Chapter 13: The Covert's Fall
POV: Oliver
The volcanic plains of Nevarro stretch before them like a landscape of betrayal, ash-gray beneath an unforgiving sky. Oliver sits in the passenger compartment of Greef Karga's speeder, his injured leg pressed against the vibrating metal floor, and tries not to think about the dozen ways this plan could kill them all.
[MP: 85/92]
[HP: 180/210]
[DANGER SENSE: CONSTANT LOW-LEVEL ACTIVATION]
Ahead of them, Din pilots another speeder with Grogu secured in his pram, the Mandalorian's posture radiating the kind of controlled tension that speaks of a man preparing for war. Cara follows on a third vehicle, her rifle slung across her back but ready for immediate deployment.
Behind Oliver, Greef's two Guild associates mutter nervous conversation about Imperial patrols and bounty payouts. Their anxiety tastes metallic in the recycled air.
"You're unusually quiet," Greef observes, steering around a cluster of lava rocks that glow with residual heat. "Having second thoughts about our arrangement?"
Oliver activates his [Target Intel] without conscious thought, the skill flowing through his enhanced awareness like water finding its level.
[TARGET INTEL ACTIVATED - BASELINE ABILITY]
[SCAN RESULT: GREEF KARGA]
[THREAT LEVEL: MODERATE]
[INTENT: SELF-PRESERVATION ABOVE ALL OTHERS]
[EMOTIONAL STATE: CALCULATING - MULTIPLE CONTINGENCY PLANS ACTIVE]
"He's already planning how to survive if this goes wrong," Oliver realizes with a chill that has nothing to do with Nevarro's volcanic winds. "He'll sacrifice any of us to save himself."
But the scan also reveals something else—underneath Greef's mercenary pragmatism lies genuine frustration with Imperial occupation, a businessman's anger at having his territory controlled by outside forces.
"Just thinking about the variables," Oliver says aloud. "This is going to go wrong in ways we haven't anticipated."
Greef's laugh carries no humor. "Such optimism. It's refreshing."
POV: Din Djarin
Din's hands grip the speeder's controls with the steady pressure of someone fighting the urge to turn around and run. Every tactical instinct he possesses is screaming warnings about this mission—too many unknowns, too many points of failure, too much reliance on the good faith of people who trade in betrayal for profit.
But Oliver is right. They can't keep running forever.
Through his helmet's heads-up display, Din tracks the positions of Cara and Greef's vehicles, maintains constant sensor sweeps for Imperial patrols, and monitors Grogu's vital signs through the pram's medical sensors. The child is alert but calm, those impossibly large eyes focused on something beyond Din's ability to perceive.
"He knows something's coming," Din thinks, and the realization brings no comfort.
The plan is elegant in its stupidity: approach the Imperial facility under the pretense of delivering Grogu and Oliver to Moff Gideon, then spring an ambush when the Imperials lower their guard. It relies on split-second timing, perfect coordination, and the assumption that Gideon won't simply execute them the moment they enter weapon range.
Din has participated in suicidal missions before. This one feels different—not because of the odds, but because of what they stand to lose if it fails.
Behind him, he can hear Grogu making soft questioning sounds, the child's Force sensitivity picking up on the tension that permeates their group like radiation from a leaking reactor.
"I know, kid," Din murmurs, too quietly for the comm system to pick up. "I don't like it either."
POV: Cara Dune
Cara maintains position at the rear of their convoy, her soldier's instincts cataloging terrain features and potential ambush sites with automatic precision. The volcanic landscape offers excellent cover for defensive positions but limited options for retreat—a tactical nightmare that makes her skin crawl with phantom sensation.
Through her rifle's scope, she watches a formation of Imperial probe droids sweep the horizon three kilometers to their east. Standard reconnaissance pattern, but conducted with the methodical thoroughness that suggests they're hunting for something specific.
"Us," she realizes with grim certainty. "They know we're coming."
The rational response would be to abort the mission, fall back to the Razor Crest, and find another way to deal with their Imperial problem. But rationality is a luxury they can't afford—not with Gideon's forces closing in from every direction, not with Oliver's mysterious enemies adding another layer of threat, not with Grogu's safety hanging in the balance.
Cara keys her comm unit to the team frequency. "Probe droids at grid reference seven-seven-mark-four. We're on their sensors."
Din's response is immediate and calm. "Acknowledged. Maintain course."
Because turning back isn't an option anymore. It stopped being an option the moment they decided that some things are worth dying for.
POV: Oliver
The attack comes out of Nevarro's sulfurous sky like a nightmare given wings and teeth.
Oliver spots the flying predators first—pteranodon-like creatures with leathery hides and beaks designed for tearing flesh from bone. They emerge from a thermal vent system half a kilometer away, drawn by the vibrations of their speeders or perhaps by some predatory instinct that recognizes easy prey.
[DANGER SENSE ACTIVATED]
[AERIAL THREATS DETECTED: MULTIPLE HOSTILES]
[THREAT LEVEL: MODERATE TO HIGH]
"Contact!" Oliver shouts into his comm, pointing skyward as the creatures wheel into attack formation. "Flying hostiles, bearing two-seven-zero!"
Greef's associates panic immediately. One of them opens fire with his blaster, the wild shots accomplishing nothing except to attract more attention from the predators. The other abandons his speeder entirely, diving for cover behind a cluster of volcanic rocks.
[BASIC CREATURE CONTROL ACTIVATED]
[MP: 60/92]
[TARGET: AERIAL PREDATORS - MULTIPLE SPECIES]
Oliver extends his consciousness toward the attacking creatures, feeling for the primitive neural patterns that govern their hunting behavior. These aren't domesticated animals or urban scavengers—they're apex predators operating on instincts honed by millions of years of evolution.
But instincts can be redirected.
The lead pteranodon—a massive specimen with a wingspan that could shadow a small building—suddenly banks away from its planned attack run on Din's speeder. Its predatory focus shifts toward Greef's abandoned associate, who represents an easier target.
The other creatures follow, their pack hunting instincts overriding their initial prey selection.
"How—?" Greef starts to ask, then apparently decides some questions are better left unanswered.
POV: Cara Dune
While Oliver works whatever biological magic keeps him useful despite his complete inability to shoot straight, Cara handles the more conventional aspects of their crisis. Her rifle speaks with the measured cadence of professional marksmanship, each shot carefully placed to wound rather than kill.
She's not trying to massacre Nevarro's ecosystem. She's trying to convince apex predators that easier prey exists elsewhere.
One of Greef's associates—the one who didn't abandon his post—takes a glancing blow from a pteranodon's talons across his left shoulder. The wound isn't fatal, but it's bleeding freely and appears to have damaged muscle tissue.
"Medic!" the man shouts, which would be helpful if they had an actual medic instead of a resurrected scientist with delusions of medical competence.
Oliver abandons his speeder and limps toward the wounded man with determined pragmatism. Cara provides covering fire while Din maintains overwatch from his elevated position.
"Hold still," Oliver instructs the wounded Guild member, pulling emergency medical supplies from his pack. "This is going to hurt."
Cara watches through her scope as Oliver applies pressure to the wound, his movements displaying a familiarity with battlefield medicine that seems inconsistent with his claimed lack of memories.
"He knows more than he thinks he does," she observes. "Or more than he's saying."
The distinction might be important later.
POV: Greef Karga
That evening, as they make camp in a sheltered canyon twenty kilometers from Nevarro's capital, Greef studies his unexpected traveling companions with the analytical gaze of a professional survivor.
The Mandalorian sits apart from the group, apparently meditating while maintaining perfect situational awareness. The kind of warrior discipline that Greef has learned to respect even when he can't understand it.
The former shock trooper maintains a security perimeter with military precision, her movements speaking of battles fought and survived in service to causes larger than personal profit.
But it's Oliver who fascinates Greef the most.
"Tell me about Dr. Voss," Greef says, settling beside the fire with the casual manner of someone initiating a conversation about the weather.
Oliver's entire body goes rigid. "I don't remember being him."
"But you remember what he did." It's not a question. "The research stations. The bioweapons. The systematic murder of entire ecosystems in service to Imperial ambition."
Oliver stares into the fire with the expression of someone watching their own execution. "Not directly. But I've seen the files. The records. The... aftermath."
Greef nods thoughtfully. "Dr. Elias Voss was brilliant. Possibly the most gifted xenobiologist the Empire ever recruited. He could redesign entire food chains, create plagues that targeted specific genetic markers, turn any planet's ecosystem into a weapon."
"That wasn't me," Oliver whispers.
"No," Greef agrees, surprising himself with his certainty. "You're something else entirely. The question is: what?"
Cara's voice cuts through the night air like a vibroblade. "We know who he is now. That's what matters."
But Greef sees the way Oliver flinches at the words, as if kindness might be more painful than condemnation.
"He's carrying guilt that doesn't belong to him," Greef realizes. "And it's eating him alive."
POV: Oliver
They reach Nevarro's outskirts at dawn, and the first thing Oliver notices is the smoke.
Black columns rise from the underground entrances that lead to the covert—too much smoke for cooking fires or forge work, too concentrated for anything except systematic destruction.
Din breaks into a run without a word.
Oliver follows as best he can, his injured leg screaming in protest as he half-limps, half-sprints down the ramp that leads to the Mandalorian tunnels. Behind him, he can hear Cara's boots pounding against stone and Greef's labored breathing as the older man struggles to keep pace.
The smell hits them first—blaster discharge, melted metal, and the acrid stench of burning electronics. Then the sounds: distant weapons fire, the mechanical whine of Imperial equipment, and underneath it all, the rhythmic pounding of a forge that continues to work despite the chaos surrounding it.
[DANGER SENSE ACTIVATED]
[COMBAT ZONE DETECTED]
[MULTIPLE THREATS: IMPERIAL FORCES ENGAGING MANDALORIAN DEFENDERS]
They round a corner and Oliver's system floods him with tactical data faster than his conscious mind can process. Imperial stormtroopers in white armor advance through tunnel networks designed for defense. Mandalorian warriors in beskar fight desperately from prepared positions, their weapons speaking defiance against overwhelming odds.
And over it all, broadcast through speakers connected to the facility's communication system, Moff Gideon's voice echoes with the measured cadence of absolute authority:
"Surrender the child and Dr. Voss. Everyone else may leave. You have five minutes to comply."
Oliver's stomach drops like a stone through vacuum.
"This is because of me. They're dying because of me."
[SENSORY SHARING ACTIVATED]
[MP: 50/92]
[TARGET: TUNNEL MAINTENANCE FAUNA]
Oliver extends his awareness through the network of small creatures that make their homes in the forgotten corners of the covert's infrastructure. Through dozens of tiny eyes, he maps the battle's ebb and flow with desperate precision.
A squad of stormtroopers advances through a service tunnel, flanking around Paz Vizsla's defensive position. The massive Mandalorian warrior holds a chokepoint with the fury of someone defending sacred ground, but he can't see the threat approaching from his six o'clock.
The Armorer continues her work at the forge, creating weapons and ammunition even as blaster fire fills the air around her. But another Imperial squad moves to encircle her position, their movements coordinated with tactical precision.
Oliver doesn't think. He just acts.
[BASIC CREATURE CONTROL ACTIVATED]
[MP: 25/92]
[TARGET: UNDERGROUND MASSIF - SINGLE LARGE PREDATOR]
The creature responds to his call like a weapon seeking a target. Six meters of scaled fury with teeth designed for crushing bone and instincts honed by countless generations of tunnel hunting. It emerges from the deep caves with the silence of evolution's perfect predator.
The flanking squad doesn't know they're being hunted until claws and teeth find them in the darkness.
Oliver collapses as his MP hits zero, blood streaming from his nose as the neural feedback burns through his enhanced nervous system.
[MP: 0/92]
[CRITICAL ENERGY DEPLETION]
[NEURAL STRAIN: SEVERE]
[HP: 165/210]
The last thing he sees before unconsciousness claims him is Din's helmeted face looking down with something that might be pride.
POV: Din Djarin
Din fights with the cold fury of someone who has lost everything once and refuses to let it happen again. His rifle speaks precisely, each shot calculated to disable Imperial equipment or find gaps in stormtrooper armor. Around him, his brothers and sisters in arms fall one by one, their beskar insufficient against the overwhelming numbers Gideon has brought to bear.
But they fight. Because this is the Way.
Through his helmet's targeting system, Din tracks Cara's position as she systematically eliminates Imperial squad leaders with sniper precision. Her military training serves her well in this environment—she understands how to disrupt enemy command structure, how to turn superior numbers into disadvantage through tactical application of violence.
Greef has taken cover near the entrance, providing covering fire for wounded Mandalorians as they retreat through evacuation tunnels. The man may be motivated by self-interest, but he honors his agreements.
And Oliver—Oliver lies unconscious near the Armorer's forge, having spent everything he possessed to save people who barely know him.
"He bled for us," Din realizes with something approaching awe. "He chose us over himself."
The evacuation proceeds with desperate efficiency. The Armorer distributes weapons and equipment to those who can carry them, while Paz Vizsla maintains his chokepoint until the last non-combatant has reached safety.
When they finally retreat through the hidden tunnels that lead to Nevarro's surface, Din carries Oliver's unconscious form while Cara guards their rear. Behind them, the covert burns.
But they're alive. They're free. And they have a path forward.
The Armorer gives Din his charge: find the Jedi, reunite the child with his kind.
As they emerge into Nevarro's volcanic daylight, she places her hand on Oliver's forehead with something approaching reverence.
"You shed blood for Mandalorians," she says quietly. "This is the Way."
Din looks down at the man who chose to stand with them despite owing them nothing, and feels something shift in his understanding of what family means.
[LEVEL UP!]
[LEVEL 4 ACHIEVED]
[HP: 230/230]
[MP: 106/106]
[NEW ABILITIES UNLOCKED]
[QUEST UPDATED: FIND THE JEDI]
In his arms, Oliver stirs slightly, his eyes opening just enough to focus on Grogu's worried face.
"Did we win?" he whispers.
"We survived," Din answers. "Sometimes that's the same thing."
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