, partner."

The Mandalorian stews on the question briefly, his helmeted head tilting in contemplation. "You prefer quiet places," he muses quietly, his voice a low rumble. "I doubted that you would have been in the heart of the city."

Cobb manages a tired, bitter-tinged chuckle. "Well, it ain't no secret, that's for sure. You know me well, Din, better’an most. Lucky thing you’ve always been on my side."

“Not always,” Din reminds him, and the picture of their first meeting comes to him for the first time in quite a while. The Mandalorian had nearly shot him that day- would have, if the krayt dragon hadn’t intervened. Maybe Fate has always been on Cobb’s side; maybe he was meant to get here, to tear down Brarkesh Zerem’s slaving operation.

But, Fate or not, he’d done it, and here they are. Two unlikely friends on an unfamiliar planet, staring at the ocean with a city at their backs. 

“That doesn’t count,” he decides.

It’s quiet again after that, for a few minutes. The waves keep moving, climbing further up the spit of sand wedged between it and the gangways. Trala and Zart move a bit closer to shore upon realizing it, and Cobb catches them looking over at him and Din- catches them realizing that their time upon this vile planet is nearly up. They don’t approach yet; they know that Cobb will call them over when he’s ready.

He takes a deep breath, letting the salted sea air fill his lungs. Might as well, before he’s inhaling dust with every waking moment. He wasn’t lying, when he’d told the story- Tatooine was once an ocean world itself. How different his life would’ve been if it still was. There’s something peaceful about the sea.

Not peaceful enough, clearly, he reminds himself. Because this planet is also home to an enslaved folk like his own. Perhaps things wouldn’t have been that different on a wet Tatooine after all. There’s something to be said about appearances being deceptive of reality.

"Mando?” Cobb implores. “Thank you, for bein' here."

And all Din Djarin says is, "Your people are worried about you. I...I guess I was, too."

I can look after myself, he wants to say. But the way he has to shiver to mask the spasm of his bad arm says otherwise, so he keeps his words to himself and basks in the moment of sitting beside a friend who’d passed by many worlds to find him. Cobb never will be sure what exactly it is he’d done to earn Din Djarin’s loyalty, but he knows that he’s a lucky man to have it.

Eventually, silver beskar shifts to turn in his direction, and a hand reaches down to him, outstretched, a silent answer to his unspoken protest: You don’t have to.

Cobb thinks of Jo and Tenn and Ann, and meets the eyes behind the visor as his hand clasps his friend’s.

It's time to go home.

Chapter Text

It’s the jolt of the rental ship landing that jerks Cobb awake, rather than the turbulence of entering a planet’s atmosphere. A resounding ache sits in his side after the initial agony, and he groans as he raises his head to stretch the kink out of his neck. Even from the back, he can make out the penetrating afternoon sunlight that spears the viewscreen from the right;

They’ve landed in Boba Fett’s hangar. They’re back on Tatooine.

Cobb blinks away the remnants of sleep, his eyes slowly adjusting to the brightness that floods the previously dim ship. Rubbing his temples, he takes a moment to gather himself. His battered old body creaks and complains with each movement, reminding him of his limitations, but he pushes the discomfort aside, accepting Zart’s assistance in sitting up when the boy appears at his side moments later.

It’s quiet enough that when the ship’s rumbling engines shut down, it can practically be felt in the very air.

Up in the cockpit, there’s a click as Din Djarin undoes his flight restraints and rises from the pilot’s seat. His armored form steps into the doorway, blocking the light, helmet turning to take in the room and observe their states of awareness. “Sorry about that.”

Cobb offers a small huff of weary amusement. "No need to apologize, partner. It's good to be back."

“Your people will be relieved to see you,” he says.

“Yeah.” He has a few apologies to make once he’s stepped foot behind Freetown’s borders again, that’s for sure; Ann will never let him live this down.

Din steps past him, crossing the rear of the ship to the hatch. His fingers flip a switch halfway up the wall, and the ramp jerks alive. With a steadying breath, Cobb pushes himself up from the seat, doing his best not to use the wall for support. Zart and Trala gather behind him as he falls in line at Din’s side, watching the suns’ light filter across the opening. The ramp beneath their feet shudders and groans as it extends outward, casting a long shadow across the floor of Boba Fett's hangar.

A gust of hot desert air rushes into the ship, filling the cabin with the familiar stale scent of Tatooine. If they’d been uncertain of their whereabouts, the environment’s cleansing them away itself; Cobb Vanth is home at last.

“Well, wouldja look at that! Not a scratch on ‘er!” A happy voice chirps from below, just out of view.

Din cringes, and reluctantly heads down to meet it. 

Cobb doesn’t see any sense in waiting. As he follows Din down the ramp, his worn boots scuffing against the metal, he takes in the sight of the hangar- and, stars, is it a mess. The vast expanse of the space is filled with ships of all sizes and shapes, a large handful in various states of repair. The scent of oil and metal hangs heavy in the air, mingling with the ever-present desert stench that many-a-folk drag into their beds every night.

And the happy voice, of course, belongs to one Peli Motto. She stands a few feet from the ship with all her dignity- graying curls, oil-stained coveralls, and all. Apparently she’d managed to wrangle Fett into bringing her on as a contractor sometime during Cobb’s absence. Her eyes scan their motley crew until they land on Cobb, and she grins. "Well, look who's finally decided to grace us with his presence!"

Cobb can't help but chuckle. "Good to see you, too, Peli. Looks like you've been keepin’ busy.”

"Well, someone's gotta keep this place running smoothly,” She shrugs mischievously. “Can't have Fett thinkin’ he's got it all figured out."

He hums his approval with the sideways tilt of his head, nodding to Din beside him. It’s clear now just exactly who the Mandalorian’s mechanic is; he should’ve known, really. Peli’s the only one around with semi-affordable rates. “I reckon I’ll leave the two of you to it.”

The two of them follow his gaze, Din reluctantly grunting his agreement- he must owe Peli quite the sum if he’d rented a whole ship from her.

“C’mon,” Cobb murmurs, waving for Zart and Trala to join him.

As he leads his companions away from the pair, their steps echo through the hangar. The lightness in his chest begins to ebb with the sound, with the sensation of solid ground beneath his feet- Cobb won’t be the first man to admit that there’s a certain comfort to living on the shifting desert sands as opposed to that of more industrial districts; that was one of the many things he had loathed about Corellia, other similarities to Tatooine aside.

I’m home, he reminds himself. Mostly. Almost.

Close enough.

It’s as they’re reaching the hangar’s center that the doors on the far end slide open with that haunting hydraulic hiss. And who would step in to greet them but the Daimyo himself?

Cobb finds that his lopsided smirk returns, then- because, stars above, look at all that has happened in the past couple of years. If it weren’t for the man before him- if it weren’t for him and the lithe assassin slipping through the doorway behind him- either Bib Fortuna or Jabba the Hutt would still be in control of the planet, and Cobb would’ve been a dead man the moment Cad Bane had shot him.

They meet halfway, Daimyo and his right hand drawing to a halt just as Cobb and his entourage do the same. Without his helmet to obscure his expression, Boba Fett smiles, and reaches out to clasp arms with him. "Marshal Vanth, it's good to see you back on Tatooine. And to your companions: Welcome to your new home. 

“You all must be tired. Come; let’s see what accommodations Atedee can find for you.”

Marshal. Cobb inwardly scoffs. Surely, someone’s informed the good Daimyo of his retirement by now? But all the same, Cobb doesn’t let his gratitude fall when he stretches his arm out to complete the greeting. He’s too tired to argue over such trivial things. "Thank you, Daimyo. It's good to be back."

“Miss the sunshine, Bones?” Fennec jibes.

“What, that?” He turns and points at the open end of the hangar. With a grin and a wink, Cobb shakes his head. “Never.”

“Liar,” she says.

“Okay, maybe a little.”

Fett rolls his eyes at them. “Come on, you two. Let’s get our new guests settled in. Speaking of which,” the man pauses, “I assume you have names. What would you like us to call you?”

Cobb doesn’t mean to zone out of the conversation- out of reality. But the familiarity of the palace, coupled with the exhaustion weighing down his limbs, seems to pull him from consciousness and away from time itself. One thing leads to another, and the next thing he knows, it’s just him and Fett on their own, trudging across the palace. He blinks as he comes back to himself, looks around, and doesn’t ask where the others have gone, where they’re going.

The halls are surprisingly empty at what would normally have been a busy hour, Krrsantan and the Mods nowhere to be found. Whether they’re off sharing a meal or patrolling the city, Cobb doesn’t have the energy to dwell on.

Instead, his gaze latches onto the most colorful object around- Fett’s armor. Armor that he had once worn, in what feels like a lifetime ago. That blasted green armor, an oasis in Tatooine’s eternal sands. It had brought safety to him and his town in its most desperate hour, oh-so-long ago. Some part of him must’ve just felt safe enough in its presence to put his mind to rest while his body followed along with the actions and words of those around him.

The thought isn’t quite as unnerving as it probably should have been, but Cobb is so fatigued that, clearly, even the rest he’d gotten aboard the rental ship hadn’t been enough for him.

It’s his boot scuffing the floor that breaks the silence at last.

"Are you back with me, then?" Boba Fett asks, and Cobb jumps at the sound of his voice.

"I- yeah. Sorry,” He gets out. “Been a long month."

His companion hums, pausing at the base of a spiral staircase to glance back at him, a foot settling on the first step. “I can only imagine. Even when you were younger, and on familiar territory, that would not have been an easy thing to accomplish. To do so now, and on foreign soil…You are an admirable man, Cobb Vanth.”

A huff passes through his lips. “Someone’s gotta be. And, clearly, the masses ain’t up for it. I’ve just done what everyone else should be doin’.”

“You have given far more to the galaxy’s enslaved population than anyone I know,” Fett confesses, starting up the staircase. “I hadn’t realized just how honorable a man you were before you came out of that bacta tank. I am glad that you were able to survive your encounter with Cad Bane; if there’s any man I should look to for advice as Daimyo, it should be you. You know what the people of Tatooine need far better than I ever will.”

“What’re you gettin’ at?”

“Would you be willing to act as an advisor, when called upon?”

Cobb’s eyebrows raise so quickly it almost hurts. “Wha…Hmm. Well, ain’t that an interestin’ proposal.” He slows his pace a bit so as not to trip on the steps before him, his clumsy body not mixing well with this much thought. “If I can stay put in Freetown most days, I s’pose there ain’t no harm in it,” he decides.

“I would never part you from your people without cause,” Fett promises. “Unless there were to be another Syndicate to try their hand at taking Tatooine, you may remain in Freetown as you please.”

“I’ll do it.”

He can hear the smile in the Daimyo’s voice. “I knew you would.”

There’s a companionable silence between them as they continue to ascend the stairs, the air growing cooler and more open than that of the halls below them. It’s only then that Cobb recognizes the path they’re on as the one to the room with the bacta pod he’d woken up in most of a year ago. His heart sinks at the news he had awoken to, and further so as his memories take him back to his last conversation with Tuk.

“Your arm’s shot, Marshal. I might be able to make a few adjustments to lessen the tremors- and the pain- but until you know for sure, all I can give you is time.”

Cobb's foot catches on the edge of a step, causing him to stumble.

The world around him blurs for a moment as his body lurches forward, his heart pounding against his chest. His hands instinctively reach out, groping for something to steady himself. He catches himself just in time, his hands finding purchase on the cold metal railing beside him. His heart races as he struggles to catch his breath. He can feel the sweat forming on his forehead, and he can't tell if it's from the heat of the palace or the sudden rush of adrenaline.

Ahead, Fett stops and turns to look back at him, concern etched into his scarred face. "Are you alright?" he asks.

He nods, though his voice comes out as a croak. "Yeah, I'm fine. Jus'...tired."

The other man does nothing. He doesn’t move, he doesn’t speak, he just…waits. Empathetic brown eyes watch over him as he draws air back into his lungs, as he works to pull himself back together. Cobb Vanth isn’t quite the unshakable man he had once been.

Cobb takes a few more deep breaths, willing his racing heart to even out. The adrenaline slowly subsides, leaving his mind a cloudy haze. He releases his grip on the railing and does what he can to straighten his battered self, trying to regain some semblance of composure. He has been tired before- dead tired, even, but this is something else entirely. His side, that blasted stab wound, it must be infected. With Corellia's awful conditions, he can't say he's surprised.

“Let’s go,” he says.

And the Daimyo accepts his utterance with ease, waiting for Cobb to step up alongside him to place a gentle guiding hand on his shoulder. They take the final steps in a last moment of silence, emerging out into the top of the rotunda.

A fresh draft of desert air comes in through the open windows on the far side of the room, behind the bacta pod. Cobb has to squint against the light; Corellia’s single sun could never match the power of Tatooine’s twins. But despite his anxiety toward the pod, and the resurfacing memories in his gut, something eases in him now that he has a true glimpse of his planet beyond the thick sandstone walls below.

Fett’s hand slips from his arm a few meters into the room, and Cobb’s eyes follow the man as he starts digging through a box set on one of the nearest benches. A vague gesture at another offers his legs' salvation-

“I’m fine.”

“Din told me that you would say that.” The warrior grunts, reluctantly tearing himself away from his task to grab Cobb by the shoulders and drag him over to the specified seating regardless of his protests. He flicks a finger at Cobb’s nose as if he were a misbehaving massiff pup. “Sit.” He turns back to digging through his box, as if uninterrupted. “But he and I both know you better than to believe every word you say. Look at yourself, Vanth.”

Cobb frowns at the small mirror that’s shoved into his grasp. “Is this really necessary?”

Fett sighs. “Why is everyone around here so stubborn?”

"You were a fine deputy, Scott, but you should've listened to me. Shoulda kept inside like I told you to…Not that I would’ve listened either, had it been the other way around. Guess that's what makes folks like us good at the job. Too damn stubborn to quit.”

In the blink of an eye, Fett’s grabbed his arm and raised the mirror up for him. Bloodshot, sunken hazel eyes meet Cobb’s own. Below that, matted with the same grime that covers the rest of him, a bushy silver beard that’s longer than he remembers.

He doesn’t recognize himself.

“If you carry on like this, you will die,” Boba Fett all but growls into his ear, releasing the hold he has on Cobb’s arm. “I’ve seen it before.”

The breathless laugh that escapes him is devoid of mirth. “I didn’t come here for a lecture.”

“I don’t care. If you keep trying to fight me on it, I’ll put you in the bacta pod myself.” A promise and a threat wrapped up in one. Cobb shudders. He knows the man beside him well enough to know he’d follow through with it, too.

“I think I’ll pass on that.”

“I thought so.”

A long, quiet minute passes by as Fett shuffles through his medical gear. For Cobb, it’s almost as if a switch has flipped. Now that he’s gotten a glimpse of himself, he finds himself raising the mirror to stare at his reflection longer. It was one thing, seeing his ribs through his skin when he had patched himself up after abolishing the remainders of Zerem’s operation, but it’s a whole different one to look at the way his skin stretches over his cheekbones. It’s a different thing to look at the bags under his eyes and realize just how dark they’ve become. It’s a different thing to know that just a single punch could pull the world right out from beneath his raw foot-bottoms.

He looks so, so much worse than the day he had left for Corellia. Cobb doesn’t know how he survived it, not with all the abuse he had put himself through, not with the amount of blood he had lost on that Force-forsaken planet.

Cobb Vanth, by all means, should be dead.

But he’s not.

In that moment, and he thinks the man next to him can feel the change, something shifts deep inside of him. He wants to live. Beyond his promise to Ann, he wants to live.

He always had- back when he was an enslaved orphan with a bloodied cheekbone and a fresh brand between his shoulders, back when he carved his tracking ship out of his own skull, back when he gathered up everyone he could and ran off into the desert. Back when the Red Key invaded Mos Pelgo. Back when he made the deal with Din Djarin that brought Freetown back from the brink of extinction.

He knows what he has to do, now.

“I can see the gears turning in there, Vanth,” Fett rumbles. “Don’t try to deny it.”

Cobb huffs a laugh. Because knowing what he needs to do, knowing how to recover from everything that’s happened and move on… he hasn’t felt this good in a long time. “I went by the parlor, b’fore I left planetside. Spoke to Tuk,” he confesses. “The arm, he…uh, he wants to cut the whole thing off. Says it's killin' me."

"And what do you think?" Boba Fett speaks slowly, tone more unreadable than ever before, almost as if worried Cobb might be luring him into choosing for him.

The spasm of his arm, the accompanying pain that shoots up into his chest, it’s all the answer Cobb would’ve needed if he hadn’t already made up his mind. He glances up, toward the Daimyo, and finally lets himself sound as tired as he feels. "I think he's right."

“Then go to him,” the man says, and Cobb knows at once that he will.

Few words are exchanged after that. Cobb doesn’t fight as Fett forces him to strip to his underclothes and reveal the bruises and cuts that litter his body, the jagged edges of his skin where he had been stabbed, the blaster burns engraved into his left leg…

And all the while, his caretaker doesn’t comment on any of it, aside from pointing out that his side’s infected- But Cobb already knew that. It should’ve begun to scab over by now, but instead, the edges are red and raw and oozing a foul-smelling pus. The bandages he had removed were more the color of his old shirt than their original white.

With a steady hand, Fett slathers the worst of his wounds with bacta and disinfectants. It stings more than the bitterest liquor Cobb’s ever had. But he knows the necessity of it, and he does his best to keep his squirming to himself as the Daimyo works. He grits his teeth when he has to, swears when his jaw starts to ache, and breathes through it all.

Soon, the air smells more chemically sweet than coppery, and fresh bandages are being wound across him.

Bile burns his throat when he can no longer hold it back.

He comes to only a short while later, weak and tired, but content. There’s something pumping through his blood, bringing life and alleviation to his battered form. He almost lets sleep take him back, but the distant curiosity that nags at the back of his mind has always been a tad too strong for his own good.

Cobb finds an IV line attached to a numb wrist, his body siphoning medicine from the bag on the other end of it. It doesn’t make him jolt as much as he’d have expected, and it’s only later that he realizes it’s because he’s just glad he didn’t wake up in the tank this time. Breathing feels easier than it last had, whatever it is that runs through his ropey veins silencing his many aches and pains.

A soft exhalation not far away stirs him into motion, and he turns his head from where he’s been laid to face Boba Fett. The Daimyo’s weary smile mirrors the one that Cobb’s forgotten how to make. “And how are you feeling now, Vanth?”

“...Better,” Cobb says, because he doesn’t know how to say that he hasn’t felt this well in months.

Something in his gentle, dark eyes acknowledges those unsaid words, and Fett seems to deflate a bit. “Good. Are you hungry?”

With the question in the air and his body no longer in pain, the tremors in his gut stand out more than ever before. He’s never willingly gone without a proper meal for so long before all this. There are many people to blame for that mistake, but nearly all of them are dead, save for himself. Cobb swallows his emotions and shrugs, offering the rogue flash of his teeth. “We both know you ain’t givin’ me a choice.”

The rumbling laugh that follows warms the rapidly-cooling evening air. A serving droid is sent to relay dinner orders to Fennec.

Now that the more pressing conversation has come to pass, Cobb and Fett talk of lighter things. Well. Perhaps they should be called less urgent matters, for Din Djarin’s plan to retake the decimated Mandalore is no laughing matter in of itself.

Apparently, the Mandalorian had recently discovered that the glassed planet hadn’t been quite as ruined as the galaxy has been led to believe. It may be a long time before Din returns to Tatooine; this is his last stop before he is to gather what remains of his people and set the expedition into motion- a fool’s errand, the Daimyo claims.

“An’ you ain’t gonna help him,” Cobb realizes, deep into the conversation.

Boba Fett shakes his head. “No. While I do have a moral code, Din’s ways are not my own. That life is one I was never part of, one that I could never fit in.

“My own father was once a Mandalorian,” he offers in continuation. “And even though he had given up that mantle long before my creation, he taught its importance to me, among other things. It is because of that, and my own experiences, that I know the value of honor.”

“Like the Tuskens that saved you.” It’s not a question.

“Yes.” Fett nods. “Like the Tuskens.”

All the same, no matter the Daimyo’s opinion on the issue, the departure of their friend is soothed slightly by the hope of another culture’s recovery after the Empire. It’s an opportunity that so many will never get the chance to have.

It falls quiet once the Mandalore talk has passed. Cobb, propped up on the makeshift cot he’d been placed upon, watches as the second sun sets and the light beyond the windows begins to fade. Fett tidies up the mess he had made treating Cobb’s wounds, and then sets upon drawing the curtains to block some of the gathering wind. The chill will begin to creep in, soon enough, and Cobb will have to layer up once more; whatever mixture of bacta and antibiotics that’s being pumped into him, it doesn’t induce heat.

The room is plunged into a brief darkness before the light strips embedded into the corners of the room spring to life- just as a sudden voice from the doorway announces Fennec's delayed arrival. The assassin, if not for her fierce looks, could have looked like a waitress with the way she balances a plate on each of her hands. Behind her is the serving droid, a third plate settled upon the flat top of its head.

“What took you so long?” Fett grouses at them.

“The kitchen droids had already powered down for the night,” Fennec deadpans. “They weren’t too happy about being reactivated so soon.”

She stoops to offer Cobb a plate as she passes by, and mischievously approaches the Daimyo with the other, only to slide away from him and claim it as her own. The scarred warrior rolls his eyes and accepts the final plate from the astromech once it’s reached him, gently ordering it to tuck itself away and shut down until he calls upon it again.

Cobb takes a moment to savor the aroma wafting from his plate as he watches the pair engage in their usual banter. The familiarity between them brings him a sense of comfort that he hadn’t even felt when the stoic Din Djarin had arrived to return him here. This…the scene playing out before him…it’s the healthiest, most lively and normal thing he’s seen since before a doomed Bray Ealdel returned to Tatooine with orders to kill him.

When Cobb smiles this time, it’s the most genuine one he’s formed in months. It wasn’t just killing Zerem he had needed to fully find his peace, it was accepting what Tuk had tried to tell him before he’d left. Cobb had been in need of a reality check- and leaving the planet, changing his routines to lead another slave revolt, and nearly dying several times through it all had been it. He hasn’t felt more like himself in a very long time, and it shows loud and clear despite his haggard looks.

“Quit grinning and eat,” Fennec sulks good-humoredly, as she loses whatever debate he hadn’t been listening to.

Cobb laughs and obediently digs into his plate.

The room smells of roasted nerf steak, mingled with the tangy spices of the accompanying vegetables. Between that and the merry atmosphere hanging over their heads, he almost feels warm amidst the young evening’s chill. Tonight, eating doesn’t hurt. Tonight, everything is right on Tatooine. 

Tonight, Cobb Vanth finally thinks he’s going to be just fine.

It doesn’t really hit him until he sees Freetown on the horizon two sunsets later. The journey back has been long, with each bi-hour revealing more of the wear and tear on his tired body. The once vibrant colors of the desert landscape have faded into a dusty haze, mirroring the state of his mind. But as he sits up straighter beside Din in the speeder, squinting against the harsh glare of Tatooine's twin suns, something stirs within him. A wave of relief so strong washes over him that it nearly brings tears to his old eyes.

The speeder glides smoothly over the sandy terrain, its engine purring as it carries Cobb and the others closer to their destination. The wind tugs at their faces, carrying with it the familiar scent of Tatooine's desert air, and the landscape stretches out before them, vast and desolate. But to Cobb, it holds a certain beauty that only those who call this barren planet home can truly appreciate.

“Is that it?” Zart asks from somewhere behind him, a strain in his voice from the angle at which he’s stretched himself to.

“It damn well is,” Cobb tells him when he glances up, the bump on the horizon beginning to take shape and make itself known to them; Freetown isn’t a place often found by accident- a man has to know where it is to find it.

And here it is.

Home.

The closer they grow to the town, the more defined its figure becomes. He can see the miners’ banthas tied down along the backside of their homes, resting and milling about. He can see the shapes of the rooftops, the round and the flat, can recognize each building from behind. Cobb Vanth could walk this town a hundred times over in his sleep, and more.

The vast expanse of sand between them feels too long in the final minutes of their journey, unhelped by the way the speeder’s elongated shadow stretches out several yards ahead of the vehicle itself.

All the same, that time goes by in the blink of an eye. They’re approaching the outskirts soon enough.

The speeder begins to slow down as they close in, allowing Cobb to take in the details. The buildings, weathered and worn as they are, stand as a testament to the resilience of its people. While the scorching suns have left their mark, painting the walls with shades of brown and ochre, each and every one of them stands as tall as it had the day it was built. Cobb's heart swells as he takes it all in; a couple of times, he had wondered if he'd ever live to return here. And he had only been gone a month.

Din guides the speeder into a gentle halt at the end of the street, and Cobb finally sets foot back onto the very ground that he had long-since dedicated his life to protect. He stumbles on his bad leg. Din steadies him, then pivots to help Zart and Trala from the transport.

And, then, just down the road, two figures emerge from the cantina. The taller of the two turns, lays eyes upon him, and lights up with a gasp. Ann.

For a moment, time stands still. He and Ann stare at each other in mutual surprise. Jo takes notice of her sister’s sudden pause and grins at the sight of him, prompting a rather confused Taanti to step out to join them, though he settles down at once. Then, Ann’s lips move and his name echoes across the sand back to him.

Cobb’s lips twitch. “Hey.”

He’s barely managed half a dozen steps forward by the time she collides with him.

Their reunion is nothing short of a violent clash of emotions. Cobb wraps his arms around Ann, and pulls her so close that it hurts every skinny inch of him. He breathes in the familiar scent of her, a fragrance of dry sand and rich flora incense, and he wonders why he ever left when he could have never come home to this. When he could have never come home to her.

“Hey,” he murmurs again, because words could never describe how happy he is to see her again, to hold her again, because he could have died and he didn’t, and-

“You’re back.” Oh, did he miss her voice.

“I told you I would be,” he mumbles into her hair. Cobb’s always kept his promises. Especially the ones he’s made to her. And he wasn’t about to start breaking them, not even the moment he had decided to go after Zerem. He’s done well. He’s back, in her arms, and- Oh. He frees up one arm and turns to face the rest of his entourage. “Even picked up a couple’a strays.”

“You do have a knack for that,” Ann hums into his chest with a smile, glancing up as Din moves to introduce the pair.

"This is Zart, and Trala," The Mandalorian gestures, though his words are more for Taanti than anyone else. "Marshal Vanth freed them on Corellia, and they came here with him. Do you have room for them?"

"Of course," The barkeep boasts. "Our doors are always open to folks like you. I've got a spare room at the cantina that you can stay in until we've got something new built. Shouldn't be more than a month....Unless you'd rather stay with the Marshal, of course. He could use the company."

Cobb's lips curl at the jab. "Hey. You don't know what you're sayin', Taanti." He turns his attention to his anxious pair of newcomers. "But, you are welcome to stay with me, if you'd like. Whatever you want, we'll give it to ya. Nobody's gonna hurt you here,” he promises. “You're family, now. Mine- an’ theirs. This is your home now, too.”

“Thank you.” 

Just two small words. 

But in her eyes, Cobb can see Trala’s true heart. Like Zart’s, it’s a mirror of his own.

There aren’t any words to respond to something so deep, so meaningful. Instead, Cobb gives a single nod and a small smile. He knows that his own eyes relay his thoughts to her- and even if they don’t, she knows what’s not being spoken. 

There’s a certain language between people like them, a language of souls that connects each and every enslaved being in the galaxy.

He comes back to himself as something moves in his peripheral, and when he turns his head he finds that it’s Ann mouthing something to Din beneath Jo’s chatter as she pokes around at getting to know Zart. Cobb’s not quite sure what she tells the Mandalorian, but his silver helmet dips in a nod, the sunset reflecting off of his armor plates as he passes through the group toward the cantina.

Once Din has passed through the doorway, Ann squeezes Cobb’s arm to draw his attention back to her. “Are you alright?”

“Leg’s a little shot up, but she won’t need any replacements,” he assures her, remembering their first conversation after his return from his shoulder replacement operation. A weary smile works its way onto his lips as he remembers all that’s happened since then. “I got ‘im, Ann. I finally got ‘im.”

“No more bounty hunters?” She asks.

He grins. “No more bounty hunters. What happens next is up to us.”

Another page, another chapter- no, another part- the climax of his life seals with those words, years of blood and gore solidifying as part of the past. It finally feels real. The rest of his life can finally begin. He can finally live, as many have and so many others had been so cruelly deprived off. And that starts now. Cobb Vanth is free, for good, and nothing could ever change that.

He leans in, then, and presses his lips gently against Ann’s forehead. After all these years…

It’s real.

A heavy set of footsteps sounds, and Din Djarin follows the sound out of the saloon and back onto the boardwalk, a groggy-looking Grogu perched on his hip. “Thank you for watching him,” he says to Ann. Then, he dips his head to Cobb. “Marshal.”

Marshal, huh? Cobb thinks, sighing to himself. The Mandalorian knows he stepped down. Not letting go of Ann, he turns to face him fully, shaking his head with that ever-so-rueful grin- he supposes that he never had given the man permission to call him by his first name- but, then again, who’d have thought that one of their closest friends would need permission to? “Din, partner, we’re far past formalities. All the shit you’ve done for me…Ah, let’s face it: You’re probably one of the only reasons I’m still alive. You’ve more than earned the right to call me by my name, so long as you’re comfortable with it.”

“Cobb,” Din says after a long moment, tilting his helmeted head thoughtfully. And there it is, the air of finality- this is where they part ways. “...Stay out of trouble.”

“No promises, partner. Y’know me- seem to be a magnet for it.” His smile both softens and widens, and it comes easier than the last. “But,” he adds, raising a finger at the sensation of eyes drilling into the side of his head, “If I need a hand, I’ll make sure to call on you.”

And that pledge seems enough for the Mandalorian, who bows his head in acceptance of it. One of the suns has begun sinking past the horizon; the day is at its end. It’s time for Din Djarin to leave Tatooine, perhaps for good. There aren’t any right words to convey Cobb’s farewells to him.

For a moment, there's a weight hanging over them, leaden with unspoken words, a mixture of gratitude, respect, and the bittersweet realization that their paths may never cross again. They're right back where they were after the krayt dragon, with so much more between them. They are brothers, he and Din. Perhaps in another universe, they'd never have parted. But, alas, this galaxy is a cruel one, and one in a new bright age of reformation. And for Din to help it return to what it had once been, he must leave.

Cobb understands that, better than most. And so, he steps forward to extend his arm, settling on a direct, “Good luck with Mandalore, Din.”

It’s not so much a handshake as it is one last grasp at connection. The seconds tick by long and quiet and forlorn, and then his friend is pulling him in to rest the crest of his visor against Cobb’s forehead in a gesture he’s never seen and already knows the meaning of. This closeness between them, it’s not one-sided. Not by a long shot.

“Aliit ori'shya tal'din. Ni kar'tayli gar darasuum. Thank you, Cobb,” Din finally responds, as if he's found some long-lost part of himself by helping him over these past months. "For everything."

And he understands that, too. "Don't mention it."

“Take care of yourself,” the other man offers with his parting.

With a crooked smile, Cobb says, “I’ll be seein’ you, Mando,” and hopes it’s true.

He watches the speeder until it’s so far gone that it’s merged with the horizon plane, and then some. Cobb follows Ann back to her house and greets Tenn, and- and, yes, he is certainly home now. He watches Ann put her son to bed, and quietly slips out to retreat to his own dwelling to put his gear away properly. It’s like he never left.

He eats and freshens himself up, and finally changes his clothes to something that doesn’t reek of blood and grime, and then he’s out the door again, his feet leading him out to Issa-Or’s.

As sole Marshal, the Twi’lek has left her own door open to the town, inviting them in to voice their concerns and ask for advice on matters of trade and work. He had done the same, before he had stepped down, and it brings warmth to his weary heart to see his fellow law-person keeping up with his old routines in his place.

Cobb Vanth climbs up onto the boardwalk and brings himself to a halt in the doorframe, half-in half-out of her home, watching from behind as she speaks with her grown nephew.

“Looks like you’ve kept things tidy ‘round here, Marshal,” he greets, crossing his arms lightly over himself.

“Cobb Vanth, it feels wrong to hear y’call anyone else Marshal,” the woman remarks even before she turns around to lay her eyes upon him. She looks pleased to see him. “I was wondering when you’d return.”

Beside her, Auch’it-Or grins. "Chowbaso bata, Uncle."

“Might say the same to you, kid. You weren’t here when I left.” But he smiles anyway, because it has been quite a while since he’s seen the young Twi’lek. If the man’s sticking around for the long haul, there’ll be no complaints on his end. “Don’t you worry, I’m here to stay.”

And Cobb means it, now more than ever. Unless it’s urgent, he doesn’t plan on leaving Freetown anytime soon. Never again.

“Where do you need me?”

Chapter Text

The Mods are quite supportive of Cobb’s decision. It’s something that he finds rather amusing, actually, considering he’d been told that they’d nearly broken out into a fight with his people when they’d first met during the skirmish in Mos Espa. He hadn’t realized how close they’ve become with his own people, not until today.

A small group of townsfolk had decided to accompany him to the palace for his operation, and now he gets to see for himself how the war against the Pyke Syndicate brought the two peoples together. It’s humbling, to say the least- to watch Jo arm wrestle with Drash, that is. Watching Skad and Krrsantan introduce Zart to drinking is decidedly more concerning. It’s a shame that Cobb’s been forbidden against getting involved in any potentially-stressful situations;

It’s the last day of his right arm’s life.

Upon his return to Tatooine, Cobb Vanth had taken a couple of weeks to settle back into his home, to close off a couple of loose ends and make apologies, and prepare for the procedure that Tuk will perform in just a couple hours’ time. He had battled out the infection in his side until the wound had begun to properly heal, and he had eaten more food than he’s allowed himself to in years. All things considered, he’s as strong as he’s going to get until this is done- 

And so, here he is, the guest of honor at Boba Fett’s palace. The Daimyo had graciously canceled all previous appointments so that Cobb and his people could enjoy the opportunity of fraternizing with his crew.

He has a long week ahead: Because before this is over and he heads back home, his body will have to accept and adjust to the new arm. His newfound limp will make that a bit difficult; the damage done to his knee on Corellia is irreparable, but Cobb had decided against having any more of himself replaced. His arm is plenty enough, for now. Freetown is a proud town, and to give away what they have- even in exchange for something better- is difficult for any one of its people. If it’s not a life-threatening issue, there’s no need to change it.

Resigned to his fate, Cobb takes a sip from his glass of water. It's a far cry from the spirits that some of the others are indulging, but he knows it's the sensible choice- wouldn’t mix well with the surgery. If there’s one thing that he’s been re-taught, it’s his sense of self-preservation, and he’s not abandoning that for a moment of relaxation.

Arrival to the palace had found him seeking out a place to sit himself down, to rest his leg, despite the gnawing urge to pace his anxiety away. Ann, who’s refused to leave his side since his return, had placed Tenn in another parent’s care and came along with him- the first time she’s left Freetown since it was founded. She sits beside him even now, a hand resting in the crook of his left arm, her head laying against the outside of his shoulder.

It’s her touch that keeps him grounded, keeps his thoughts from spiraling too far. It’s always been her touch that’s done so. Even when he’d been younger, angrier, and more unpredictable a man. Cobb has always had her support. And the fact that she’d come along now, for this…

“You didn’t have to do this,” he tells her, for what’s got to be the fifth time by now.

And all she has to say in return is, “But I did, Cobb. For where would I be without you?”

Her words hang in the air for a moment as he tries to picture a Freetown without him. Still enslaved by the Red Key? By the Mining Guild? A series of pits left behind by a still-living krayt dragon? Cobb shudders at the possibilities. Without him, there wouldn’t have been anyone to stand between the galaxy’s evils and his refugee town. Ann would be alone, and very probably dead.

"I don't know what I did to deserve you," he whispers into her hair, sliding his left arm from her touch and around her back.

“You did everything to deserve me, my darling. Everything.”

Cobb exhales through his nose, then, and allows himself to tune back into the happenings around them, for just a moment, as he processes her words. Fennec, grimacing as she hands Krrsantan another shot of liquor from across the bar. Jo, shaking out her wrist and swearing to the stars that she’ll beat Drash before the night ends. Skad, thumping Zart on the back with a hearty laugh as the kid chokes on another drink. Fett’s shadow on the balcony outside, keeping watch for the transport that will take Cobb and his people to the mod parlor once Tuk’s got it cleared out and prepared. These people are all here, in this room, because of him. Because they care for him, about what happens to him, that he lives to meet them again on the other side of the operating table. He didn’t have this many friends before Jabba died and the Mandalorian came in search of his own kind.

"Y’know, I never thought I would find happiness like this," Cobb starts slowly. "I was resigned to a life of solitude, of fightin’ for survival day after day. Even after Caert died. Couldn’t bring myself to try anythin’ then, knew it had to be on your terms. Seein’ you after that, I didn’t think it was goin’ta happen. And, obviously, I didn’t think any of this,” he gestures half-heartedly all around them, “would come to fruition, either. 

“Thought I’d live an’ die on my own- wasn’t sure if it’d be to a guild or a gunslinger, but I was dead certain that the suns an’ their unrelentin’ heat were a sign of a long, lonely road. Guess I was wrong.”

Ann hums against his neck, lips quirked into a gentle smile. “Fate has a way of surprising us, doesn't it?” One of her hands runs up his neck to cup the side of his face. "You deserve all the happiness in the galaxy, Cobb. You've fought for it, for yourself and the town, and so: You have earned it. And I'm here to make sure you never have to face that long, lonely road alone."

His heart swells in his chest, and there are no words to explain exactly just how he feels about her. All the kinder, safer men to choose- and she had chosen him…

With her by his side, Cobb Vanth feels like he could fight the galaxy. “I love you.”

The words slip past his lips without him meaning them to, but he keeps himself loose- because despite the slip, oh, does he mean it. Time falls still, the movements of those around them fading into the background, and suddenly-

It's just them. 

Cobb and Ann.

And Ann's eyes are glistening with unshed, joyful tears. Her teeth shine through with her smile as one hand raises to caress his cheek, and she echoes his words back at him. "And I love you, Cobb. I always have."

His mouth quirks into that sideways grin of his, and Cobb says, "That makes two of us, then."

And in that moment, with the weight of affection hanging in the air, Cobb leans in slowly, closing what little distance remains between them. Their lips meet, and- this kiss isn’t nearly as desperate as the last two. It's soft, and tender, and filled with an overwhelming sense of true belonging. It’s a familiar dance; an old ballad of sand and blood, pleasant exchanges, and sweet forbidden moments. 

It’s everything he hadn’t been able to tell her before he left for Corellia those several weeks ago.

Their lips mold together better under these circumstances. If he hadn’t already felt in his heart that he and Ann were meant to be, he certainly knows so now.

Cobb's right hand falls to rest upon Ann's shoulder, pulling her even closer, while her arms wrap around his neck to do the same. He’s had to escape a great many holds in the past- and while she’s got him trapped, this isn’t one that Cobb would ever want to break free from. It feels right, to be caught for once. Everything feels right.

“I ain’t ever lettin’ ya go,” he murmurs into her ear, before retreating back to press his lips back to her for one final taste. I’m scared.

She smiles against him, fingers caressing his old transmitter chip scar, and cradles his chin in her other, empty palm. I know. “And I would never ask you to.”

Their foreheads remain pressed together once their lips have parted, heavy breaths mingling in the gap between them. The stakes are high this afternoon. While the rotting flesh of the initial injury is no longer there, the removal of his arm may still kill him. His body may take the out and shut down during his slumber. He might go under and never come back up. But if he doesn’t go through with the operation, the mechanical failure of his shoulder will kill him anyway. This may very well be the final night of his life. Cobb knows this. Ann knows it, too. He’s not the only one scared.

But Cobb Vanth has faced enough final nights to have some faith that he will survive this one. Tuk saved his life once, and who’s to say the man won’t again? He’s got talent in his line of work- there’s not another successful mod artist on the whole damn planet.

“We’ll get through this,” Ann whispers, echoing his thoughts, and Cobb smiles.

“Why wouldn’t we?” He agrees.

The afternoon comes to an end far too soon. The suns have set, throwing dusk upon the sands, when Boba Fett comes over to them, expression sober. “Tuk just contacted me; it’s time. The transport is ready.”

Cobb clears his suddenly-dry throat and makes to stand. “Right.”

Beside him, he can feel Ann rise. Watches the way her eyes seek her sister across the room- Jo actually had beaten Drash, once- so that the hunter can round up the others and herd them towards the exit. They’re all coming with him- Ann, Jo, Trala, and Zart. He hadn’t asked them to, but even the boy he’d met several weeks ago has become attached to him. And with the way dread is coiling in his belly, Cobb decides he’s glad they wanted to be here. He’s not sure that he could’ve ever done this alone. Waking up after the initial shoulder mod had been hard enough, and he’d had Jo and Taanti there with him then.

It’s going to be fine. You know it will be, he tells himself, swallowing away the nervous lump in his throat. He’s not alone.

And it’s only his arm, shoulder-down, that he’s losing. He’s lucky. He is. If things had played out even the slightest bit different, the shot that rendered his shoulder useless in the first place could have taken out a more central part of him. 

Fennec is the prime example of what that looks like. Cobb could have been her. But he wasn’t- isn’t- and, tonight, it really is only his arm that he has the misfortune to part with.

“Let’s go get this over with.”

Fett nods, and joins them on the walk out. There’s a certain wisdom in knowing when words need not be spoken, when the time for them has passed and a silent presence is all that is needed. Cobb wonders, distantly, if he learned it from the Tuskens- or if Boba Fett has always been a quiet man. Either one could be true, and it doesn’t matter which is.

The palace lobby fades into silence as they leave, half the inhabitants now removed from the room. That silence accompanies the Freetown entourage through the solemn sandstone halls; the Daimyo isn’t the only one without words tonight.

Outside, the air has already begun cooling. It won’t be long before the final traces of the suns’ heat have vanished completely. But Cobb and his people won’t be out to feel it- just as Fett promised, a landspeeder sits outside the gate, purring and ready to go. One of the Mods is behind the controls, tilting his head in a nod of greeting as they approach. As Ann and the others begin piling in, a hand settles on Cobb’s shoulder.

He turns to meet Fett’s gaze.

“Good luck, Marshal Vanth. Our blessing will travel with you.”

Even with all of his recent luck, Cobb’s still not quite developed his belief in deities. But he will accept the gotra’s blessing- they’re as high a power as one gets on Tatooine, and that’s good enough for him. “Thank you.”

Boba Fett smiles, squeezes his shoulder, and releases him. “Next time I see you, you better have more meat on your bones.”

“I will,” he promises with a small smile of his own. “You can count on it.”

With those parting words, Cobb turns and climbs in beside Ann, settling himself as comfortable as can get. The driver revs the engine, dips his head to the Daimyo, and they’re off. Yes, everything will work out just as it’s meant to.