The Mandalorian's Slave

Mos Pelgo

Spoiler alert: Mos Pelgo isn't much to look at. I wasn't expecting much, but after a day of travel through the desert, I'm disappointed to see a ramshackle assembly of houses.

The buildings are cracked and faded and nearly all uniform. Their off-white domed roofs offer little protection from the scorching suns.

Dirty faces peer out at us as we slink into the city. The villagers are made of hard lines and weathered skin. Their clothes are motley shades of brown and gray and definitely seen better days.

"I feel very welcome," I mutter as the villagers stare us down.

"Welcomed or not, this is our best lead," the Mandalorian replies tersely.

Our speeder sputters to a stop in front of a run-down tavern. The city is practically bristling with hostility, but Din is right. This is our best lead.

The Child peers out of my satchel as we enter the bar. A lone bartender greets us. He's a species I don't recognize, with wrinkled skin and white hair pulled into braids. He's ugly, and not in a cute way, but in a way that makes you want to avoid eye contact.

"Can I help you?" He asks gruffly.

"I'm looking for a Mandalorian." The Mandalorian replies swiftly.

"Well, we don't get many visitors in these parts." I wonder why. "Can you describe him?"

"Someone who looks like me."

"Hmm. You mean the Marshal?"

"Your Marshal wears Mandalorian armor?"

"Well, see for yourself," the bartender replies, cocking his head toward the doorway.

I flinch. I hadn't heard the man sneak up on us. Yet there he stands, in the doorway, in full Mandalorian armor.

There are some differences between him and Din, however. The Marshal is slender, with cracked green paint on his armor. He holds himself with a cocky arrogance that only predators have.

"What brings you here, stranger?" The Marshal asks.

"We've been searching for you for many parsecs."

"Well, now you found me. Weequay, two snorts of spotchka." The Marshal glances at me. "Actually, make it three for the lovely lady."

The bartender hands the Mandalorian three shot glasses and a bottle of blue liquid.

"Why don't you join me for a drink?" The Marshal invites us.

I frown. Mandalorians aren't supposed to take their helmets off in front of other people, especially not in a public place like this.

The Marshal sits down comfortably at a beaten table. Without hesitation, he begins.
And in one fluid motion, he removes his helmet. "I've never met a real Mandalorian."

I gasp as Din tenses beside me. Our one lead. Destroyed.

The Marshal chuckles. "Heard stories. I know you're good at killing." He takes a shot. "And probably none too happy to see me wearing this hardware."

I study the Marshal. He's not what I was expecting. He's older, with peppered hair and neatly trimmed facial hair. He's shockingly handsome, in a silver fox type of way.

"I figure only one of us is walking out of here alive," he continues. "But then I see the little guy, and your beautiful companion, and I think, maybe I pegged you wrong."

"Who are you?" The Mandalorian demands.

"I'm Cobb Vanth, Marshal of Mos Pelgo."

"Where did you get the armor?"