Private Echoes of Honor

[Acier Moonbound]

Location: Roon

Equipment:
Field Gear | Tic | Cybernetic Arm

The training compound sat at the edge of Roon's southern ridge, where the hills broke off into long flats of ochre and metal. Wind swept through the range with a low, mechanical hum. Aether really turned the place into something efficient, clean, ordered, alive with the sound of sparring.

Ace had been here long enough for the rhythm to fade into the background. Jetpack bursts, rifle reports, the metallic thud of armor locking into place. It all blurred into a pulse he could almost forget himself inside. Noise was easier than silence these days.

He leaned against a railing overlooking the field, right hand resting loosely over his prosthetic, its matte plating dull in the sunlight. The haptics translated the wind against the metal, the rail's grit under his palm, even the faint tremor of the drills below. All perfect. All hollow. He missed the imperfection of flesh, the pulse, the ache, the proof that he was still human.

Tic chirped somewhere behind him, hopping between crates to chase the glint of a dropped vibroknife. The little droid's movements clinked softly, out of sync with the drills outside. Ace didn't look back, he let the droid play. At least one of them was happy.

He'd been told the visitor was from Naboo, a general, a noble, someone Aether thought would benefit from a talk about "the Mando'a way." The phrase still made him want to laugh. He had the blood, sure, but not the knowledge. Not all of it. His brother kept thinking that was enough, though.

Still, Ace hadn't refused. Doing something felt better than sitting alone with what he'd said to Sibylla, what he couldn't take back. Footsteps approached... measured, deliberate. A silhouette cut across the field, sunlight flashing on polished gear. Not a Mandalorian. Too careful for that.

Ace flexed his left hand, the servos in the prosthetic forearm giving a soft, mechanical whisper as the metal plates adjusted. He didn't bother to straighten all the way.

Guess this was the one he was supposed to be meeting. He nodded in the soldier's direction, a silent greeting.

"Name's Acier Moonbound. Aether said you wanted to talk Mandalorian culture." He said, voice even, scraped a little thin around the edges.

Instinct made him extend his left hand for a shake before he caught the sight of dull metal under sunlight. His fingers stalled mid-motion, hesitation flickering across his face for a heartbeat, then he shifted, offering his right instead.

A faint half-smile touched his mouth, there and gone. "Can't promise I'm much of an expert. I was born with the blood, not the manual."

He nodded once, leaving the silence open between them - an invitation, or a warning - depending on what the man from Naboo decided to make of it.

Cassian Abrantes​

 

[Cassian Abrantes]

Acier Moonbound ​

The wind off the ridge carried dust and metal, dry enough that it tasted faintly like old circuitry on the tongue. Cassian slowed as the compound came into view, the sun slipping over the durasteel struts and angular training domes that glinted like blades along the horizon. The place breathed precision a kind of disciplined chaos that mirrored the Mandalorian way more than any text or holovid ever could.

He'd read the reports, of course. He'd spoken to cultural envoys, scholars, even a few veterans who'd once fought beside Mandalorians. But none of that was knowing. None of it captured the pulse he could feel now that rhythmic thunder of boots and blasters, the measured shouts, the roar of a jetpack as it cut the wind. This was lived.

The man waiting at the railing looked as though he belonged to it. The scars of war and reconstruction weren't hidden. Yet Cassian noted the quiet composure in his stance, the stillness of someone who had learned to measure more than he revealed.

"Acier Moonbound." Cassian repeated, inclining his head as he approached. His tone carried the calm precision of Naboo's diplomatic breed, but there was a warmth beneath it a trace of humanity untouched by politics.

"Cassian Abrantes." he introduced in turn, taking the offered right hand without a flicker of hesitation. His grip was firm, respectful not testing, not compensating. The faint hum of servos near Ace's other arm didn't so much as draw his eyes.

"I appreciate you agreeing to meet with me. I've spent years hearing about the Mandalorian code, their philosophies through translators, historians, secondhand narratives. But that's not the same as hearing from someone who lives it, even if it's in their own way."

He paused, letting the ambient rhythm of the drills fill the space between them before he added, more quietly, "The culture fascinates me not for its battles, but for its endurance. A people scattered and reforged more times than the Republic itself, and yet… still here. Still fighting for meaning, even when the wars fade."

Cassian turned his gaze toward the training field, watching a sparring pair break apart in a flurry of motion and jetpack recoil. "Naboo prides itself on peace." he continued, voice softening with reflection. "But peace has made us complacent before. We preserve beauty, sometimes at the expense of resilience. You, your people seem to have learned to balance both. Artistry in battle. Identity in struggle."

He looked back to Ace then, the faintest trace of a smile curving at the edge of his mouth. "I didn't come here to study you, my friend. I came to understand. Maybe even to unlearn a few things."

There was no condescension, no curiosity for curiosity's sake just sincerity, steady as the Nabooan lakes he'd left behind. The kind of presence that didn't intrude, but invited conversation.

He nodded toward the prosthetic arm then, just once, not as pity or fascination but acknowledgment. "If you're willing to share, I'd like to hear what you think defines Mandalorian culture. Not the creed. Not the myths. The truth that lives under the armor. If you have the trust of those, than that's more than enough for someone like me to leave her a little more intelligent than I did when I arrived."

 

[Acier Moonbound]

Location: Roon

Equipment:
Field Gear | Tic | Cybernetic Arm

"Cassian Abrantes."

The name hit before the handshake did. It caught somewhere between Ace's ribs, deep enough to make him pause. Abrantes. He didn't need to search for it; it had already been carved into him. The echo of it pulled up the sound of a voice that used to soften his edges, the one he hadn't stopped hearing since Naboo the first time. Sibylla's laughter, quick and bright like breaking glass. Then, the memory of their fight flashed in his mind again.

He kept his expression still. The muscle in his jaw ticked once, a flicker and gone. Whatever moved behind his dark eyes, he buried it beneath the old habit of composure.

"Right." He said quietly, as if confirming something to himself rather than the man in front of him. "Abrantes."

He shook Cassian's hand, firm, steady, the kind of grip that said he'd been holding too tightly to everything else lately. When Cassian began to speak, Ace let him. He was good at listening when the words were real.

As Cassian talked about the contrast between Mandalorian and Nabooan culture - about peace, complacency, and identity - Ace's gaze drifted back toward the training field. Sunlight shimmered off armor plates as two recruits clashed, sparks snapping in the air.

He looked back at Cassian. "You're not wrong about the endurance part." he said, finally, tone low and deliberate. "But it's not just the wars that keep them alive. It's… the choice."

His mind drifted to the first time he'd come to Roon. Almost a year ago, but it felt like a whole other lifetime. It was when he first met Sibylla, but not only that, truly understood that his blood belonged to something much bigger than himself. The words of two figures stood out to him the most that day. Both Talohn Atar and Zlova Rue and what it meant to be Mandalorian.

"Part of being a Mandalorian is figurin' that for yourself. You decide who you're loyal to, who's family to you. Do that, and you're well on your way to figuring things out."

"If you can pick up a weapon, wear the armor, and defend your Clan, they'll accept you. Honor's overrated. Skill and duty, that's what counts."

His right hand came up, gesturing faintly toward the field. "Don't think there's one definition for Mandalorian culture." He confessed "Every Mandalorian I've met has their own definition."

Ace's dark gaze lingered on the training field as he ran prosthetic hand through his locs, the sensation still new to him.

"But... the ones that stuck out to me? I was told Mandalorians figured out for themselves what it means, what family means, what loyalty means. There's no handbook. You decide who's worth fighting for, and you make peace with the cost when you lose them. That's the truth under the armor. You keep choosing."

He exhaled softly through his nose, something caught between weariness and thought.

"People talk about honor and creed, but most of the ones I know would tell you the same thing: you live by what you can stand to remember. Everything else burns away."

Ace's gaze lingered on the prosthetic hand for a heartbeat, then he flexed the fingers once, faint servos murmuring.

"Maybe that's the closest thing to culture I've got." He added, quieter. "Not the code. Just… endurance, like you said. The kind that comes with loss, not in spite of it."

He looked back at Cassian then, open, but careful, the faintest wry curve at the corner of his mouth. "Still, that's just one man's version. I doubt my brother or half this planet would put it the same way. You've read enough about them. Maybe you'll see something I can't."

Cassian Abrantes ​

 

[Cassian Abrantes]

Acier Moonbound ​

Cassian listened without interruption the kind of still, attentive quiet that came naturally to someone used to the Senate chambers and the subtle dance of diplomacy, but here, it wasn't performance. It was respect.

The wind shifted again, carrying the smell of scorched alloy and ozone from the sparring pits. It whistled faintly against the ridgeline, filling the silence that followed Ace's words.

"You speak like someone who's had to define meaning more than once." Cassian said finally, tone even but low. "And that… I understand."

He stepped closer to the railing, his gaze tracing the trainees below all in motion, all orbiting around the rhythm of something bigger than themselves. "What you describe that constant act of choosing it isn't so different from what we face on Naboo. We speak of peace and art, but those are just forms of endurance too. We build them to outlast what we lose. We just pretend it doesn't come with a cost."


He rested his hands on the railing, the light catching on the edge of his signet ring the family crest, finely engraved, an echo of the world that was his home. "Maybe that's what fascinates me about your people. Mandalorians don't hide from what the galaxy takes. You carry it, even when it scars you. That kind of truth…" he exhaled softly, "…it's something most governments can't put in a treaty."

Cassian turned his head slightly toward Ace, the expression on his face thoughtful not pity, not curiosity, but something like kinship. "You said you keep choosing. I think that's what binds all of us Jedi, Mandalorian, Republic, civilian. The ones who keep choosing, even when the choice hurts."

He hesitated a moment, eyes flicking briefly toward the prosthetic hand before returning to Ace's face. "You said maybe I'll see something you can't. I doubt that. But maybe that's the point perspective isn't supposed to match. It's supposed to challenge what we think we know."

His voice softened slightly, as if admitting something personal. "I came here because I wanted to understand what makes a people hold together when everything else falls apart. On Naboo, we think unity is peace. Maybe here, unity is survival."

He straightened, the faintest trace of a smile ghosting across his features. "You said it yourself there's no handbook. Maybe that's the lesson worth taking home."

 

[Acier Moonbound]

Location: Roon

Equipment:
Field Gear | Tic | Cybernetic Arm

For a while, Ace said nothing, he just listened. To Cassian, to the rhythm of the training grounds that filled the space. Even as the general spoke, two words he had said lingered in the rebel's mind.

Your people.

The words lingered longer than they should have. He knew Cassian didn't mean anything by them, but something in the phrasing tugged anyway. It sat oddly in his chest, like a name that didn't quite belong to him. Mandalorian blood ran through him as strong as the Force did, his brother was Mand'alor. He'd fought beside Mandalorians. Yet, he still could not shake the sense that he was a pretender.

His dark gaze returned to the man who stood by him. Cassian's voice carried that same calm precision, that Nabooan polish that could make conviction sound like poetry. It reminded him of her, of the way she used to turn words into something softer than their meaning. The same steadiness. The same restraint that made honesty feel deliberate. Part of him wondered if this was a Noble thing, or... an Abrantes thing

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the brief flicker of Cassian's attention toward his left arm. Not prying, just noticing. Still, it stirred that familiar, quiet heat in his chest. Insecurity. He'd learned to ignore stares from strangers, but Cassian's was different. Too honest to resent. Too human to dismiss.

"Sounds like you know a lot, too." Ace said finally. His tone stayed level, but there was a faint rasp beneath it, the sound of someone testing words before trusting them. "Most people talk about endurance like it's some virtue. Like it's noble to keep standing after you get hit. But endurance isn't noble. It's as necessary as breathing. Eating. If you don't, you die."

He shifted his stance slightly, the servos in his forearm murmuring as he folded his arms. "You said Naboo builds beauty to outlast what it loses. That's a kind of fight too. Mandalorians just use different tools. Maybe that's the only real difference. You build to remember. We fight so we don't forget."

His gaze lingered on the field a moment longer before returning to Cassian. The fatigue in his eyes was steady, but there was something else beneath it now... a sliver of recognition he didn't want to name, and couldn't quite hide.

He uncrossed his arms, the faint hum of servos marking the movement as his left hand came into view. Sunlight caught the metal, dull and honest.

"I've seen the glances. You can ask."

Cassian Abrantes ​