The night is eerily still, a blanket of silence spread across the rocky terrain as you and The Mandalorian make your way back to the Razor Crest. The Child, swaddled in its hovering pram, coos softly—a sound that's more soothing than it is concerning, given that Baby Yoda (or, as the Mandalorian insists, The Child) tends to be quieter when trouble is on the horizon.

The path ahead is obscured by dense foliage and jagged rocks, the kind that seem like they're just waiting for a misstep. You've learned to stay sharp in this galaxy, and tonight is no different. Mando's boots crunch with a deliberate cadence beside you, his helmet giving little indication of his mood, but the soft click of the Beskar plate shifting betrays his ever-watchful state. The air smells faintly of ozone, perhaps an electric storm in the distance, and the chill of the night creeps against your skin like an old, familiar friend.

You keep your voice low, almost a whisper. "Think we're good? Not a soul in sight."

Mando doesn't reply at first, his stance frozen as though listening to the same quiet you are. Then, he mutters, "I've been here before. Too quiet for comfort."

You nod, feeling the same prickling sensation creeping along your spine. Instincts have served you well in this galaxy. You pause mid-step, your hand instinctively reaching for the air—holding it still as if plucking a string, your senses fully alert.

"Shhh," you whisper urgently.

Mando's head tilts just slightly, his hand near his blaster but waiting, as if the world itself is holding its breath. It is then, without warning, the sound of snapping branches and the low, guttural growl of Trandoshan voices breaks the silence. Before either of you can react, a blur of motion shoots from the shadows.

Three Trandoshan bounty hunters appear, their slick, scaled green skin gleaming in the low light, their glowing red eyes gleaming with malice. Vibro-axes in hand, they look as if they've been waiting for hours, like big, scaly cats poised to pounce on their prey. One of them grins—an expression that is more of a snarl, revealing rows of jagged teeth. The other two circle, snarling low, their arms twitching with the anticipation of the fight.

You don't waste a second.

A flare of energy explodes from your hand, a pulse of light so intense it blinds them, sending them stumbling back in agony. Their growls turn to howls as they shield their eyes, momentarily dazed. The moment you see their weakness, you move. With the speed of a predator, you dart forward, slicing through the air with a blade that wasn't there a moment ago. The first Trandoshan's stomach bursts open with a sickening squelch, viscera spilling onto the ground in a hot, pulsing mess. It happens so fast, even Mando seems caught off guard—his head snapping toward you as though trying to process the sudden, savage grace with which you move.

Without looking back, you press forward, cutting through the second Trandoshan's ribs as though they were butter. His horrified scream is cut short as he collapses to the ground in a heap of smoldering meat. The third and final hunter, still clutching his vibro-axe, tries to recover but finds himself falling to the ground in the same graceful arc, your blade slicing open his belly in a way that would make a surgeon green with envy. His intestines spill out with a nauseating splat.

The air smells of copper and scorched skin, but your work is done. The Trandoshans are nothing more than twitching heaps, their agony and gore painting the path in the dim light of the planet's twin moons.

Mando doesn't speak, but his body language says everything. A mix of disgust, awe, and perhaps... admiration. You're not sure if it's the carnage or the speed of it all, but it's definitely there—something in his posture that says, maybe, just maybe, I underestimated you.

You turn to him with a look that says it all: This isn't over yet. You don't waste time on words. Instead, you grab him by the sleeve, tugging him gently, though the urgency in your movements is clear.

"Let's go," you hiss, already stepping over the now-pulsing remains of the Trandoshan hunters.

Mando, in his usual stoic fashion, merely nods once and starts moving, his boots crunching through the gravel with haste. He gives a final glance back at the still-alive, writhing bodies—their wounded howls fading into the night as you both continue onward. A grim satisfaction fills you, not in the bloodshed itself, but in the survival of it.

The Razor Crest isn't far now.

Mando's shoulders seem a little stiffer than usual, though, and you can't help but grin beneath your breath. No words are needed. Tonight, the galaxy has witnessed a display of skill and ferocity it won't soon forget.

And as you both walk off into the moonlight, the Child's soft cooing from its floating pram is the only sound that remains. The hunt might be over, but the adventure is far from done.

SCENEBREAK

The night is beginning to settle in, the last vestiges of sunlight dipping behind the horizon as the fire crackles merrily, casting dancing shadows across the ground. The Child, nestled comfortably in its hovering pram, watches with wide eyes, its oversized ears twitching as the flames flicker in the air. It's a curious sight—this little creature, so small yet with a profound sense of wonder, studying the scene in front of it like an inquisitive scholar.

Mandalorian, on the other hand, seems to have more pressing matters on his mind. He's kneeling in front of the fire, his left arm outstretched, trying to sear a fresh wound shut. The scarred and scorched edges of his skin twitch uncomfortably under the heat, but it's clear he doesn't quite have the delicate touch needed for such a sensitive task. His visor tilts ever so slightly toward you, a silent question hanging in the air like the stars above.

"Are you a witch?" Mando's voice is muffled and curious, but it's easy to hear the skepticism beneath the words.

You chuckle, the sound rumbling deep in your chest like a purr of a great beast. Your snout twitches slightly, and a small burst of flame escapes from the tip of your nose—just enough to remind the Mandalorian what you are, though not nearly enough to be threatening. "What? No, no. I'm a dragonborn," you say with a casual shrug, making sure to let your words linger in the air. "I can take the form of any dragon shape I want and strike wherever I wish. It's my job, after all."

There's a pause, the fire crackling loudly as Mando processes this. Then, in his usual cool tone, he states, "A queen."

You tilt your head, a small, mischievous smile curling up the corner of your lips. "You could say that," you reply, not disagreeing but not confirming either. "But let's just say I'm really good at what I do."

Mando's shoulders seem to relax slightly, as though he's finally accepted that you're not just some rogue sorceress with a vendetta. But even as he seems to ease up, there's still the matter of his arm. The wound, though not fatal, is clearly bothering him—a reminder of the earlier scuffle with the Trandoshans. The searing heat from the fire only makes it worse, and the Mandalorian grits his teeth, clearly not the biggest fan of this makeshift treatment.

Your eyes catch the wound, and you stand, your movements fluid and graceful as you make your way over to Mando. He stiffens instinctively, no doubt wary of your proximity, but you make no threatening moves. Instead, you lean forward, bringing your snout closer to his arm, and give it a thoughtful sniff.

Mando jerks slightly at the closeness, and you can practically hear the air hitch in his breath through the thin slit of his visor. He tenses, his hand instinctively tightening around the makeshift cauterizing tool, but you reach out with your own lightning-quick reflexes, gripping his wrist gently but firmly. His muscles stiffen under your touch, but you smile at him reassuringly, your eyes twinkling with a mischievous gleam.

"Don't move," you say softly, your voice a low rumble that carries both authority and calm. "I have healing saliva."

There's a beat of stunned silence as Mando processes your words, his helmet tilting slightly, the only indication of his surprise. You let a small stream of fire flicker from your hands, your scales glowing faintly in the low light, and then you extend your tongue, its length snaking out with surprising agility.

Before Mando can fully react, your hot saliva drips down onto his wound, a sensation that's part discomfort, part soothing warmth. The Mandalorian's breath catches in his throat, and he can't quite stifle the soft gasp—or perhaps, moan—that escapes him. It's not an entirely pleasant feeling at first, but there's something about the heat that goes beyond the pain, something that numbs the burn and fills the space with a gentle heat that feels oddly... comforting.

He jerks slightly at the sensation, but you hold him steady, the grip on his wrist unyielding. "Hold still," you mutter, your voice almost tender despite the slight twinkle of mischief still lingering in your eyes. "This works better if you don't twitch."

Mando's breath hitches again, and the silence that follows is pregnant with tension—though not the kind of tension he's used to. It's an odd, intimate moment, where the hard-edged bounty hunter is utterly still under your touch, his face hidden behind his helmet but his posture betraying a flicker of discomfort and something more... complicated.

The healing magic pulses through you as you continue to let your saliva work its way into his wound, the sizzling sound of searing flesh being replaced by the quieter sound of healing, of life. The warmth from your tongue and the fire within your body seeps into the wound, gradually closing the gash, leaving only smooth, fresh skin in its wake. When you finally pull back, you release his wrist, but not before giving him a reassuring smile.

"There," you say, wiping a small drop of saliva from the edge of your lip as you stand back. "Good as new."

Mando shifts slightly, and despite his usual calm demeanor, you catch the faintest sound—a relieved sigh that escapes through the small vents of his helmet. You almost think he might say something, but instead, he simply nods.

The Child, for its part, seems entirely unfazed by the proceedings, having fallen back into its contented state, though you notice its large eyes flicking between the two of you with an expression that is just a bit too perceptive for a creature of its size.

"You're lucky," Mando mutters, his voice hoarse, but with a touch of gratitude that you don't think he intended to reveal.

You raise an eyebrow, looking at him with a teasing grin. "Lucky? I thought we already established I'm a dragonborn, not just some lucky charmer."

Mando's helmet tilts again, this time in what might be a mock expression of exasperation. "Right," he says, his tone dry but with a note of admiration that you've learned to catch.

"Now," you say with a wink, "let's get some rest. Tomorrow's another day of running from bounty hunters, right?"

Mando doesn't answer right away, but the slight relaxing of his posture tells you that, for now, at least, the tension has eased.

SCENEBREAK

The sun is climbing higher into the sky, casting long, dusty shadows over the desert wasteland as you, Mando, and the Child make your way toward the Razor Crest. The ship looms ahead, its once-pristine hull now weathered and worn from years of traveling through the galaxy. The quiet, peaceful morning air is interrupted by the unmistakable sound of clinking metal and faint murmurs.

You pause, instinctively glancing over at Mando, who's already scanning the area through his scope. He's silent for a beat, and you can almost feel the tension radiating from him as he observes the scene. There, by the side of the ship, a group of Jawas are scavenging through the parts of the Razor Crest. They've got no shame, pulling at wiring and components like they're already planning to haul everything back to their sandcrawler.

Mando's gloved finger twitches on the trigger of his blaster. Without a word, he takes decisive action, his Amban phase-pulse blaster making a low, humming sound before it fires, striking one of the Jawas square in the chest. The shot sends the creature flying backwards, its shrill cry echoing as it crumples to the sand. The rest of the Jawas scatter in panic, a colorful blur of scavenger robes running for cover.

Without hesitation, Mando takes out two more, his aim impeccable, the shots ringing out one after another. One of the Jawas tries to fire back with an ion blaster, but it's no use—Mando's already got the drop on them, and the blaster-wielding Jawa crumples to the ground in a heap.

The Jawas, now fully panicked, retreat into their sandcrawler with surprising speed, their small legs carrying them up the ramp and out of view. The sandcrawler starts to rumble, its engines coming to life as the huge vehicle begins to lumber away, trying to make its escape. Mando stands tall, watching them flee, and then, with a grim look on his face, he aims a few well-placed shots at the vehicle's rear. The sound of blaster fire rings out as the sandcrawler's massive wheels churn, but it's too late—the Jawas are already speeding off into the distance, disappearing into the horizon.

The chaos of the scene settles, leaving only the quiet crackling of the distant flames and the faint hum of the Razor Crest's sputtering systems. Mando lowers his blaster, taking a breath, his stance still as rigid as ever.

You, on the other hand, stand slightly to the side with the Child, who's watching the aftermath with a curious, wide-eyed gaze. It's as if the little creature doesn't fully understand the violence, but it's certainly entertained by the display. You can't help but chuckle under your breath, amused by the Mandalorian's unrelenting nature.

"I don't know what he thinks he's doing," you say softly, an amused smile tugging at your lips. "Not like he's getting those parts back any time soon."

You can almost feel Mando's gaze on you, even though his helmet hides his expression. But you're not looking for confirmation or even a response—Mando's actions speak louder than any words, and you've come to understand his quiet intensity.

As the Jawas retreat, you finally allow yourself to move, stepping toward the wreckage of the Razor Crest. The heap of scavenged parts and twisted metal is now a chaotic mess, a far cry from the once-functional starship you had traveled so far to reach. Sparks fly from exposed wires, and there are pieces of technology scattered everywhere—some of it unrecognizable, some of it surprisingly intact.

You crouch down next to a pile of tangled cables, humming thoughtfully to yourself as you sift through the mess. There's no denying the damage is significant, but you're no stranger to mechanical repairs. You've seen worse in your time, and fixing things is, well, part of your job. But as you move through the wreckage, you quickly realize something—you won't be able to do much without the essential components that the Jawas took.

"Well, this is a bit of a pickle," you murmur, eyeing the scattered parts. "Not much I can work with here, unless you've got a stash of spare parts hidden somewhere, Mando?"

The Mandalorian approaches, his boots crunching against the sand, and you can feel his frustration building—though he does a decent job of masking it. You stand up, brushing your hands off on your pants, and look at him expectantly. The Child, now perched on the edge of its hovering pram, seems to be waiting for instructions, its large eyes trained on you, almost as if it knows the situation is dire.

Mando pauses, assessing the damage. "We'll need to track down the sandcrawler," he says, voice still calm, but with that familiar edge of determination. "The parts we need are in there."

You nod, understanding the plan. "I'll be ready when you are."

There's a long pause, a moment where the air between you both crackles with the same intensity as the blaster shots. It's clear that Mando isn't one to give up easily, but you also know that getting those parts back won't be as easy as walking up to the sandcrawler and asking for them.

You glance back at the wreckage of the Razor Crest, then at the child, and then back at Mando, who's already formulating his next move.

"You know," you say with a smirk, "I've got a feeling the Jawas are going to regret running into us today."

Mando finally turns to you, his stance still rigid, but his voice betrays a subtle hint of humor. "Maybe. Or maybe they'll just be more careful next time."

With a final glance at the horizon, you both prepare to track down the Jawas and reclaim the parts that the Razor Crest so desperately needs. The day is far from over, and the journey continues—more dangerous and unpredictable than ever. But if there's one thing you're certain of, it's that when you work together, there's no challenge too big.