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*
There’s something familiar, calming about the silence in the final moments before sunrise.
Cobb closes his eyes and tilts his head up to meet the first rays of light that slowly slink across the red and almost barren land. He stands on one of the rocky outcrops that scatter about the outreaches of Mos Pelgo, boots firm on the dusty ground. This particular one is the tallest of them all and his favourite. He slowly opens his eyes, squinting a tiny bit at the sharp light of the twin suns even as he raises a hand to shield them.
That particular feeling hasn’t abated at all and he shifts, smearing the previously clean imprint of his boots. There’s been an itch between his shoulder blades lately, an uneasy feeling that had kept him up for the last week, tossing and turning and unable to sleep for more than fitful minutes at a time. Last night it had finally driven him out of his home, hopping on his speeder in the dark and just riding. He feels unsettled still, a jittery crawl of anticipation like the moment before a massive storm, like teetering on the very edges of a cliff too high up.
He sighs and it vanishes instantly into the endless sprawl of the desert. When Cobb turns, it’s resolute and he picks his way down to his waiting speeder nimbly - the trip much easier now he’s not in the battered and somewhat cumbersome Mandalorian armour that he had given to Mando for safekeeping some time back, a debt gratefully paid. He still owes the other man more than he can actually repay in full in this lifetime and he hopes to share Mos Pelgo’s hospitality with him again one day.
The rev of his speeder starting is loud, startling some of the local wildlife, sending them scattering back to their burrows and scurrying behind rocks for safety. His lips twitch upwards, almost a smile, as he kicks into gear and takes off back towards home, back towards his duty.
*
Cobb belongs to Tattoine. Sometimes he fancies if he ever was unlucky enough to get shot (again), he’d bleed out sand from his veins.
He was born there, raised there, and now serves her faithfully, protecting the small cluster of civilians who call Mos Pelgo home. They call him ‘Mayor’, the children laugh and tug at his clothes when he checks in at the learning hall. The younger men and women hail him with joy when he passes by, wandering the streets some days, ducking in to look at the market, making sure everyone is ok. The elders nod, dipping their heads in respect when he stops by to ask them how they’re doing, if they need anything.
Of course, he didn’t come from any lofty background or mysterious origins. Cobb’s nothing more than a slave born and bred, crawling out of that hellish existence with nothing more than sheer grit and determination to live and to thrive.
He’s not ashamed of his past, far from it. Every man, woman, and child in Mos Pelgo knows that once upon a time, their beloved mayor was nothing more than a lowly, half-wild slave kid, dirty and battered and bruised from toiling under the double suns and semi-regular beatings.
The only thing he allows himself to regret is the jagged scar that has never faded from his lower back. It’s nothing but a cruel mockery of the soulmark that once sat upon his skin, a perfect five-pointed star that once told him that he was worthy of someone else’s love.
During long, hot nights where Cobb tosses and turns and cannot fall asleep, sometimes he lets his fingers skirt the very edges of the ugly, puckered skin that is what remains of a bond that should’ve been revered above all else. He always stops after a second or two and swallows despite the bitter taste that coats his throat, ignoring the tremble of his normally steady hand.
With how damaged he is now, that soulmark might as well have never existed.
*
After Boba retrieves his armour from the one they call Mando with just the tiniest bit of unprovoked violence, he spends the next day slowly cleaning, buffing and polishing every inch of it.
It’s a slow, arduous task, with the years of grime and dirt-caked across the surface, but Boba’s face shows no sign of annoyance or disgust. He is as serene as he ever gets, his hands repeating the slow back and forth motions as he cleans and then checks each strap and buckle, testing the aged leather.
It’s not until he turns his attention to the inside, to the leather padding within, running his fingers over each nook and cranny, reacquainting himself with his armour, when he notices the new addition.
He remembers then, with sharper clarity than he expected, observing the tall, silver-haired mayor from a safe distance back when he was still on Tattooine. The mayor, Cobb Vanth, who had treated his townspeople with the same warmth that bathed the sand from the twin suns, with his devilish curve of a smile and eyes the shade of warm honey.
Cobb, the only other person alive who had worn this armour, his armour, for long enough to have been able to etch the jagged five-point star into the thick leather at his back.
Boba smiles and thinks that it’s high time for him to return to Tattooine and settle some scores.
*