Chapter 5

                                    

                                          
Mos Pelgo looks like a glorified backyard. 
We rose with the suns earlier in the morning, quickly thanking the Tuskens before making our way to the abandoned mining town. It took a few more hours of riding in the blazing morning heat before a speck of a town came up in the distance. Now, we approach the town at a crawl as the speeder putters through the one main street these people have. 
Each townsperson we pass glares at us with distrustful, narrowed eyes that make me scoot a little closer to Din. Grogu ducks into his satchel a little more and I hover a hand over him, hoping to shield him from their view in case anyone gets any ideas. I frown when the speeder finally stops and Din starts to get off. He's parked us right in front of a cantina, if the empty building could even be called that, and is stubbornly ignoring the glares from the people around us. 
"Hey, maybe I should wait out here with the kid," I say, jumping off the speeder to catch up to him. Din turns around, sighing down at me as Grogu watches us from his satchel. 
"I don't think splitting up is wise in this place," he mutters, scanning the street. "We don't know what we're going to find here."
"It better be a Mandalorian," I groan, glaring up at him. "I'm just about done with this wild bantha chase." 
He just walks up the steps to the cantina, pausing in the doorway before turning around again to face me. "I'm gonna ask you one more time before we find him. Is there something I should know about you and Mandalorians?"
I shoot him a warning glare, but he doesn't back down. If Cara were here, she might smack me on the back of the head for being so stubborn about this. But she's not here, and I'm not telling Din who I really am. He'll never look at me the same if I do. He'll be just another stoic Mandalorian that thinks I'm not good enough for my own people. 
I walk past him into the cantina without a word. There's only one person, a Weequay man, inside the place. And he's the bartender. He stares at me and Din with wide eyes and a slack jaw as he wipes the bar down with a tattered rag. 
"Can I help you?" He rasps out, finally finding his voice. I dip my head at him in greeting, holding up one finger for a drink as I settle onto a stool by the bar. I'm pleasantly surprised when he sets a cup of spotchka in front of me.
"We're looking for a Mandalorian," Din says, getting straight to the point. He leans his arms on the bar top as I sip my drink. 
The Weequay shrugs, looking around as if we'll go away if he doesn't look at us. "Well, we don't get many visitors in these parts. Can you describe him?"
Din stares at the bartender, and I can just imagine the unamused glare on his face. I fight to avoid laughing, but a short chuckle escapes me as I set my glass down and look at the bartender. "Someone who looks like him," I say, jerking my head over at Din. 
The bartender's mouth forms an 'o' shape as he nods in understanding. "You mean the Marshal," he says with a hum. Din straightens, pulling his shoulders back. 
"Your Marshal wears Mandalorian armor?"
The bartender grunts once as he glances at the doorway before looking back at us. "See for yourself." 
I slide out of my seat to peer around Din's broad shoulders. He tilts his head at the man, but the minute I lay eyes on the newcomer in the doorway, I freeze. 
It can't be. 
I immediately unsheathe my staff, glaring at the man. His faded green and yellow armor is an image I won't soon forget, not after the years I spent with the Empire. Boba Fett is a famed bounty hunter in any system. Vader himself trusted him with top-priority Rebels and fugitives, and while I've never spoken to the hunter personally, I know the stories and I've seen his work up close.