U N B R O K E N
The line moved slowly. Not disorganized. Just tired.
Workers, refugees, cargo haulers, locals trying to return to whatever passed for normal life after years beneath the Diarchy. Some carried crates or salvaged machinery strapped to old speeders. Others simply carried bags over their shoulders with the look of people uncertain if they were truly coming home or just settling somewhere less dangerous.
Yaga Minor still looked wounded.
Scaffolding wrapped portions of nearby buildings where reconstruction crews worked beneath the sound of distant welding torches. Fresh barricades and portable sensor towers stood where old Diarchy fortifications had once overlooked the district. Mandalorian banners had been raised in places, though not aggressively. Less a declaration of ownership and more a warning to anyone considering taking advantage of a recovering world sitting too close to the edge of Mandalorian space.
The checkpoint itself had been assembled quickly but efficiently. Portable durasteel barriers narrowed civilian traffic into controlled lanes while sensor equipment scanned cargo and identification tags. A pair of Mandalorian soldiers handled most of the processing further down the line, checking manifests and directing transports toward designated districts.
My job was simpler.
Watch.
Intervene if needed.
Most of the time that meant standing still while civilians avoided eye contact and pretended not to notice the armored figure watching over the checkpoint from beside the barricades.
I preferred it that way.
Hands rested near my belt out of habit rather than aggression. One near the sheath knife mounted against my armor. The other hanging loosely near the old leather pouch carrying the whetstone tucked at my side. My posture remained relaxed enough to avoid alarming people, though years of survival made true relaxation difficult.
Even here my attention drifted constantly.
Rooftops. Windows. Movement patterns. Unattended bags.
Who looked nervous. Who looked angry. Who watched the checkpoint too carefully.
The civilians noticed less than soldiers ever did. Most were too busy rebuilding lives interrupted by war to pay attention to the way someone like me scanned every street corner as though expecting violence to emerge from it at any second.
Part of me envied that.
Children ran through the streets nearby despite the half-finished barricades and construction equipment. Merchants argued over prices beside temporary stalls assembled from scrap metal and old tarp coverings. Somewhere farther down the district someone was playing music loud enough to echo faintly between the buildings.
Life continued. I still wasn't sure how people managed that so easily.
A woman approached the checkpoint carrying a sleeping child against her shoulder while balancing identification papers awkwardly in her free hand. Exhaustion lined her face deeper than age did. She looked at me only briefly before lowering her eyes again, likely uncertain whether the armored figure standing watch would speak to her or simply wave her through.
I checked the papers quickly before handing them back.
"District seven's still under reconstruction,"
I said quietly through the helmet vocoder.
"Stay near the southern blocks if you're looking for stable housing."
The woman blinked once, almost surprised by the warning, before nodding gratefully and continuing through the checkpoint without another word. My gaze followed her for a moment longer than necessary. Then instinct dragged my attention back toward the rooftops again. Always the rooftops.
The sound of approaching footsteps pulled my attention sideways shortly afterward. Heavier than civilian movement. Measured. Armored.
Another Mandalorian.
Workers, refugees, cargo haulers, locals trying to return to whatever passed for normal life after years beneath the Diarchy. Some carried crates or salvaged machinery strapped to old speeders. Others simply carried bags over their shoulders with the look of people uncertain if they were truly coming home or just settling somewhere less dangerous.
Yaga Minor still looked wounded.
Scaffolding wrapped portions of nearby buildings where reconstruction crews worked beneath the sound of distant welding torches. Fresh barricades and portable sensor towers stood where old Diarchy fortifications had once overlooked the district. Mandalorian banners had been raised in places, though not aggressively. Less a declaration of ownership and more a warning to anyone considering taking advantage of a recovering world sitting too close to the edge of Mandalorian space.
The checkpoint itself had been assembled quickly but efficiently. Portable durasteel barriers narrowed civilian traffic into controlled lanes while sensor equipment scanned cargo and identification tags. A pair of Mandalorian soldiers handled most of the processing further down the line, checking manifests and directing transports toward designated districts.
My job was simpler.
Watch.
Intervene if needed.
Most of the time that meant standing still while civilians avoided eye contact and pretended not to notice the armored figure watching over the checkpoint from beside the barricades.
I preferred it that way.
Hands rested near my belt out of habit rather than aggression. One near the sheath knife mounted against my armor. The other hanging loosely near the old leather pouch carrying the whetstone tucked at my side. My posture remained relaxed enough to avoid alarming people, though years of survival made true relaxation difficult.
Even here my attention drifted constantly.
Rooftops. Windows. Movement patterns. Unattended bags.
Who looked nervous. Who looked angry. Who watched the checkpoint too carefully.
The civilians noticed less than soldiers ever did. Most were too busy rebuilding lives interrupted by war to pay attention to the way someone like me scanned every street corner as though expecting violence to emerge from it at any second.
Part of me envied that.
Children ran through the streets nearby despite the half-finished barricades and construction equipment. Merchants argued over prices beside temporary stalls assembled from scrap metal and old tarp coverings. Somewhere farther down the district someone was playing music loud enough to echo faintly between the buildings.
Life continued. I still wasn't sure how people managed that so easily.
A woman approached the checkpoint carrying a sleeping child against her shoulder while balancing identification papers awkwardly in her free hand. Exhaustion lined her face deeper than age did. She looked at me only briefly before lowering her eyes again, likely uncertain whether the armored figure standing watch would speak to her or simply wave her through.
I checked the papers quickly before handing them back.
"District seven's still under reconstruction,"
I said quietly through the helmet vocoder.
"Stay near the southern blocks if you're looking for stable housing."
The woman blinked once, almost surprised by the warning, before nodding gratefully and continuing through the checkpoint without another word. My gaze followed her for a moment longer than necessary. Then instinct dragged my attention back toward the rooftops again. Always the rooftops.
The sound of approaching footsteps pulled my attention sideways shortly afterward. Heavier than civilian movement. Measured. Armored.
Another Mandalorian.