Chapter 12: Fuel and Fumes
POV: Din Djarin
The refueling station materializes out of the gas giant's chromatic storms like a rusted prayer answered by uncaring gods. Din guides the Razor Crest toward the docking ring with hands that remember every vibration of damaged engines, every warning light that speaks of systems pushed beyond their limits.
[FUEL RESERVES: 7% REMAINING]
[ENGINE EFFICIENCY: 42% NORMAL]
[LIFE SUPPORT: STABLE BUT STRAINED]
The docking sequence engages with a series of mechanical clanks that feel like salvation and doom in equal measure. Through the cockpit's transparisteel, Din can see the station's shabby exterior—patched hull plating, jury-rigged communications arrays, and the general air of genteel decay that marks most border-world installations.
"Where are we?" Cara asks from the co-pilot's seat, studying the station's configuration with the analytical eye of someone who's seen too many ambush sites.
"Kessa's Waystation," Din replies, running through shutdown procedures with methodical precision. "Independent fuel depot. She has a reputation for discretion."
In the cargo hold, he can hear Oliver talking quietly to Grogu, that gentle murmur that's become as familiar as the ship's engine noise. The man's voice carries strain—his leg injury from the research station has been getting worse, not better.
They need medical supplies. They need fuel. They need time to repair the dozens of micro-fractures the TIE fighter attack left in the ship's hull.
Most of all, they need to disappear for a while.
POV: Oliver
Oliver limps down the ship's ramp with Grogu's pram floating beside him, his injured leg sending spikes of agony through his nervous system with every step. The station's artificial gravity feels different from the ship's—heavier, more oppressive.
[HP: 125/210]
[PAIN MANAGEMENT: INADEQUATE]
[MOBILITY: SEVERELY IMPAIRED]
The docking bay smells of fuel vapors and recycled air, underlaid with the organic scent of growing things. Oliver's enhanced senses pick up something unexpected—plant life, thriving despite the sterile environment.
Through an observation window, he glimpses hydroponic gardens running along the station's outer ring. Even at this distance, he can feel the plants' distress—wilting leaves, root rot, the slow starvation of inadequate nutrients.
I could help with that, he thinks, then immediately questions whether he should. Every time he uses his abilities, it feels like painting a target on their backs.
But the alternative is watching living things die when he has the power to save them.
A Twi'lek woman emerges from the station's main corridor, her blue skin marked with the kind of scars that speak of a hard life in harder places. She moves with the confident stride of someone who owns everything she surveys.
"Mandalorian," she says, her accent carrying the musical lilt of Ryloth. "I am Kessa. Welcome to my station."
Her eyes catalog their group with professional efficiency—the warrior in beskar, the soldier with multiple blasters, the injured man with the child's hovering pram.
"You need fuel," she observes. "And repairs. And you're running from something."
It's not a question.
POV: Kessa
Kessa has been running Waystation Gamma for twelve years, ever since the Empire's fall left a power vacuum that independent operators could exploit. In that time, she's developed an eye for reading customers—who pays, who shoots, and who brings trouble in their wake.
The Mandalorian reads like a warrior trying to protect something precious. The human woman moves like military—disciplined, alert, dangerous. But it's the injured man that interests her most.
There's something wrong with him beyond the obvious physical damage. His eyes hold too much pain for someone his apparent age, and when he looks at the plants in her gardens through the observation window, his expression becomes almost heartbroken.
"Standard fuel rates are two hundred credits per cubic meter," she says, watching their reactions. "Repairs are extra. Medical supplies cost whatever the market will bear."
The Mandalorian's helmet turns slightly—checking weapons, calculating angles, assessing threats. Kessa appreciates professionalism.
"However," she continues, "I'm willing to negotiate. Especially for repeat customers."
She's lying about the repeat customer part. She's never seen any of them before. But the Mandalorian's beskar alone is worth more than her station, and anyone traveling with a Mandalorian tends to have interesting stories.
Interesting stories are worth a discount, sometimes.
POV: Cara Dune
Cara keeps one hand near her blaster while her eyes sweep the docking bay for potential threats. The Twi'lek woman seems straightforward enough—a businesswoman trying to extract maximum profit from desperate travelers.
But straightforward doesn't mean safe.
"How much?" Din asks, his voice carrying the flat professionalism that means he's calculating whether they can afford to be here.
"For a full fuel load, basic hull repairs, and enough medical supplies to treat blaster wounds?" Kessa's head-tails twitch in a gesture that might be amusement. "Eight thousand credits."
The silence that follows has weight to it.
Cara does the math automatically. Between their recent expenses on Sorgan and the credits they've spent staying ahead of Imperial pursuit, they're maybe two thousand credits shy of that figure.
"We don't have that much," Din says finally.
Kessa shrugs, the gesture eloquent in its indifference. "Then you don't get fuel. The galaxy is full of ships with empty tanks."
It's Oliver who breaks the impasse.
"I can fix your gardens."
All eyes turn toward him. He's leaning heavily on Grogu's pram for support, his face pale with pain, but his expression is determined.
"Your hydroponic systems," he continues, gesturing toward the observation windows. "I can see the stress patterns from here. Nutrient deficiency, probably combined with root fungus. Left untreated, you'll lose the entire crop within a month."
Kessa's expression sharpens. Those gardens represent a significant portion of her station's self-sufficiency. Food that doesn't have to be imported is food that doesn't strain her operating budget.
"You're a botanist?"
Oliver's smile is rueful. "Something like that."
POV: Oliver
The hydroponic gardens are worse than Oliver expected. What should be thriving beds of vegetables and protein-rich algae have become struggling patches of barely-surviving plant matter.
[ECOSYSTEM AWARENESS ACTIVATED]
[MP: 95/92]
The readings flood through his consciousness like digital symphony—pH levels, nutrient concentrations, the microscopic ecosystem of beneficial bacteria that should be thriving in the growing medium.
Everything is out of balance.
"When did this start?" he asks Kessa, running his fingers through the diseased growing medium.
"About six months ago. I've tried everything—new nutrients, different growing cycles, even replaced the entire atmosphere recycling system." Her frustration is evident in every word. "Nothing works."
Oliver extends his senses deeper into the gardens' ecosystem. There—the problem crystallizes in his awareness like frost forming on transparisteel.
"It's not a disease," he says quietly. "It's contamination. Your water recycling system is introducing trace amounts of heavy metals into the growing medium. Probably from damaged filtration elements."
[FLORA MANIPULATION ACTIVATED]
[MP: 65/92]
The changes begin slowly, almost imperceptibly. Oliver coaxes the plants' natural filtration systems into overdrive, encouraging them to process and neutralize the contamination. Root systems strengthen. Leaves unfurl with renewed vitality.
Within minutes, the difference is visible to the naked eye.
"How?" Kessa breathes, staring at vegetables that are visibly healthier than they were moments before.
Oliver wipes sweat from his forehead, the effort of large-scale flora manipulation leaving him drained but satisfied.
"Trade secret. But I can do more—optimize your growing cycles, improve yields, make your entire agricultural system more efficient." He meets her eyes steadily. "In exchange for fuel, repairs, and medical supplies."
Kessa looks from the thriving gardens to Oliver's exhausted face, then back to the gardens.
"Deal."
POV: Cara Dune
While Oliver works his botanical magic and Din coordinates repairs with the station's maintenance crew, Cara finds herself playing security for a group that seems determined to attract trouble wherever they go.
The station is small enough that she can patrol its entire perimeter in twenty minutes, but large enough to hide unpleasant surprises. Most of the other docked ships appear to be legitimate freight haulers and independent traders—the kind of traffic that keeps places like this profitable.
But one ship bothers her.
It's parked in a secondary bay, running minimal power, with no visible crew activity. The hull configuration reads as modified light freighter, but the modifications speak of speed and stealth rather than cargo capacity.
Professional paranoia keeps her watching it.
When three humans in mismatched civilian clothing emerge from the ship and begin asking casual questions about recent arrivals, that paranoia crystallizes into certainty.
Bounty hunters. Or worse.
She activates her comm unit. "Din, we've got company."
POV: The Lead Thug
Vek Jarvish has been running protection rackets in the Outer Rim for fifteen years, and he knows opportunity when he sees it. A Mandalorian with a damaged ship, traveling with injured companions—that's either very dangerous or very profitable.
Possibly both.
The Twi'lek station owner has been refusing his "protection services" for months, but a few strategic complications might change her perspective. Especially complications involving her current high-value customers.
"The warrior's in the maintenance bay," his second-in-command reports. "The woman's doing security sweeps. The injured one is in the gardens with the owner."
Vek nods. Standard configuration for a traveling team—divide responsibilities, cover vulnerabilities, maintain operational security.
"We take the injured one first," he decides. "Use him for leverage against the others. Mandalorians are supposed to be honorable—they won't let innocent people suffer."
It's a reasonable plan. It might even work.
Vek doesn't know about Oliver's unique capabilities. He's about to get an education.
POV: Oliver
The confrontation unfolds with the inevitable momentum of orbital mechanics. Oliver is alone in the hydroponic gardens when three armed figures enter through the maintenance airlock, their weapons drawn but not yet raised.
"Easy there, friend," the leader says, his tone carrying the false friendliness of someone who enjoys having power over others. "Just need to have a conversation."
Oliver straightens slowly, his injured leg screaming in protest. Through the gardens' transparent aluminum barriers, he can see Kessa in the control room, her expression shifting from confusion to alarm as she realizes what's happening.
[DANGER SENSE ACTIVATED]
[MULTIPLE THREATS DETECTED]
[THREAT ASSESSMENT: MODERATE TO HIGH]
"What kind of conversation?" Oliver asks, though he already knows the answer. These men radiate the kind of casual violence that comes from years of taking what they want from people who can't fight back.
"The kind where you convince your Mandalorian friend to pay for protection. This is a dangerous part of space—accidents happen."
"Maybe take your business elsewhere," Oliver suggests, keeping his voice level despite the fear crawling up his spine.
The lead thug's smile widens. "See, that's where you're wrong. This is exactly where our business belongs."
He shoves Oliver hard enough to send him stumbling backward into a growing trough. Pain explodes through his injured leg, and for a moment his vision grays at the edges.
That's when Cara arrives.
POV: Cara Dune
Cara enters the hydroponic gardens like controlled thunder, her rifle already tracking targets. The lead thug has time to register her presence before her first shot takes his partner in the shoulder, spinning the man around and dropping him to the deck.
"Down!" she shouts to Oliver, then shifts targets to the second thug, who's fumbling for his own weapon with hands that shake from adrenaline and sudden terror.
The leader is faster than his subordinates. His blaster clears leather just as Cara's rifle swings toward him. For a moment, they're locked in mutual targeting—two professionals who understand that the next few seconds will determine who walks away.
Then Oliver does something unexpected.
[BASIC CREATURE CONTROL ACTIVATED]
[MP: 35/92]
[TARGET: STATION MAINTENANCE FAUNA]
The attack comes from everywhere at once. Cleaning creatures the size of small dogs boil out of ventilation grates and maintenance access panels. They're not dangerous individually—more like aggressive janitors than predators—but they know every inch of the station's infrastructure.
The lead thug finds his shooting angles blocked by a writhing mass of chittering, clawing maintenance creatures. He tries to clear his line of fire and trips over Oliver's outstretched leg.
Cara's shot takes him center mass before he hits the deck.
The remaining thug raises his hands in surrender, his weapon clattering to the floor.
"Please," he stammers. "We were just—"
"You were just leaving," Cara finishes, her rifle still trained on his center mass. "Permanently."
POV: Oliver
An hour later, Oliver sits in the station's small medical bay while Kessa tends to his reopened leg wound with the competent efficiency of someone who's dealt with violence before.
"Thank you," she says quietly as she applies fresh bandages. "Vek's been pressuring me for months. This should discourage him."
Oliver winces as antiseptic stings his torn flesh. "What will you do if he comes back with more people?"
Kessa's smile is sharp as a vibroblade. "I'll mention that I'm under the protection of a Mandalorian who travels with a man who can command the station's entire ecosystem. That should be sufficient."
Through the medical bay's small window, Oliver can see Cara standing guard in the corridor. Her posture is relaxed, but her hand stays near her blaster.
She saved him. Again.
The realization carries more weight than it should. Oliver has spent so much time wondering who he was before the resurrection that he's missed something important—who he's becoming now is largely shaped by the people who choose to stand with him.
Din, who trusts him enough to share the same ship.
Cara, who puts herself between him and danger without hesitation.
Even Grogu, who offers wordless comfort through their strange connection.
For the first time since waking up in Voss's body, Oliver feels like he might actually deserve the life he's been given.
POV: Cara Dune
That evening, after the repairs are complete and the Razor Crest is fully fueled, Cara finds Oliver in the hydroponic gardens. He's sitting on a bench beneath artificial sunlamps, watching newly-thriving plants with an expression of quiet satisfaction.
"How do you do it?" she asks, settling beside him.
"Do what?"
"Make things grow. Make things better." She gestures at the gardens, which are visibly healthier than they were this morning. "You took a dying ecosystem and brought it back to life in a few hours."
Oliver is quiet for a long moment. "I don't know if I'm making anything better," he says finally. "Sometimes I think I'm just postponing the inevitable."
Cara studies his profile in the artificial light. There's something in his voice—a weight that speaks of guilt and responsibility in measures too large for any one person to carry.
"That's what hope is, sometimes," she says. "Postponing the inevitable until you can find a better solution."
Oliver turns to look at her, surprise flickering across his features.
"The war taught me that," Cara continues. "Every day we held a position, every civilian we evacuated, every Imperial facility we sabotaged—none of it was enough to end the Empire by itself. But all of it together? Eventually, it was."
The silence that follows is comfortable rather than awkward. Around them, the gardens hum with the quiet activity of thriving life.
"Why risk everything for a kid you barely know?" Oliver asks suddenly.
The question catches Cara off-guard with its directness. She considers deflecting it, but something in Oliver's expression suggests he needs a real answer.
"Because maybe if I do enough good things, I'll deserve this second chance," she says, unconsciously echoing words he spoke to her once before. "Whatever the hell it is."
Oliver's smile is soft and understanding. "That's probably the most honest thing anyone's said to me since I woke up."
They sit in comfortable silence until Grogu's delighted laughter echoes from the ship, carrying across the docking bay like music.
"Kid's got timing," Cara observes.
"He always does," Oliver agrees.
As they make their way back to the Razor Crest, neither of them notices the figure watching from the station's observation deck—a woman in a maintenance uniform whose eyes track their movement with professional interest.
When they're gone, she activates a encrypted comm unit and sends a brief message to coordinates scattered across the Outer Rim:
"Assets stable and developing as predicted. Protective bonds strengthening. Recommend continued non-interference unless extinction-level threat detected."
The message is acknowledged and deleted.
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