A/N: Still trying to work out how Chapter 14 fits into my accidental reworking of KotFE into something that might make sense, if you squint a little. Still having complicated feelings about Mandalorians. Here they are.

Celebrants

o.O.o

He couldn't exactly opt out of the "celebration" without coming across as rude. Not that there's anything to celebrate, in Evren's opinion; it seems more like an excuse to get staggeringly drunk. Dangerously inebriated Mandalorians being irresponsible idiots with their very much live weapons, indulging in pointless fights among their own that risk serious injury on the eve of an actual battle, and caterwauling about glory and blood and honor and death and the hunt—what could possibly be better than this?

Evren initially tries to stay near Torian, who seems to be a relatively quiet celebrant. Tries, and fails, as a gaggle of Clan Beroya survivors (and no, he's not viciously pleased that so many made it out alive despite everyone else's best efforts to the contrary) swoop in and absorb Torian into their midst, congratulating him on succeeding even though he was saddled with an untested outsider.

Evren also tries and fails not to be annoyed. Untested? Do they think the lightsabers are ceremonial?

He drifts aimlessly between groups of raucous Mandalorians, lurking on the fringes of other people's conversations without contributing. Until, that is, Khomo Fett notices what he's doing. "Come on," Fett says, slinging an arm around Evren's shoulders and grinning at him, breath sour. "Don't tell me you're too high and mighty for the rest of us." He drags Evren back into the knot of Mandalorians he'd been attempting to leave. "Who wants to hear some Sith war stories, eh?" Fett calls out.

A round of affirmatives and cheers. Fett jostles Evren again. "Well, go on, tell us all about the battle!"

Evren holds very still. He wishes he'd kept his armor on after returning to the base camp. Then he wouldn't have to feel every single one of Fett's fingers digging into his shoulder. "There's not much to tell."

"Droids aren't to your liking, huh? Couldn't agree more! There's no glory in fighting machines. But a real battle, with real blood on the ground . . . Don't tell me you don't miss it. You've fought Jedi, right? Course you have. Best damn feeling in the galaxy is taking out some smug little aruetii brat, yeah?"

Evren goes cold. "Jedi are an integral part of the Alliance," he says mechanically.

Fett groans, and the surrounding Mandalorians jeer in disappointment. "We all know that's crap—you're dar'jetii! We're all warriors here, you don't have to pretend to like 'em. So go on—what's your best kill?"

"Let go of me."

"All right, fine, you're shy. I'll start—so I get a contract on some Jedi that were making trouble for an Exchange slaving operation. Didn't know when to stop sticking their noses into the client's business. Finally catch up to them on Balmorra, this tiny village at the arse end of nowhere. There's two of them, big stupid Mirialan kid and a mean old Togruta, and they're so busy blathering at each other that they don't even notice me. Mirialan keeps tugging on his braid like he's jacking off, it's hilarious."

"Let go of me, Fett," Evren says, voice very quiet.

Fett ignores him, uses his free hand to demonstrate the gesture, to the vast amusement of the crowd. "So I shoot the Togruta first, bang, perfect headshot, and she drops like a skarkla's balls. Mirialan loses his damn mind, screaming, crying—"

Evren pushes Fett off-balance with the Force, twists out of his weakened grip. He peels his lips back from his teeth as the cheers and laughter die.

"You are disgusting," he says.

Fett staggers, recovers. For a long moment, he merely stares at Evren. And then he throws a sloppy roundhouse punch.

Evren blocks with his right forearm, stepping into Fett's space to halt the punch before it can even progress halfway along its trajectory. At the same time, he brings the heel of his left hand up between their bodies to strike Fett's chin, hard. Then, while Fett is still stunned, Evren wrenches the man's entire torso downwards, bringing his own left knee up to smash into Fett's face.

Scoop left elbow under chin, sweep out Fett's knee with left leg, shove weight forward—and Fett falls on his backside with a yelp.

Evren retreats a few paces, well out of flailing range. And then there's just . . . dead silence.

Oh. Oh hells. Every Mandalorian in the room is staring at him. Every drunk, well-armed, brawl-happy Mandalorian. The Force tenses to snapping point. Hostility roils behind the wall of armored bodies that surrounds him. And he can't, he can't defuse this, someone is going to attack and then people are going to die and—

Someone starts applauding, laughing uproariously. "Not bad, Sith," Shae Vizla says, shouldering her way through the crowd, still clapping. "Not bad at all."

Evren's thought processes stutter to a halt. "Erm."

"Hey, Khomo, get up already, you're embarrassing me." She nudges Fett with her boot, then huffs impatiently and drags him to his feet by the forearm.

And within seconds Fett has been reabsorbed into the throng, object of too many slaps on the back and affectionately patronizing guffaws to number, and Vizla is herding Evren away and pressing a foaming mug of tihaar into his hands and loudly commenting on his fighting style.

Evren clutches the mug and tries not to hyperventilate. The room is suddenly very small for the number of people crammed into it, and it's too hot, too loud, a suffocating roar of white noise, and oh would you look at that he's having a moment, lovely, amazing, fucking perfect—

"Drink up, kid," Vizla says, lowering her voice. "You look like you need it."

"I don't drink," Evren hears himself say, mouth on autopilot.

"Then sit down before you fall down." She guides him to a chair that's been dragged off to the side of the room, near the door—open, mercifully, allowing a whisper of Darvannis's endless hissing winds to sneak through.

He breathes. "Thank you," he says hoarsely.

"The thing about Mandalorians," says Vizla, leaning against the wall beside him, folding her arms, "is that we're not Sith. Sure, we're killers. But sometimes all a crowd of Mandos really wants is a good brawl among friends. We fight for the fun of it. Even when we lose, we win, because the fight itself is all that matters."

Evren rubs his face and tries to pull himself together. "Somehow I doubt that Khomo Fett considers me a friend," he says.

"No, but you just showed the rest of them that you're a worthy ally. They'll remember that you handed him his ass, and that it was funny."

". . . I'll take your word for it," he says faintly.

Vizla laughs under her breath. "You stick to wrangling Pubs and Imps, I'll stick to wrangling Mandos."

"That would be for the best, yes."

Another round of cheers and shouting from the party at large. People start shooting their blasters at the ceiling.

Vizla heaves a sigh. "Duty calls," she says.

"Doesn't it always."

o.O.o