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As soon as the emergency alarms had been switched off, Jaster Mereel left Myles, his second in command, in the security room and went down the infirmary. All beds were full, the five Mandalorians who'd been guarding the entrance each occupying a bed. Some of them, from the looks of it, more willingly than others. They were banged up, but Jaster knew they'd been amazingly lucky to come away with only injuries.
On a pallet in a hastily cleared room next to the infirmary was the single intruder who'd wreaked that impressive amount of havoc. Jaster looked at him on the monitor feed. He'd been clad in heavy black robes, concealing him almost entirely, so this was the first look Jaster got. He was surprised to see red and black markings as well as horns.
"A Zabrak? Any clue to his allegiance?"
"No, sir. Dathomir isn't really involved with anything outside of its own politics, as far as I'm aware."
"Hmm. A mercenary?"
"He's young, sir."
Jaster shrugged. Plenty of young men who fought as mercenaries.
"No, I mean. Going by his horn growth, he's in his mid teens."
Jaster tilted his head, considering eyes still on the still form on the pallet. Mid teens. Jaster's son Jango was fifteen, and while he was shaping up to become a fine young man, he was very much not an adult yet.
This intruder had moved and fought like a seasoned warrior, tall and strong enough that Jaster had expected him to be in his twenties at least. Jaster didn't think Zabraks aged differently, so this was unexpected.
"Well fed, obviously well trained, full of scars," the medic said. "Got some old healed bone breaks. But yes, if Dathomir Zabrak horn growth is anything like Iridonian Zabraks, he's no older than fifteen."
"Hm. How are our people?"
"Lucky. Between them, three concussions, a bruised larynx, a broken collarbone, a broken arm, and a hell of a lot of bruising."
"A round of thanks for beskar and for Elta's grandmother's cortosis blade," Jaster said under his breath. It had been pure luck that the fighter hadn't encountered anybody with a low beskar content to their armour before somebody had managed to short out his blade. He'd hit hard and fast enough with his lightsaber that they'd be looking at casualties and dismemberment, if that had been different.
"And for the knockout gas system," the medic said dryly. It had been a hesitant addition when Jaster first took up residence in the stronghold; Mandalorians had air filters in their helmets so it wouldn't affect them, and Jaster had mostly expected attacks from other Mandalorians. Good thing they'd installed it anyway.
"That too. All right. I want to talk to him. When will he wake?"
The medic looked at the monitoring datapad and grimaced.
"Soon enough. He's burning through the doses."
Jaster nodded. That meant he couldn't take long to decide what to do with the attacker. His first impulse had been to execute the man—attack the True Mandalorians at your own risk, after all. He hadn't counted on the attacker being so blasted young. That changed matters. And either way, Jaster wanted to know who'd sent him.
The medic held out a small device with a trigger button.
"Here, sir. It'll trigger the next dose of sedative. In case he starts to choke you or throw you around. Plus, I'll monitor from here."
Jaster slipped it inside his glove, hidden in the palm where he could trigger it with a clench of his hand. Then he put on his helmet and went into the containment room.
The Zabrak was on the bed in his black leggings and undertunics, tied down in heavy restraints. Jaster didn't know what the limits were to jetii powers, but had a suspicion that those straps wouldn't be as much of a hindrance as he would like if it truly came to it. That was what the sedative was for, but that was a finite resource.
"Good evening."
The young man didn't startle, but his eyes drifted open. Yellow-gold, Jaster saw. They focused very quickly for somebody who was supposedly still sedated.
"If you have clever ideas about escaping, there is somebody ready to drug you back into oblivion," Jaster informed him. He stepped closer.
From up close it was easier to see that he was young. Small, sharp horns, and under those distinctive markings the rawboned, angular look of a teenage boy's face in the midst of a growth spurt. Not so different from Jango, in that, Jaster thought ruefully. He should probably not be thinking of this attacker, this assassin, as a boy, but it was hard to avoid the thought.
"Who sent you?"
Nothing.
"Does the Death Watch have mercenaries with jetii powers now?"
Nothing. Jaster reminded himself that his beskar helmet would shield his thoughts.
"I'll need to know who to send your body to as a message," he lied, hoping for a reaction. He got the barest flicker of those golden eyes.
"What time is it?" the boy asked, voice soft and low. His cultured core accent was a surprise. Not the Death Watch then.
"Why, do you have somewhere to be?" Jaster replied. Then he switched to his in-helmet comms. "Myles, look up what ships have arrived over the last day and are still nearby, or have already left."
The boy didn't answer with more than a slight snarl. A few moments later Myles was back on Jaster's comms.
A small cloaked ship left from down by the river about an hour ago.
Something changed in the boy's face, in the way he held himself, and Jaster realised that Zabrak hearing was likely good enough that he'd heard that.
"Was that your ride?"
The boy didn't need to say anything, Jaster could read the defeat from the way he closed his eyes.
Master had already left.
When Maul woke up, restrained and stripped of his lightsaber and too groggy to touch the Force, he'd had the slightest sliver of hope that it was not yet too late. That yes, he'd failed, had shorted his lightsaber on a damn cortosis blade and got gassed out, but his target Jaster Mereel was right here in the room with him; he might yet turn it around.
But no. Too much time had passed, and the test was already failed; his Master had already declared him dead. Had already left.
Maul tried to force down the panic that wanted to grab hold of his limbs. Succeed or die. That had always been the only possible outcomes of these tests his Master gave him. Slice your way into this stronghold and bring Master the head of its leader, or die.
Maul had succeeded seven times.
The eighth time, this time, he'd… not succeeded.
But also.
Not died.
Yet.
He had no idea what came next.
"Do you think they'll come back for you?" Jaster asked, detachedly curious.
The boy turned his head slightly to look him dead in the eye, despite the helmet. Most outsiders looked at the visor, but this one had no trouble meeting Jaster's gaze.
"No?"
Nothing.
"They brought you here, sent you in, and when you took too long, they just abandoned you?"
"...I failed the test," the boy said in a low, flat tone.
"And for that they just… left you here."
Even though the markings the boy gave him such a speaking teenager look of 'Well obviously' that Jaster's heart squeezed. The boy clearly hadn't had cause to expect anything else from whoever had sent him. Succeed or be left behind.
"Now," Jaster mused, "what to do with you."
He might be putting on a little theatre to get a reaction out of the boy, but the quandary was genuine. He didn't want to execute somebody so young, and who had clearly not come here out of some motivation of his own; somebody had sent him, and Jaster wanted to know who. A force user would be hard to contain for long though, especially a Zabrak whose physiology would burn through their stock of sedatives in a day or so.
They could keep him from using mindtricks by making sure anybody near him was wearing beskar helmets, but that wouldn't stop him from throwing things around—or people, as he'd shown on his way into the stronghold.
"Send my body to the Jedi Temple on Coruscant," the boy suggested, no inflection to his voice. Jaster wanted to believe that was a challenge or even a joke, it would have been from Jango, but nothing about this boy or this situation seemed remotely amusing.
"Will they know you?"
The look he received was so scathing, he wished he understood the context. Apart from the powers, the boy seemed nothing like the Jetii. He didn't think they used red sabers, either. And no matter how much Jaster disdained them for arrogance and stuffiness, he didn't think sending an assassin like this and then abandoning him was their style. For all that Jetii and Mandalorians had a long-standing rivalry, he knew they were careful of their young.
"Whether they know you or not, I feel like sending the Jedi Order the body of a kid might turn a detente into a war, so I'll pass on that option."
Manda, why was he still talking as if killing the boy was an option? That was clearly not going to happen. Jaster just had to figure out what to do instead.
"I'm not a kid," he said, sharp and indignant. Jaster thought it might have been funny if somebody hadn't clearly used him as a tool to murder the True Mandalorians and then abandoned him when he took too long.
"I know," he said heavily. He doubted this young man had ever been a kid. "What should I call you?"
The boy went very still. Jaster stilled too, waiting for.. Something. A word. A twitch. An answer.
After what felt like several long minutes, his lips moved, like he was reciting something under his breath. The sound receptors in Jaster's helmet just barely picked it up.
"...always remember I am fear always remember I am a hunter always remember I am filth always remember I am nothing always remember I am fear always remember I am a hunter always remember I am filth always remember I am nothing..."
He faded into silence, his lips still moving, like it was a mantra, like it was something reassuring instead of horrifying. Jaster let out a slow breath, not wanting it to be audible.
"Do you have a name?" he tried again.
The mantra stopped, and those unnerving golden eyes focused on him again. Jaster looked back and let the moment stretch.
"...maul," the boy said finally, low and with just the slightest rise in his voice, as if he wasn't sure of the name, or perhaps unsure if it was what Jaster wanted to hear.
"Maul?" Jaster repeated, and then, seeing something like relief, "Maul."
The stoicness was fading; the boy looked lost, as if just this, just being spoken to and addressed with his name, was completely outside of his realm of experience. Jaster supposed that made sense; he gave the distinct impression that he'd expected to be killed, and wasn't at all sure what to do with his own continued existence.
That settled some kind of decision within Jaster.
He wasn't sure what Arla and Jango would say.
He knew exactly what Myles would say.
But—somebody had treated this boy like a tool instead of a person, and Jaster refused to follow their example.
"Maul," he said again, letting his voice warm. "Would you like something to eat?"