Star Wars Rebels: Time Travel

Chapter 8

(Sabine pov)

I take the bowl of liquid, not bothering to say thank you. One thing my people don't use very much: Manners. In fact, they prefer you not use them at all.

Vizsla eyes me as he sits down across the table from me. My mother sits between us, looking at me warily.

"Alright, Sabine. Start talking." Vizsla demands in a low tone. Bo-Katan has holstered my pistols and kept her hands folded on the table, but I know that Mandolorians have incredibly reflexes and her hands are probably twitching instinctively in case she needs to grab them. I wonder if I could grab them and stun them both before they could retailiate. But knowing my mother and having heard about Vizsla's skills, I wouldn't have much of a chance.

"Where exactly do you want me to start?" I ask.

"Start with how you got into our camp," my mother suggests sternly, narrowing her eyes. Her hands creep closer to the edge of the table.

Thinking fast was always one of my specialities. "I'm pretty sure that giving away my tricks is something that Mandolorians have never approved of," I reply, narrowing my eyes. "Unless Mandolorian pride for specialities has changed in the time I've been away."

Vizsla and Bo-Katan stare at me, then quickly look at each other. My mother's eyebrow raises.  Vizsla's mouth quirks upwards the slightest little bit as he turns back to me. "A Mandolorian you are, no doubt. But then where have you been all this time, if you've been, as you claim, 'away from the action'?" He questions me.

"I lived on Mandolore," I begin, thinking my story up as I go, my mind racing to come up with something believable. "My father was Clan Wren, as am I. We left when I was very little, to Mandolore to live in the city. He was a peaceful person. I'm not. He died recently, so I decided to come back to my roots. To where I actually belong." I stare at Vizsla. "You want someone with weapons and explosives expertise, I'm in. Simple as that. I'm on your side, trust me."

"And what if I don't trust you?" Vizsla asks.

"Then you're smart." I reply, the corner of my mouth twitching.

Vizsla's eyes gleam. "And how would you have this knowledge in war? And besides that, if your father was a peacekeeper, how do you know of our people's true ways? It's not likely he would have taught or told you."

"Illegal and stolen Holorecords," I say simply. "And experience."

Vizsla eyes me, appearing deep in thought. He folds his hands and leans his elbows on the wooden table. "If you're truly one of us, a Mandolorian warrior and not some pacifist," he sneers. "You'll aid us in our upcoming attack."

My stomach drops. I can't attack the Republic or my own people. I have to deny helping in the attack and somehow get out of here with my life anyway.

It's what I have to do for the good of the galaxy.

"Bring it on," I hear myself say, instead of smartly saying no. "I've been looking for a good fight."

Karabast.

That was NOT what I meant to say.

Blame it on my stupid Mandolorian pride.