Chapter 2: The Mandalorian
POV: Oliver
"Purple banana hydrospanner!"
The words tumble out of Oliver's mouth before he can stop them, and he immediately wants to crawl back into the cave. The Mandalorian's rifle swings toward him with mechanical precision, the weapon's barrel never wavering from center mass.
"I'm not a threat!" Oliver tries again.
"Carpet festival magnificent!"
The helmet tilts slightly—the only sign that the Mandalorian has heard him. For a long moment, the two of them stand frozen in tableau: Oliver with his hands raised like a surrendering fool, the Mandalorian calculating whether he's worth the cost of ammunition.
"Who are you?" The voice emerges from the helmet's modulator, distorted but unmistakably male.
"I don't—aggressive sandwich!"
Oliver's face burns with humiliation. He tries pointing to himself, then shaking his head, then making a gesture he hopes conveys his confusion about his own identity. The Mandalorian watches this pantomime with the patience of someone accustomed to dealing with the galaxy's more colorful inhabitants.
"What are you doing here?"
"Delicious carburetor Tuesday!"
The rifle doesn't lower, but Oliver catches a slight shift in the Mandalorian's stance. Annoyance, maybe, or curiosity. It's hard to tell through all that armor.
"You're either the worst liar I've ever met, or something's seriously wrong with you."
Oliver nods enthusiastically, jabbing a finger at his own head and making what he hopes is a universal gesture for "broken brain."
"Can you understand me?"
Another nod.
"But you can't speak normally."
Oliver shakes his head, then hesitates. He can think normally—mostly. The problem seems to be between his brain and his mouth, like some kind of neural scrambling.
[SYSTEM ANALYSIS: LINGUISTIC CORRUPTION DETECTED]
[CAUSE: UNKNOWN]
[SEVERITY: MODERATE]
Thanks for nothing, Oliver thinks at the blue interface. At least his internal monologue is working.
The Mandalorian lowers his rifle slightly. "I'm tracking a bounty. High-value asset, fifty years old. You seen anything?"
Oliver's eyes widen. He knows something about this—not a memory, exactly, but an instinct. Something important and dangerous and very, very wrong about whatever the Mandalorian is hunting.
"Really really old baby surprise!" Oliver blurts out, gesturing wildly.
The helmet tilts again. "Baby?"
Oliver nods frantically, then makes a cradling motion with his arms. He points in the direction he somehow knows the bounty will be found, though he couldn't explain how he knows.
"You're telling me the bounty is a baby."
More nodding. Oliver tries to convey urgency, danger, but his words come out as something about dancing nerf herders and mystical soup.
The Mandalorian stares at him for a long moment. "Either you're insane, or you know something I don't. Both possibilities concern me."
The conversation is interrupted by the familiar whine of speeder engines. Oliver's blood runs cold as he recognizes the sound—the same raiders who'd chased him earlier, back for another try.
[DANGER SENSE ACTIVATED]
[MULTIPLE THREATS DETECTED]
[THREAT LEVEL: HIGH]
The Mandalorian reacts instantly, rifle snapping up as he scans the horizon. Three speeders crest a nearby dune, their Nikto riders whooping and firing wildly. These aren't the same raiders from before—word has spread, and now there's a whole pack of them.
"Get down!" the Mandalorian shouts, but Oliver is already moving.
Not toward cover, but toward the cluster of large, bovine creatures grazing near the base of the rocky outcropping. Blurrgs—the word surfaces from his borrowed memory even as he sprints toward them.
"What are you doing?" the Mandalorian calls after him.
Oliver doesn't answer. Can't answer, even if his words would come out right. Instead, he reaches out with that strange mental sense again, feeling for the creatures' minds.
[CREATURE DETECTED: BLURRG HERD]
[THREAT LEVEL: LOW]
[CONTROL COMPATIBILITY: MODERATE]
[BASIC CREATURE CONTROL ACTIVATED]
[MP: 46/86]
The blurrgs' eyes flare with blue light as Oliver's consciousness touches theirs. He can feel their simple thoughts—hunger, warmth, the vague awareness of threats approaching. But now those thoughts are overlaid with his own purpose.
Defend. Protect. Attack.
The creatures explode into motion with a coordination that should be impossible for wild animals. Six massive blurrgs charge toward the speeders in a perfect flanking maneuver, their powerful legs eating up the distance with surprising speed.
The lead raider sees them coming and tries to swerve, but the blurrgs anticipated the movement. They slam into the speeders like living battering rams, sending riders flying and vehicles tumbling end over end across the sand.
POV: Din Djarin
Din Djarin has seen a lot of strange things in his years as a bounty hunter. Force-wielders moving objects with their minds. Creatures that shouldn't exist on worlds where they have no business being. Technologies that blur the line between science and magic.
But he's never seen anything quite like this.
The stranger—whoever he is—stands in the middle of the chaos with his eyes closed and his hands outstretched. The blurrgs move around him like extensions of his will, coordinated and purposeful in a way that defies their nature. When one raider tries to flee on foot, a blurrg cuts him off before he can take three steps. When another attempts to draw a backup weapon, a different creature simply steps on him.
It's over in less than a minute. The surviving raiders limp away across the desert, their speeders abandoned and their pride thoroughly demolished.
The stranger opens his eyes, and Din notices they're glowing with the same blue light that flickered in the blurrgs' gaze. As Din watches, the light fades, and the creatures simply wander back to their grazing as if nothing had happened.
"What the hell are you?" Din asks, and he means it as more than a casual question.
The stranger sways on his feet, looking like he might collapse. When he speaks, his voice is rough with exhaustion.
"...Nature enthusiast?"
For the first time since this bizarre encounter began, the words come out clearly. The stranger seems as surprised as Din is.
"You can talk normally now?"
"I... maybe? Testing, testing, bucket of fish sticks."
And they're back to nonsense. The stranger's face falls in disappointment.
Din holsters his rifle. Whatever this person is—criminal, victim, or something else entirely—he's not an immediate threat. And the demonstration with the blurrgs suggests he might actually be useful.
"I'm heading to a moisture farm about ten klicks from here," Din says. "You can come with me, or you can stay here and wait for more raiders to show up."
The stranger doesn't hesitate. He nods and starts walking in the direction Din indicated, then stops and looks back questioningly.
"You need transport," Din realizes. "Ever ridden a blurrg?"
POV: Oliver
The answer is no. Oliver has definitely never ridden a blurrg, and the next thirty minutes prove it conclusively.
Kuiil, the Ugnaught who owns the moisture farm, watches with barely concealed amusement as Oliver attempts to mount one of his domesticated blurrgs. The first attempt ends with Oliver face-first in the sand. The second has him clinging upside-down to the creature's neck while it tries to shake him off. The third...
"You're terrible at this," the Mandalorian observes from atop his own mount, sitting with the casual ease of someone born to the saddle.
"I'm terrible at everything right now!" Oliver pants, hauling himself back to his feet and spitting out sand.
"You carry a gift from the land itself," Kuiil says, studying Oliver with knowing eyes. "Unusual for an off-worlder."
Oliver tries to ask what he means by that, but what comes out is something about singing dewbacks and mystical porridge. Kuiil nods as if this makes perfect sense.
"The blurrg will accept you, but first you must accept yourself."
"Wise carburetor philosophy!"
"Indeed."
The Mandalorian finishes his negotiations with Kuiil—something about rental fees and tracking a bounty—while Oliver attempts a fourth time to establish a peaceful relationship with his assigned mount. This time, instead of trying to muscle his way onto the creature's back, he reaches out with that strange mental sense.
The blurrg's mind is simpler than the womp rats', focused mostly on food and comfort and the mild annoyance of having strangers climb all over it. Oliver touches that consciousness gently, not trying to control but simply to communicate.
Partnership. Mutual benefit. I'll scratch that itchy spot behind your ears if you don't throw me.
The blurrg considers this offer for a moment, then settles into a crouch that allows Oliver to mount it with something approaching dignity.
"Better," the Mandalorian says. "Let's go."
They ride toward the setting suns, Oliver clinging to his blurrg with white knuckles while the Mandalorian leads the way with professional confidence. The landscape stretches out around them—endless sand punctuated by rocky outcroppings and the occasional hardy plant.
In his jacket pocket, the datapad vibrates against Oliver's chest. He pulls it out one-handed, nearly losing his grip on the reins in the process.
A new message has decrypted itself:
"Coordinates: 40.2°N, 73.8°W. Facility Designation: Chimera Site 7. Status: Abandoned."
Oliver stares at the coordinates, and for just a moment, something stirs in the depths of his borrowed memory. White corridors. The smell of antiseptic. The sound of machinery and something else—something like screaming.
Then it's gone, leaving only the chill running down his spine and the certainty that whatever lies at those coordinates, he's connected to it in ways he doesn't understand.
And somehow, he knows that's very, very bad.
[QUEST LOG UPDATED: MYSTERY OF THE DATAPAD]
[NEW LOCATION DISCOVERED: CHIMERA SITE 7]
[WARNING: PSYCHOLOGICAL TRAUMA MARKERS DETECTED]
The system's warnings scroll past his vision as the twin suns sink toward the horizon, painting the desert in shades of blood and gold.
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