Mandalorian Lost

Chapter 19

Fires shoot up from every single domed city on Mandalore. The planet is already a wasteland outside the cities, and now there's nothing left. The Empire ensures it. Rumor has it a group of Mandalorian survivors fled to Concordia to escape the carnage, but I almost can't bring myself to believe it. The Empire is thorough. If they knew of survivors, they wouldn't hesitate to remedy the situation so that all are dead.

My boots catch on a stray piece of broken glass as I run through the streets of Sundari city. There aren't even streets anymore, really, just pathways through the massacre that are less cluttered than others. I can't even recognize the city enough to be plagued by old memories. I can't even grieve the fallen Mandalorian warriors dropping like dead flies from the air around me as they're shot out of the sky. All I can do is run.

I escaped Lord Vader's watchful eye almost half an hour ago. I wasn't ready to join the attack, not that the Inquisitors were really needed for this mission, so Vader had me tag along as a spectator. As if this was some kind of lesson, and not murder. It was important to Vader that I cut ties with my Mandalorian heritage. My insistence that I hated my former people wasn't enough for him. Even hatred for them, he said, was a form of attachment. He wanted me to be indifferent, emotionless, cruel. He wanted me to be a Sith.

A Mandalorian falls right at my feet, the jetpack on his back sparking from a blaster hit. Thick, dark blood oozes from underneath his helmet as he gasps for breath. I duck behind some debris to hide from him and whatever droid will eventually come finish him off, but the bright red flicker of the inside of my new Inquisitor cape catches his eye. He reaches one shaky hand toward me, the other clutching tightly on a long staff stained with blood and droid oil.

"Come, please," he rasps, his voice modulator barely picking up his words. Even as anger boils in me at the thought of a Mandalorian suddenly needing me again, I can't bring myself to ignore him. I stagger forward, dropping to my knees when another explosion shoots off nearby. He grabs my hand in his and I try to ignore the way his palm is slick with sweat and his own blood. He's lost his glove, along with a few other pieces of armor. "The helmet," he pleads. I release his hand long enough to press my smaller hands on either side of his helmet and gently lift it off.

His face is covered in bloody gashes and cuts. His eyes glass over as he blinks rapidly. He's going to die, and the haunting resolution in his eyes tells me that he knows it. "Hang on, I'll get you some help," I say, forcing an ounce of confidence into my young voice. He tries to laugh, and it comes out as weak cough.

"They did not come here to help us, little one," he replies. My heart aches at the last two words as memories of Pre Vizsla pop into my mind. He always called me that, back when Death Watch had the world at its fingertips and I was the golden prodigy child. It feels like another lifetime now. The man's face goes serious as he heaves his other arm up, the one with the staff. I study it, my eyes widening when I realize it's pure beskar. "Keep it safe. Our beskar was not meant to be forged as a weapon, but I could not allow this to become a tool of the Empire. Guard it for me, little one."

I shake my head quickly as he tries to shove the weapon in my hands. "I'm an Imperial," I say. Maybe he didn't realize what my uniform represents. Either way, I can't, in good conscience, allow this Mandalorian to bestow beskar to me. It's too sacred. "I'm not a Mandalorian." I raise my voice as I feel his presence fading through the force.

"I remember you," he whispers, so softly I almost think I'm imagining it. "Vizsla..." he muses through shallow breaths. I nod my head, tears blooming in my eyes at hearing my true name for the first time in years. He smiles, pressing the staff into my hands. "Guard it for me, child. Our time will come again."