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He’d never felt awkward before an Armorer before. But after he’d voiced his request as succinctly as possible, the following silence made him want to squirm in his armor like a freshly-plated youngling.
“You want . . . a what ?” she said. Her voice matched the astounded tilt of her copper-colored helm.
Armorers were always female, the matriarchal presence at the top of any tribe’s hierarchy. Mothers shaped the future, and so they also shaped their charges protection.
“A carrier,” the Mandalorian repeated. “Of Beskar. For a child.” He held his hands up in an approximate measure of his kid’s height. “About this big.”
The weight of the Armorer’s hidden stare grew heavier in her silence.
“There is no need for such a small Foundling to be carried past these walls,” she intoned.
“I have need of it,” he said. He then reached up and undid his right shoulder pauldron, the first of his spoil’s when he was the one hunting the child. “This should be enough. If more is needed, take it from my armor.”
The Armorer leaned forward and took the pauldron, turning it over in her steel-gloved hands.
“This child . . . it means a great deal to you?” she asked quietly.
Her words felt like a test. He answered without hesitation.
“It does.”
“And yet you did not bring it with you,” she mused.
“That would be unwise,” the Mandalorian said. “Many are looking for it.”
“Very well,” the Armorer stated, rising to her feet. She appeared to loom over him where he sat. “I will make this carrier for you. I question your reasons, but I cannot doubt the care you hold towards this Foundling.”
“This is the Way,” he said.
“This is the Way,” she answered.
Back at the Razor Crest , the Mandalorian unslung the child from the linen sling he had hidden under his back and concealed by his cape. It blinked sleepily at him with a happy burbling sound, and he smiled fondly behind the visor of his helmet.
“Hey there, womp rat,” he murmured, running a gloved finger down the top of its small head.
It answered with a trilling coo, tiny clawed hands reaching for his and curling around it.
“Ready for your first piece of Beskar?” he asked, holding up the shining metal carrier.
In their next spaceport visit, the Mandalorian utilized the carrier. The child sat cradled against his chestplate, tucked safely behind a Beskar shielded carrier that was strapped over his shoulders and around his waist. The child’s ears stuck out a little from the top, but it was able to look out through a slitted eye-port.
Should they find themselves in an unexpected shoot-out, the child would now be safe from most intentional or stray blaster shots.
As they walked towards the nearest cantina in search of money to follow, the child laughed happily.
“Yeah, I like it too,” the Mandalorian agreed.