The Mandalorian: Stick the Landing
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prose_alchemistTitle: Stick the Landing
Author:jordannamorgan
Archive Rights: Please request the author’s consent.
Rating/Warnings: G.
Characters: Din Djarin, Grogu (a.k.a. “the kid”), Peli Motto and her droids.
Setting: Following Chapter Eight/season one.
Summary: Din’s practice with his jetpack is not going well.
Disclaimer: “The Mandalorian” belongs to LucasFilm and Disney. I’m just playing with it.
Notes: Written for the prompt of “Foot” atfan_flashworks. The Armorer told Din he would need to practice with his jetpack, but we never got to see that process in the series, so here is my take on it.
The ground was rushing at Din Djarin too fast, and he couldn’t get his feet underneath him.
With a grunt of exertion, the airborne Mandalorian twisted his body, drawing his legs up underneath him in an attempt to protect his torso; and an instant later, he crashed down heavily on all fours. His jetpack gracelessly dragged him face-first for a few more meters before he could disengage the thrusters. Were it not for the visor of his helmet, he would have been eating a mouthful of Tatooine’s infamous sand.
From across the hangar, this underwhelming performance was met with a single low whistle from amidst a peanut gallery of droids.
“Yeah, yeah,” Din muttered at the rubbernecking machines, automatically checking his helmet as he stumbled to his feet. “I haven’t really done this in a while.”
After the battle with Moff Gideon on Nevarro, Din had chosen Mos Eisley as his next port of call—or more specifically Hangar 3-5, the domain of Peli Motto. He’d needed a friendly and familiar refuge to lay low at until his wounds completely healed, and after his past experience with her, he found Peli as trustworthy as any non-Mandalorian he’d ever met. If nothing else, she doted enough on his little green foundling that he was sure there would be no harm here for either of them. Besides, she had the good business sense to know that the extravagant fee he offered did not simply cover a week’s use of the hangar: it paid for her discretion as well.
…Not to mention a little bit of babysitting, while he worked at getting the hang of his newly acquired jetpack.
Flight practice probably wasn’t the wisest course while he was still recovering from a head injury. Nevertheless, until word spread that there were no longer clients to pay a bounty on the child in his care, he wanted every advantage he possessed to be fully at his disposal as soon as possible. He needed the ability to fly.
Despite chiding him for pushing himself so soon after his injuries, Peli did her best to help. She had cleared all the space not currently occupied by the Razor Crest on the typically-cluttered hangar floor, and even ordered her droids to pile banks of loose yielding sand around the perimeter, in case Din needed to soften a bad landing. Furthermore, she was entirely happy to take the kid off his hands for a while, letting him focus on the task. At least for now, the worst thing he was left to worry about apart from his flight drills was the risk of her overfeeding that bottomless little stomach.
However, as the Mandalorian was quickly discovering, flying wasn’t really his problem. It was more about the landing.
Like riding a speeder bike, ingrained memories of childhood training came back easily enough; yet now that he was an adult, larger and much heavier with the weight of full beskar armor, it didn’t feel at all the same. His jetpack was a perfectly-calibrated masterpiece of craftsmanship from his tribe’s Armorer, as powerful and responsive as he could have wished, but he still needed to learn its particular handling. The adjustments necessary to adapt himself to it were more challenging than he expected—and they were hardest not while in the air, but when meeting the ground again.
The numerous man-sized divots in the sand banks around the hangar were testament to how many times he had already failed.
Giving his head a brisk shake (and refusing to acknowledge the faint twinge such a movement still brought to the back of his skull), Din launched into the air for yet another attempt. For a moment he simply rocketed higher, relaxing and embracing the thrill of flying free without the hull of a vessel around him. It helped to remind himself now and then that he was trying to earn this. He wouldn’t really achieve that until he could alight as safely and neatly as his handling of all his other weapons, for the jetpack was nothing less. In time, it would help him hunt and kill… but only after he could assure himself that it wouldn’t kill him first.
He wasn’t sure what it was that presently caught his attention. Perhaps he heard a soft sound over the rushing of the wind, or felt a pressure through the sturdy leather of his boot. Regardless of what alerted him, all he knew was that he was suddenly aware of something vaguely wrong in the vicinity of his left foot.
Looking down, he was horrified to see a green face staring back at him in terror, while tiny hands clung desperately to his shin.
The little imp must have wandered unnoticed across the hangar and latched onto Din’s leg, the way he always did when he wanted to be picked up.
“Kid!”
Instinctively Din reached down, grabbing for his foundling. His fingers managed to wrap around one small arm, and he pulled the kid up toward him; but in the process, his body was contorted into a far less aerodynamic attitude. As he lost flight stability, he tilted over in midair, and began to plummet toward the ground below.
Still his other hand came up first, cradling the child’s head. Din hugged him to his chest, his touch carefully questing over a fragile body. The foundling was whining in fear, but was not hurt.
However, neither of them were going to stay that way if Din couldn’t correct his descent.
With a tremendous burst of effort, hindered by having one arm locked around his small burden, the Mandalorian shifted and spun himself in midair. He managed to turn upright and slow his descent, but the floor of the hangar below was still hurtling toward him fast. Even if he hit one of the sand banks, he might not walk away from this one without broken bones under his beskar, and the kid…
The kid is going to get hurt if I don’t stick this landing.
Din’s hand moved to the jetpack control on his vambrace, increasing its thrust and slowing himself a little more. He squared up his body: knees slightly bent, muscles braced but not too tense. The hand that wasn’t holding the kid stretched out to help steady himself, although this may have been little more than an ineffective impulse. A breath was sucked into his lungs, and firmly stayed there.
Three… two… one…
His boots hit the sand hard enough to send a jarring shock to the very top of his skull. Din absorbed the impact evenly throughout his body, wrenching him into a violent crouch that almost folded him in two around the kid… but he stayed on his feet.
At least for a moment, until his muscles unfroze and he abruptly dropped himself backside-first onto the sand pile, releasing a heavy gust of breath. Every inch of his body was one big numb ache; but when he carefully unlocked his arms from around the kid and looked down at him, wide brown eyes met his gaze with no evidence of pain. Din had protected his foundling from harm.
Distantly he became aware of an approaching commotion. Peli was shouting reproaches at her unhelpful droids as she rushed toward the pair.
“I thought you were watching him,” Din remarked to the engineer, his voice impenetrably quiet and dry.
Peli flailed her hands helplessly. “You know how that critter is! I’d only turned my back for a second, and he was gone!”
“…Well. No harm done this time.” Din stood up—moving slowly enough not to betray himself with a wince. He looked down at the kid who was now considerably calmer, receiving a quizzical look in turn. “And maybe it was just the motivation I needed to get this right.”
The kid trilled and put a hand on his guardian’s cuirass, patting the beskar in a movement Din took to express thanks, or perhaps encouragement of some sort.
“Yeah, okay. Now off you go with Peli to take a nap. You’ve earned yourself a time-out.”
Big ears drooped, but the kid didn’t protest as he was transferred to Peli’s arms, and she carried him away amidst a stream of mildly scolding baby-talk.
Left again with no other audience than the droids, Din let himself sag a little in both relief and weariness. He exhaled a long sigh and stretched his limbs, grimacing at his soreness… but then his eyes were drawn to the deep imprints of his boots where he had touched down in the sand.
This is why I have to get it right. It isn’t just about me. The kid’s life could depend on it, too.
Freshly resolved, Din activated his jetpack, soaring into the sky once more; and on his next landing, he imagined the kid in his arms.
After that, his practice drills went much better.
© 2022 Jordanna Morgan
Author:
jordannamorganArchive Rights: Please request the author’s consent.
Rating/Warnings: G.
Characters: Din Djarin, Grogu (a.k.a. “the kid”), Peli Motto and her droids.
Setting: Following Chapter Eight/season one.
Summary: Din’s practice with his jetpack is not going well.
Disclaimer: “The Mandalorian” belongs to LucasFilm and Disney. I’m just playing with it.
Notes: Written for the prompt of “Foot” at
fan_flashworks. The Armorer told Din he would need to practice with his jetpack, but we never got to see that process in the series, so here is my take on it.The ground was rushing at Din Djarin too fast, and he couldn’t get his feet underneath him.
With a grunt of exertion, the airborne Mandalorian twisted his body, drawing his legs up underneath him in an attempt to protect his torso; and an instant later, he crashed down heavily on all fours. His jetpack gracelessly dragged him face-first for a few more meters before he could disengage the thrusters. Were it not for the visor of his helmet, he would have been eating a mouthful of Tatooine’s infamous sand.
From across the hangar, this underwhelming performance was met with a single low whistle from amidst a peanut gallery of droids.
“Yeah, yeah,” Din muttered at the rubbernecking machines, automatically checking his helmet as he stumbled to his feet. “I haven’t really done this in a while.”
After the battle with Moff Gideon on Nevarro, Din had chosen Mos Eisley as his next port of call—or more specifically Hangar 3-5, the domain of Peli Motto. He’d needed a friendly and familiar refuge to lay low at until his wounds completely healed, and after his past experience with her, he found Peli as trustworthy as any non-Mandalorian he’d ever met. If nothing else, she doted enough on his little green foundling that he was sure there would be no harm here for either of them. Besides, she had the good business sense to know that the extravagant fee he offered did not simply cover a week’s use of the hangar: it paid for her discretion as well.
…Not to mention a little bit of babysitting, while he worked at getting the hang of his newly acquired jetpack.
Flight practice probably wasn’t the wisest course while he was still recovering from a head injury. Nevertheless, until word spread that there were no longer clients to pay a bounty on the child in his care, he wanted every advantage he possessed to be fully at his disposal as soon as possible. He needed the ability to fly.
Despite chiding him for pushing himself so soon after his injuries, Peli did her best to help. She had cleared all the space not currently occupied by the Razor Crest on the typically-cluttered hangar floor, and even ordered her droids to pile banks of loose yielding sand around the perimeter, in case Din needed to soften a bad landing. Furthermore, she was entirely happy to take the kid off his hands for a while, letting him focus on the task. At least for now, the worst thing he was left to worry about apart from his flight drills was the risk of her overfeeding that bottomless little stomach.
However, as the Mandalorian was quickly discovering, flying wasn’t really his problem. It was more about the landing.
Like riding a speeder bike, ingrained memories of childhood training came back easily enough; yet now that he was an adult, larger and much heavier with the weight of full beskar armor, it didn’t feel at all the same. His jetpack was a perfectly-calibrated masterpiece of craftsmanship from his tribe’s Armorer, as powerful and responsive as he could have wished, but he still needed to learn its particular handling. The adjustments necessary to adapt himself to it were more challenging than he expected—and they were hardest not while in the air, but when meeting the ground again.
The numerous man-sized divots in the sand banks around the hangar were testament to how many times he had already failed.
Giving his head a brisk shake (and refusing to acknowledge the faint twinge such a movement still brought to the back of his skull), Din launched into the air for yet another attempt. For a moment he simply rocketed higher, relaxing and embracing the thrill of flying free without the hull of a vessel around him. It helped to remind himself now and then that he was trying to earn this. He wouldn’t really achieve that until he could alight as safely and neatly as his handling of all his other weapons, for the jetpack was nothing less. In time, it would help him hunt and kill… but only after he could assure himself that it wouldn’t kill him first.
He wasn’t sure what it was that presently caught his attention. Perhaps he heard a soft sound over the rushing of the wind, or felt a pressure through the sturdy leather of his boot. Regardless of what alerted him, all he knew was that he was suddenly aware of something vaguely wrong in the vicinity of his left foot.
Looking down, he was horrified to see a green face staring back at him in terror, while tiny hands clung desperately to his shin.
The little imp must have wandered unnoticed across the hangar and latched onto Din’s leg, the way he always did when he wanted to be picked up.
“Kid!”
Instinctively Din reached down, grabbing for his foundling. His fingers managed to wrap around one small arm, and he pulled the kid up toward him; but in the process, his body was contorted into a far less aerodynamic attitude. As he lost flight stability, he tilted over in midair, and began to plummet toward the ground below.
Still his other hand came up first, cradling the child’s head. Din hugged him to his chest, his touch carefully questing over a fragile body. The foundling was whining in fear, but was not hurt.
However, neither of them were going to stay that way if Din couldn’t correct his descent.
With a tremendous burst of effort, hindered by having one arm locked around his small burden, the Mandalorian shifted and spun himself in midair. He managed to turn upright and slow his descent, but the floor of the hangar below was still hurtling toward him fast. Even if he hit one of the sand banks, he might not walk away from this one without broken bones under his beskar, and the kid…
The kid is going to get hurt if I don’t stick this landing.
Din’s hand moved to the jetpack control on his vambrace, increasing its thrust and slowing himself a little more. He squared up his body: knees slightly bent, muscles braced but not too tense. The hand that wasn’t holding the kid stretched out to help steady himself, although this may have been little more than an ineffective impulse. A breath was sucked into his lungs, and firmly stayed there.
Three… two… one…
His boots hit the sand hard enough to send a jarring shock to the very top of his skull. Din absorbed the impact evenly throughout his body, wrenching him into a violent crouch that almost folded him in two around the kid… but he stayed on his feet.
At least for a moment, until his muscles unfroze and he abruptly dropped himself backside-first onto the sand pile, releasing a heavy gust of breath. Every inch of his body was one big numb ache; but when he carefully unlocked his arms from around the kid and looked down at him, wide brown eyes met his gaze with no evidence of pain. Din had protected his foundling from harm.
Distantly he became aware of an approaching commotion. Peli was shouting reproaches at her unhelpful droids as she rushed toward the pair.
“I thought you were watching him,” Din remarked to the engineer, his voice impenetrably quiet and dry.
Peli flailed her hands helplessly. “You know how that critter is! I’d only turned my back for a second, and he was gone!”
“…Well. No harm done this time.” Din stood up—moving slowly enough not to betray himself with a wince. He looked down at the kid who was now considerably calmer, receiving a quizzical look in turn. “And maybe it was just the motivation I needed to get this right.”
The kid trilled and put a hand on his guardian’s cuirass, patting the beskar in a movement Din took to express thanks, or perhaps encouragement of some sort.
“Yeah, okay. Now off you go with Peli to take a nap. You’ve earned yourself a time-out.”
Big ears drooped, but the kid didn’t protest as he was transferred to Peli’s arms, and she carried him away amidst a stream of mildly scolding baby-talk.
Left again with no other audience than the droids, Din let himself sag a little in both relief and weariness. He exhaled a long sigh and stretched his limbs, grimacing at his soreness… but then his eyes were drawn to the deep imprints of his boots where he had touched down in the sand.
This is why I have to get it right. It isn’t just about me. The kid’s life could depend on it, too.
Freshly resolved, Din activated his jetpack, soaring into the sky once more; and on his next landing, he imagined the kid in his arms.
After that, his practice drills went much better.
© 2022 Jordanna Morgan