Tomb Spyder
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Lekku. LOG-008. Debt Paid In Full.
🕑 Added 2025-05-14 21:52:41 +0000 UTCLOG-008. Debt Paid In Full.
The rain on Kaller smells like metal and rot.
Not the poetic kind. The real kind. Like rusted water tanks and dead things rotting behind prefab walls. The city’s half sunk, built over its own bones. Walkways above flooded levels. Mold climbing up durasteel supports like it's trying to take the place back.
Fitting place to make a name.
I’m running with a crew of four. All older. All loud. Two humans, a Nikto, and a Rodian who won’t shut up about the time he ‘worked cleanup on Ryloth’ while sending me suggestive glances, wet looking eyes blatantly leering at my figure.
It’s still something I’m sort of getting used to, amazingly enough, being on the other end of gender stuff like this. Was never an issue with the Mandalorians.
His hand tries to land on my shoulder, and I stare him down until he hesitates.
…May have been a bit too friendly with him when we first met, I’d still in the mindset of all of us just being a bunch of guys, which apparently wasn’t the guess.
Creep.
It’s a mistake I won’t make again, not accidentally, at least. But hey, there’s probably some advantage to a mercenary with sex appeal, right?
Meh.
—
A meet and greet becomes a planning session, which then becomes work.
The target’s holed up in an abandoned supply depot on the east edge. Ex-militia with an augmented spine. Apparently known for using a modified carbine. He’s wanted for weapons trafficking and killing two bounty guild marshals with a shaped charge.
The kind of guy who doesn’t come in quiet.
Perfect for me, really.
The plan’s simple. Breach, clear, extract or bag. The Nikto wants to burn him out with gas. The others nod. I don’t.
I go around.
They laugh.
I’m already gone.
—
He’s set up motion mines and passive laser triggers. Not bad. Not good enough.
I slide through a cracked sub pipe, pop a hatch near the ventilation shaft. Close quarters. Perfect angle. My blasters are slung, but I don’t need them right now.
He doesn’t hear me.
Instead, he’s pacing in the main bay, his body armour mismatched.
He’s holding the carbine wrong. Overconfident. Twitchy. The kind of man who’s killed before and thinks that actually means something.
I move fast.
Low. Quiet. Right up behind him before his brain catches up.
My blade’s already at his neck when he tries to pivot.
I let him scream, just once.
The others breach through the front entrance mid yell. Blasters out, too slow.
They find him on the floor, weapon gone, bleeding from a clean neck wound, not dead, but not a problem.
I’m crouched beside him, wiping blood off my vibroknife with his own jacket.
They stare at me like I’m radioactive.
The Rodian blinks. “You…went alone?”
I shrug.
“Mando.”
They all collectively glance at each other and make impressed sounds. Feels kind of good.
—
The client meets us in the landing yard. He’s a big man. Wears a pretty shit suit though. Puts too much emphasis on ‘professionalism’ when he talks.
He tries not to look at me for whatever reason.
Still, I get paid. Direct wire. No split. I was subcontracted separate from the crew.
He offers me a drink. I decline.
“You’re efficient.” He compliments.
I shrug.
He laughs. I take a cue from my dead mother and manage a fake chuckle of my own. I question whether she’d be proud or not as I do so.
—
Back on my rented transport, I unclip my helmet and sit in silence for a while.
First job done.
Clean.
Loud in the right places. Silent where it mattered.
Nobody held my hand. Nobody called in backup. Nobody said I was too young or asked who trained me, and I got paid well for my effort.
…Nice.
—
Ordo space feels smaller than I remember.
Still sharp edged. Still quiet. Still clean in the way only warriors make things clean. Practical, lived in, never decorative.
But it’s also smaller. Like the buildings didn’t shrink, I just stopped needing to look up at them.
I land the ship myself. No escort. No greeting party. I didn’t send word ahead.
Didn’t need to.
They knew I’d come back eventually.
The hangar doors hiss open with a familiar grind. The same scuff marks on the same durasteel floor. The same cooling oil smell. I catch myself searching for the outline of my old bunk as I pass through the hall, then stop. I’m not here for nostalgia.
I’m here to pay what I owe.
—
They meet me in the war room.
Varin, standing with his hands clasped behind his back like always. Armour polished but not pristine. The elder, helmet off, eyes like cracked stone. A few others linger around the perimeter, watching without watching.
I step forward, unclip the transfer chip from my belt, and set it on the table.
“Credits from my last four contracts.” I explain. “Includes hazard bonuses, equipment subsidies, and my independent claim percentage.”
Neither of them moves.
I tap the chip pointedly. “Payment in full.”
Varin looks at me. The same way he looked at me when I was five and tried to stab him in his sleep.
The elder just exhales. Not tired. Just thoughtful.
“We trained you.” He says. “Fed you. Armoured you. Brought you into our ranks.”
I nod.
“You repaid that with service. Blood. Honor.”
“I know.” I shrug. “That’s why I’m not offering this to erase anything. I’m offering it so I can walk away clean.”
A pause.
Then the elder inclines his head.
“Debt was never the word we used.”
He reaches forward anyway. Picks up the chip.
“If this is how you wish to go…”
He holds my gaze.
“…Then go with honor.”
Varin steps forward after that. Doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t need to.
He reaches into his belt pouch and pulls out something wrapped in leather cloth.
He intends to give it to me to unwrap later. But for now, I still have some goodbyes to make.
—
The ceremony’s short.
No drums. No fire. No lines of chanting warriors. Just me, standing under the high arches of the foundry hall, lights dimmed, forge cooling behind us like a dying star.
A few of the clan gather. Not many. The ones who matter.
Gifts are exchanged the Mandalorian way, with little to no fanfare. Just hands offering and hands taking. That’s the closest we get to sentiment.
Varin is last.
He walks up, silent, and presses the leather wrapped bundle into my hands.
No words.
I unwrap it after he’s stepped back.
It’s a knife with a beskar pommel. Narrow curve. Weighted just right.
No name etched into the blade. Nothing ornamental. Just pure function.
It fits my grip like it’s always belonged there.
—
I don’t paint my armour alone, which seems to be a tradition my clan have rejected.
Instead, a few of the younger warriors help, the same ones who used to spar with me until I stopped losing. No one says much. They don’t ask why I’m doing it now.
The helmet takes the longest.
T-visored, of course, tradition. But the lines shift near the base, where the visor usually curves smooth. I break that curve into jagged shapes. Teeth. Long, sharp, turned inward, black and red like fresh blood under starlight.
Above the maw are two thin, angular slits, painted in matte gray. Just above the eye line. Gives the illusion of something watching even when I’m standing still.
Not human. Not quite beast. It’s rather uncanny under the right lighting.
On the left side, a long vertical attachment, a traditionally sleek rangefinder antenna, stripped down, functional.
Still no sigil. Still no crest.
After all, the helmet is the message.
Later, Varin finds me near the landing pad. I’m alone. The others know enough to give us some space.
He steps beside me and nods toward the helmet on the crate.
“That thing’ll terrify people.”
I let the corner of my mouth twitch. Not a smile. Just muscle memory with teeth.
“Good.” I murmur. “It should.”
A pause.
Then, because I’m leaving and because if I don’t ask now I never will, I ask a question I’ve wanted to ask since forever.
“The mission. My father.”
His gaze doesn’t move from the helmet.
“Kalava. Slaver stronghold.” He nods. “We were hired to clear it. Not a bounty, not revenge. Just cleanup for a rival group. Your father was on the perimeter with the others. He raised a blaster. I shot first.”
I wait.
“He was protecting you?”
I nod.
“I always figured he was.”
And I mean it.
Because if he hadn’t, if things had gone differently, I wouldn’t be standing here with a clan at my back, with armour I earned, with blood still in my body and a blade that had been forged just for me.
I place the helmet on the crate, turn it to face him.
“...I forgive you.”
He looks at me for a long moment.
Then nods back.
“You’ll stay in contact.”
It’s not a question.
“Of course.” I confirm.
Then I grab the helmet.
And walk away.
I don’t look back after I fix it back into place.
