Lekku. LOG-002. The Last Thing I Remember.

LOG-002. The Last Thing I Remember.

I don’t remember walking onto the gunship.

I remember being dropped. Roughly. Like scrap. I remember metal under my knees, too cold for a place this hot. And I remember the hum. That low, rising whirr that shakes your teeth and lets you know you’re about to leave something behind forever.

I don’t cry. I don’t scream. I don’t do anything. Which is weird, right? You’d think this would be the time for hysterics. For fighting. For throwing myself at the walls or biting ankles or something.

But no. I just sit there.

Everything smells like fuel and blood.

My hands are sticky. I’m not sure with what.

My lekku ache.

My mom’s dead.

That last one doesn’t hit like it should. It’s too big. My brain is still waiting for her to come around the corner and pull me out of this nightmare. She always did. Back when the guards got too handsy. Or when some offworld creep wanted to buy me early.

Memories which in turn still feel brand new.

Regardless, she’d step in. Smile. Say something clever. Take the hit for me.

But she’s not stepping in this time. Because her body’s under a house.

And my dad? Also dead. He went out like a warrior. I guess. He died fighting. Blaster in hand. Face set in a way that makes it hard to think about.

I fired his blaster. I remember that.

I shot a Mandalorian.

It did absolutely nothing, of course, since Beskar’s a bitch like that.

And now I’m here. In their ship. Knees pulled up. Head down. Sitting on a troop bench between two people who could probably kill me just by sneezing in my direction.

One of them keeps glancing at me.

I know who he is.

I remember his armour. Dark green plates, matte finish, no decals. Clean. Efficient. Clinical.

He moved like someone who’d killed so many people that the act barely registered anymore. Like death was just something that happened when he walked into a room.

He’s the one who killed my father.

He hasn’t said a word since he picked me up. Just…looks. Sometimes. Out of the corner of that stupid T-shaped visor.

I stare at the floor. My legs don’t reach the edge of the bench. They just…dangle. Swinging slightly with the motion of the ship. I’m too small for this world. Too small to hold this much pain.

Too small to have a bounty on my head, probably. So they don’t kill me. Not yet. Maybe they’ll ransom me. Maybe I’ll get sold again.

Maybe they’ll just space me when they land. Or maybe they’ll do something worse.

The language they’re speaking isn’t Huttese. It’s harsher. Cleaner. Mando’a, I think. I catch words here and there. Child. Taken. Claimed. Battle. None of it makes sense. Not really.

But I’ve heard the tongue before. Mandos passed through the city sometimes, hired for the real dirty work. Always alone. Always armoured. Always scary as hell.

These ones are different. They’re talking. Arguing maybe. One of them gestures toward me. The killer. He says something flat. Final.

And that’s it. They all shut up.

I want to ask something. Anything.

Instead I just sit.

The gunship rattles as it climbs higher into the sky, leaving Mos Kaer behind. Leaving my parents behind. Leaving my shitty life behind.

I work very hard not to cry. Very, very hard.

—

I didn’t expect the Mandalorians to have a conference room.

Like…shit, I don’t know what I expected, honestly. A pit, maybe. With fire. And blades. Something unnecessarily dramatic.

But no. It’s just a room. Steel floors. A few battered crates. War maps glowing in the corner. A couple of beat up benches. Smells like oil, smoke, and old armour sweat.

I’m sitting on the floor. Again. Because seats are for people who matter, apparently. And right now I am…well.

A problem.

Too young to be useful. Too old to forget. I can almost hear the mental calculations being done in every helmeted skull around me.

She saw too much.

She shot at one of us because we killed her fucking dad.

She’s a Twi’lek.

All of that comes with baggage.

They speak in Mando’a. I understand maybe every third word, if that. But I don’t need to know the language to get the gist. I’ve spent my whole (very short) new life watching people talk about me while pretending I’m not there. Doesn’t take a translator to read tone.

They’re arguing. Not loud. Just clipped. Controlled. Like even yelling has to be tactical.

Then one voice cuts through the rest. Calm. Low. Final.

Him.

I look up. Slowly. My neck still feels like it’s been welded in place from the tension of the past day. But I make myself do it.

It’s the same armour. Green and black. Scratched but clean. Bare of trophies or flair. No jagged bones dangling from the belt, no painted kill count on the vambrace. Just utility.

He stands with his hands behind his back like this is all a formality. Like deciding my fate is no more important than filing a report.

They turn to look at him. The others. One of them shrugs. Another taps the hilt of her knife like she’d rather just solve this the easy way. Another just walks out.

And just like that, it’s over.

He walks over. Drops into a crouch. Helmet tilts. I imagine he’s studying me. Wondering if I’m going to bite him or cry or puke or combust on the spot.

I do none of those things. I just glare.

“You’re mine now.” He states. Not unkind. Just…plain. Like he’s informing me I’ve been assigned a bunk.

“Go to hell.” I growl, voice hoarse and cracked. It’s the first thing I’ve said in hours. It feels like sandpaper going up my throat.

He nods. Stands. Looks down at me like he expected that. Probably did.

“You live.” He nods. “You learn. You earn your name.”

I want to scream at him. Tell him he doesn’t get to say that. That he killed my father. That I’ll kill him. That I’ll tear this whole outpost apart with my bare hands and drown him in his own blood.

But I don’t. Because the words catch somewhere between my heart and my teeth, and all that comes out is a half breath and silence.

He walks away.

I sit there. On cold metal. In borrowed rags and burnt skin and bruises I haven’t had time to inventory.

I should be dead.

But I’m not.

And that, that, is what terrifies me.

Because I know exactly what this is. I’m not dumb. This isn’t slavery. Not really. Not in the Hutt sense.

This is adoption by way of violence. This is warrior culture. This is death and rebirth and armour and blood oaths. I’ve seen it in the stories. The shows. I know what the Mandalorians do when they take someone in.

They rebuild them.

Which is maybe the best thing that could’ve happened to me in my circumstances, second to getting adopted by a senator or something.

And yet I still feel fucking robbed.

—

They gave me a cot.

Pretty chill of them.

It’s wedged into the corner of a storage room, between a crate full of spare power cells and a ventilation shaft that leaks every time the station breathes. Which is often. The walls hum like they’re thinking about breaking apart. Or maybe that’s just me.

I haven’t slept.

Instead I’ve just been lying here. Curled up. Half starved. Counting the times my fingers twitch against the blanket like maybe that’ll tell me something useful. So far it hasn’t.

There’s…a lot of silence in this place. The loud kind. The kind where everyone’s whispering just out of earshot. I’m the current subject of interest. The temporary curiosity. The stray they dragged in from the ruins.

Let’s see if she bites.

Let’s see if she breaks.

The door hisses open, and the world narrows to one shape.

Armour. Matte green. Scratches across the chestplate. Helmet in place. No weapon drawn.

He steps inside and closes the door behind him.

I sit up. Barely. I look at him like I want to peel the skin off his bones. It’s the only way I know how to look at him.

“You live.” He starts.

I don’t reply.

“You learn.”

Still nothing.

“You earn your name.”

I spit. Not a dramatic hawk or anything. I’m a dehydrated five year old. It’s mostly just air and spite, but it does hit the bottom of his chestplate with a satisfying little tick.

“Go kriff yourself.” I whisper.

My voice is more stable this time. Faint. Ugly. Raw. But I don’t stutter.

“...I’m going to kill you.” I eventually add, after a second. Just to make it clear.

He tilts his head, just slightly.

Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t even reach for his weapon, because I’m not stupid enough to think he’s actually unarmed.

“Then you better get strong enough to try.” He nods..

Then he walks out.

That’s it. No threat. No warning. No punishment.

Just a door hissing shut again, leaving me with nothing but recycled air and the slow realization that I don’t really know what the hell I just got signed up for.