[Q17 - Socorro - FZ] My Rifle, My Pony and Me

Out on the dusty range of Socorro...

The sun sagged toward the horizon, bleeding a deep orange light across Socorro’s blackened mountains.

Kellan Varo drew deep on his burnleaf, letting the smoke sit in his lungs before exhaling slowly. The sweet bite of it settled nerves that never quite stayed steady anymore. He’d thrown together a rough camp before dusk with his bounty in tow. Tonight, they’d be sleeping under the stars.

"You know," the bounty finally said, breaking hours of silence, "I’m honored to be brought in by a Mandalorian." The sound of the voice made Kellan flinch- just a fraction.

Colonel Harkesh sat where he’d been dumped, wrists bound, boots caked in Socorro dust. The former Imperial officer managed a meager smile.

"The New Republic’s been chasing me for a while now. Doesn’t seem right to get hauled in by some bureaucrat’s errand boy."

Kellan rose without answering. He crossed to his kaadu and adjusted the straps on her harness. His helmet sat mounted in his satchel, worn and scarred, like a dead thing he hadn’t buried. He didn’t wear it anymore.

From a pouch at his belt, he produced a sucre-cube and fed it to the beast. She snorted softly, content.

Only then did he speak. "There are no Mandalorians left."

Harkesh shifted against the hard ground, searching for comfort where none existed.

"They say the same thing about Imperials." The fire cracked between them.

Kellan returned to it, crouching low. The beskar breastplate on his chest caught the firelight—dented, dulled, still stubbornly intact. He picked up a stick, stirred the coals, and relit his burnleaf from the ember glow.

He said nothing.

Harkesh took that as permission. "It was meant as a compliment, bounty hunter. Mandalorians were once feared across the galaxy. Warriors who conquered, and created legends."

His gaze flicked toward the armor on Kellan’s chest. "You wear their armor. So either you’re a Mandalorian... or you killed one."

Kellan stared into the flames. This was the part of the job he hated most. Not the tracking, the fighting, or the killing. It was the waiting that was worst. Hours- sometimes days- alone with a mark and nowhere to outrun your own thoughts, or them talking.

If life had been fair, it’d be just him, his rifle, and his mount crossing empty horizons with no destination. But empty horizons didn’t buy a ship, and ghosts didn’t pay for rations, and some Flame of Zhar capo named Carm was paying handsomely for Imperial officers. It wasn't Kellan's business to wonder why...

"There’s no Mandalore anymore," Kellan said quietly. His gaze never left the fire. "The Mask is gone. The Darksaber’s gone. The clans tore themselves apart long before the Empire finished the job." His jaw tightened as he spoke.

"What’s left are ghosts, fanatics, and fools pretending the old ways still mean something."

For a moment, Harkesh studied him. "I wouldn’t dismiss them so quickly; your former comrades."

Kellan jabbed a stick into the fire, sending sparks into the night. "Wouldn’t you?"

"No." The colonel shrugged slightly. "There’s something admirable about people who refuse to let their glory days die."

Kellan let out a humorless laugh. "That’s rich coming from an Imperial."

"Maybe." Silence settled again.

Wind pushed through dead brush. Somewhere out in the dark, something moved with no intention of being seen. Finally, Harkesh leaned back against the rock.

"I do know one thing, Mandalorian."

Kellan exhaled through his nose.

"My men will find us soon enough." The confidence lingered after the words faded. Kellan didn’t respond.

He checked the charge on his rifle, worked the action once, then set it beside his bedroll. The fire burned low.

His helmet watched him from the saddle in silence. And somewhere beyond the dark, trouble was already riding toward them, a furious wind at its back.