Lekku. LOG-006. Krayt.

LOG-006. Krayt.

Tatooine tastes like ash and contempt. I idly ponder whether it’d be possible to find Anakin at this point in time, question whether he even exists yet, and give up the idle tangent.

Thoughts aside, the wind doesn’t howl here. It hisses. Like it’s crawling inside your armour just to see what happens when you break. Sand gets into everything, under your skin, between your teeth, in the seams of your skull where memory and instinct blur together until all that’s left is survival.

The mission’s simple.

Find the sand marauders. Confirm camp location. Return.

Rite of passage. Test of skill. Whatever.

Three foundlings, no supervision. You pass or you don’t.

They don’t tell you what happens if you don’t.

I’m running point again. Always. Because I’m the quiet one. Because I know how to disappear between footsteps. Because the others still look at me like I might slit their throats in my sleep just to see if I can.

They’re not necessarily wrong.

Nari’s on overwatch. Tall, fast, thinks she’s funny. She’s not. Rok handles heavy gear, too loud, too slow, too sure of himself. The kind of cocky that dies first in real ops.

We find the camp just after mid sun. Dug into the canyon edge, a half collapsed ruin with patched sails for shade and bones nailed into warning stakes.

Sand marauders love theatrics. Noisy bastards. We clock eight bodies, maybe more inside.

Too many.

We should pull back.

I signal the retreat.

That’s when it goes sideways.

—

The first shot comes from above, not theirs. Not us.

A third party.

The rock behind me explodes.

Flash charge.

Nari shouts something I can’t hear.

Then Rok is down, dragged screaming into the sand by something wearing bone armor and reeking of krayt droppings.

I dive. Roll. My shoulder hits the dune hard. My ear’s ringing. Blaster’s gone.

Smoke blinds everything. Sound is muffled. Everything’s wrong.

Footsteps pound. Too many.

I bolt.

—

I don’t stop running until my breath’s gone and my legs are two seconds from giving out.

The sun’s lower now. Shadows stretch long and mean. I don't know how far I’ve gone, just that it’s far enough for silence to return.

I’m alone.

In the Dune Wastes.

No comms.

No backup.

No direction.

Nothing but sand, heat, and the promise that something out there is watching.

Waiting.

Shit.

—

I haven’t had water in almost a day.

The heat’s stopped feeling like heat. It’s more like…pressure. A fist pressing down on every inch of me, waiting to see if I pop or melt.

My throat’s sandpaper. My legs are two wrong steps from shutting down. The inside of my helmet smells like sweat and blood and breath recycled one too many times.

I’m bleeding from somewhere behind my right shoulder, I think. Probably shrapnel. Doesn’t matter.

Comms are dead. Blaster’s fried. Knife’s still with me, but it’s dull enough to qualify as a spoon.

I keep moving.

Because the moment I stop, I stop.

There’s a ridge ahead. With a steep slope. Shattered stone lines twisting out of the dune like a buried jawbone. Shade clings to it, barely. I make for that. Slow. Slogging. Every footstep’s a small war.

And then the air goes still.

Not just quiet.

Still.

Wrong.

I feel it before I hear it. Like something massive just exhaled beneath the sand. Low. Deep. Bone deep.

Then I hear the grind, stone against scale, and everything in me locks.

A ridge away, something huge shifts.

Rocks tumble. Sand spills.

And then it rises.

Young, maybe. Juvenile. But there’s nothing small about it.

A fuckmothering Krayt dragon.

It’s a lumbering beast. Half buried in the canyon wall. Hide like living stone. Eyes like molten gold. And a mouth full of teeth that were clearly designed with murder in mind.

It sees me.

I don’t scream.

Can’t.

There’s no sound left in me.

It charges half a second later.

I’m tired. I’m fucking exhausted. I’m just about ready to just drop and let the damned thing eat me.

I don’t want to die here.

That’s when time bends.

I move.

Not fast. Not smooth. Just exactly right.

The Force, if that’s what it is, doesn’t speak. Doesn’t guide. It shoves. Like instinct being screamed through a broken speaker in the back of my skull.

Left. Duck. Jump. Drop.

I scramble up a rock ledge as the beast slams into the ridge below. The whole shelf shudders. Cracks. Dust blooms. I leap across to another ledge, slipping, catching myself on a jagged outcrop.

Something sharp slices my palm open. Doesn’t matter.

I see the rocks above.

Loose.

Teetering.

I reach.

Not with my hands. Not with my mind.

With that static. That noise. That twitch just behind my ribs that says I need to do it.

The Force doesn’t lift the rocks.

I do.

But it most certainly helps.

They fall.

Crack. Smash. Roar.

One slams into the dragon’s snout. Another scrapes across its side. It thrashes, howls, claws at the cliff face in rage.

I drop down.

Blade in hand.

Run for it.

Leap.

And drive the knife straight into its eye.

It doesn’t die.

But it screams.

The sound is wrong. Too loud. Too deep. Like planets mourning.

It thrashes again, this time a rock slams into its jaw with enough force to crack teeth.

One comes loose.

Big. Curved. Perfect.

The dragon stumbles back, crashing into the canyon wall, bleeding from one eye.

Then it turns and runs, seemingly too young to consider this worth any more effort.

I drop to my knees.

Sand coats my tongue in spite of my helmet. My chest won’t stop seizing.

But I’m alive.

Somehow.

…And the tooth is still here.

—

I limp the last two kilometers.

Blisters where there shouldn’t be skin. Muscles locked in place. Every step feels like a dare.

The tooth’s heavy in my hand.

Not just weight. Meaning. There’s some definite fucking story telling potential if I manage to to keep this thing.

I keep it wrapped in a strip of scorched cloth I tore from what’s left of my leg guard. It smells like dragon breath and old blood. My blood. Mostly.

The sun’s nearly down when I see the flare marker at the pickup point. One green pulse every five seconds. Right where it should be. Right when it should be.

I made it.

Barely.

No sign of the others. Doesn’t matter.

I drop into a crouch and wait.

Varin’s the one who eventually steps off the gunship, once it arrives.

Of course he is.

He walks up to me, silent. Sand scraping at his boots. I don’t rise. Don’t salute. Just hold up the wrapped bundle like I’m offering a live grenade.

He takes it. Peels it open. Stares for a distinctly long moment.

Then looks at me.

No words.

Just a nod.

Back at the outpost, there’s no cheering. No feast. No dramatic line of warriors clapping my back.

Just the elder.

And firelight.

The rest of the clan stands back. Watching. Faces hidden under helmets. Shadows flickering across durasteel.

The elder steps forward. Speaks low, but every syllable cuts clean through the dusk.

“You left nameless.”

I stand straighter.

“You return with a name carved in blood.”

He nods once to Varin.

Varin doesn’t step forward.

He doesn’t lay a hand on my shoulder.

He just crosses his arms.

“Vesk.”

It hits far harder than it should.

“Means to cut.” He adds. “Also means to survive. Depends who’s holding the blade.”

The elder nods.

“Your name is Nai’ida Vesk.” The old man declares. Then he lifts the krayt tooth, now mounted on a chain of dark iron, scorched at the base.

He holds it up for all to see.

“From this day forward, you will answer to the callsign Krayt.”

A pause.

Then a murmur of assent through the clan.

I don’t cry.

I just breathe.

Deeper than I have in days.

Maybe years.

By Mandalorian standards, it’s such a cool fucking nickname.