Chapter 51 : Reconciliation Attempt
The training grounds are at Concordia base's eastern perimeter—open area where Death Watch warriors drill constantly. Combat practice, weapons training, jetpack maneuvers. The sound of clashing metal and controlled explosions is constant background noise.
Bo-Katan is there, running jetpack assault drills with three other warriors. She launches vertically, fires weapons while airborne, lands in tactical roll, repeats. Professional warrior maintaining skills through endless repetition.
I wait at perimeter until she lands between sequences. She sees me, expression neutral through helmet's visor. Removes it slowly.
"What."
Not question. Statement designed to establish emotional distance.
"We need to talk."
"Talk or make excuses?"
"Apologize. You're right—I hedge everything, keep exits open, treat relationships like business contracts. It's survival instinct from..." I trail off. Can't explain transmigration. Can't tell her I died in previous life and woke here with floating blue screens offering profit through violence. "From experiences that taught me trust is dangerous."
"So you don't trust me."
"I trust you more than anyone. That's not saying much given my baseline, but it's true. Problem is trusting fully requires accepting vulnerability I don't know how to handle."
She crosses arms—defensive posture that's also readiness assessment. "Words are cheap. Mandalorians value actions. Show me you're committed."
"How?"
She gestures toward training area. "Train with us. Learn to fight instead of just running. Prove you're willing to invest in staying rather than just planning exits."
"She's testing me. Commit publicly through action or acknowledge I can't change."
The choice is binary: attempt training I'll be terrible at and embarrass myself in front of warriors who already question my presence, or walk away and confirm I'm incapable of meeting her halfway.
"Alright. Teach me."
Surprise flickers across her face—genuine shock I agreed. "Seriously?"
"Seriously. I'll be terrible. But I'll try."
She signals to training instructor—massive Mandalorian male named Rook (different from Bo-Katan's lieutenant, apparently Rook is common name). He approaches with expression suggesting skepticism mixed with amusement.
"The supplier wants warrior training?" His voice carries disbelief. "You can barely shoot straight. Hand-to-hand combat will destroy you."
"Probably. But I'm here anyway."
He studies me. Then nods. "Mandalorian culture respects effort even without talent. We begin with basics. Remove armor—restricts movement for beginners."
I strip down to combat underlayer. The cortosis armor goes in locker. Suddenly vulnerable in way that's psychologically uncomfortable after months of constant protection.
Rook starts with hand-to-hand combat fundamentals. Stance. Balance. How to throw punch without breaking own fingers. Except I'm terrible at all of it. Coordination that serves me well with technology and business fails completely with physical combat.
First drill: deflect incoming strike, counter-attack. I miss deflection entirely, take full force hit to ribs (same ones that broke months ago in Black Sun ambush—they protest immediately), stumble backward, counter-attack hits air because Rook's already moved.
"Again."
Repeat twenty times. Get hit twenty times. Land counter-attack zero times.
Warriors watching start laughing—not cruel mockery but respectful amusement at merchant attempting warrior skills. Bo-Katan observes without helping. This is test I need to pass alone.
Weapons training is marginally better. I've practiced shooting in desperate situations—Grax's warehouse, CS raid, various survival scenarios. Accuracy is maybe thirty percent against stationary targets.
"Terrible but not hopeless," Rook assesses. "You can learn basics if you commit to daily practice. Won't be warrior but might survive combat if well-positioned."
The jetpack training is disaster. Mandalorians make it look effortless—launch, maneuver, land gracefully. I launch too hard, panic mid-flight, forget to control descent, and crash into training dummy. Hard.
Second attempt: launch successfully, attempt turn, overcorrect, spin out of control, crash into ferrocrete wall. Pain explodes through shoulder.
Third attempt: refuse to give up despite everything hurting. Launch carefully, maintain stable flight for approximately five seconds, land awkwardly but don't crash. Small victory.
Rook's expression shifts to something approaching respect. "You're terrible. But you didn't quit. That's warrior spirit buried under merchant cowardice."
After two hours, I'm battered, exhausted, humiliated in front of Bo-Katan's entire clan. Every muscle aches. Ribs protest breathing. Shoulder throbs from wall impact. Can't lift arms without pain.
But I finished training without quitting.
Bo-Katan approaches while I'm recovering against wall. "You humiliated yourself in front of Death Watch. That took courage."
"Or stupidity."
She smiles—genuine expression without warrior hardness. "Sometimes they're the same thing. You'll never be warrior, but you tried. For me. That's enough."
She extends hand, helps me up. The gesture is symbolic in Mandalorian culture—warrior assisting fallen comrade implies equality and respect.
"We're okay. But keep training. Death Watch respects effort even without talent. Daily sessions. One hour minimum. Non-negotiable if you want to stay with me."
"Agreed."
"And those escape contingencies." Her voice hardens slightly. "Dismantle them. If you're with me, commit. Otherwise this won't work."
The request is reasonable from her perspective. But dismantling all contingencies means trusting Death Watch protection completely. That's vulnerability I'm not ready for.
"I'll reduce them significantly. Keep minimal backup plan. Not because I don't trust you but because pragmatic insurance is how I stay alive."
She considers. Then nods slowly. "Honesty again. I appreciate that even when I don't like it. Reduce them. Don't flaunt them. And actually commit to training instead of half-assing attendance."
"Deal."
We seal it with kiss that's complicated mixture of relief, residual tension, and commitment to trying despite fundamental differences. Warriors watching cheer—Death Watch approves public displays of relationship progression apparently.
Rook approaches. "Supplier showed warrior spirit today. Terrible technique but good heart. We'll continue training daily. Might make you competent eventually."
"Appreciate the optimism."
"Not optimism. Realism. Any fool can learn basics if willing to suffer. You're willing. That's half the battle."
That night, Bo-Katan stays in my quarters—relationship repaired through action rather than words. She traces bruises from training with finger that's simultaneously gentle and assessing combat damage.
"You're soft. We'll fix that."
"I'm merchant. Soft is occupational hazard."
"You're my merchant now. Different standards apply." She leans close. "But you tried today. Publicly. That matters more than you know. Warriors respect you for effort."
"Even though I was terrible?"
"Especially because you were terrible. Pride would say 'I can't do this' and refuse. Courage says 'I'll fail publicly but try anyway.' Warriors understand courage. We don't understand pride that prevents action."
The perspective is enlightening. I've been viewing combat training as humiliation. They view it as demonstration of commitment despite guaranteed failure.
Later, after she's asleep, I review the escape contingencies she demanded I dismantle. Three identities, multiple transport tickets, distributed credit accounts. I eliminate one identity completely. Reduce transport tickets from five destinations to two. Consolidate some credit accounts but keep 200,000 credits in untraceable backup.
Not complete compliance. But significant reduction. Compromise between her desire for full commitment and my need for survival insurance.
R4 privately messages: "Master compromised on escape planning but didn't eliminate options. Partial honesty with romantic partner. Assessment: progress but incomplete."
"It's the best I can do right now. Maybe trust builds gradually rather than appearing instantly."
"Possible. Human bonding often develops through incremental vulnerability rather than immediate total commitment. Master's approach is unconventional but potentially functional."
Eight's voice is predictably dismissive: "Irrelevant. Master maintains operational flexibility while satisfying emotional bond requirements. Optimal outcome achieved through strategic compromise."
"You have no idea how relationships work."
"Correct. But master's approach is succeeding despite my limitations. Continue current strategy."
I lie in darkness beside Bo-Katan, body aching from training, contingencies partially dismantled, relationship repaired through action. It's not perfect commitment. But it's honest effort toward something resembling trust.
Progress. In some definition that doesn't require perfection, just consistent movement toward being slightly less damaged tomorrow than today.
The training continues daily for next two weeks. I get marginally less terrible—can land counter-strike maybe ten percent of time now, shooting accuracy improves to forty percent, jetpack crashes reduce from every attempt to every third attempt.
Warriors stop laughing mockingly and start offering advice—sign of acceptance within clan structure. Bo-Katan watches sessions with expression that shifts from skepticism to satisfaction as I demonstrate sustained effort.
Mandalore's civil war continues around my personal drama. Death Watch operations escalate using my supplied equipment. Jedi remain on planet, searching for legal way to extract me. Ventress contacts periodically with intelligence updates and equipment requests. The System tracks accumulating sales toward Level 3 milestone.
But for two weeks, the immediate crisis is just maintaining relationship through daily humiliation in training grounds and gradual reduction of escape contingencies.
Small victories built through consistent effort rather than dramatic gestures. Maybe that's what commitment actually means.
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