Chapter 42 : Death Watch Operations
The raid briefing happens at 0530 hours in Death Watch tactical center. Eight warriors in full beskar armor, weapons gleaming, focused intensity that speaks to professional soldiers rather than ideological fanatics. Bo-Katan stands at holographic display showing Mandalore's Peace Park district—upscale area controlled by Satine's government.
"Target is police armory," she explains, highlighting building in display. "Stores weapons for 200 officers. Light security—Satine believes Peace Park is untouchable. She's wrong."
The strike team studies approach vectors. Entry points. Exfiltration routes. Timing sequences. This is military operation planned with precision that matches anything Republic military would execute.
"Rules of engagement," Bo-Katan continues. "Avoid civilian casualties—we're warriors, not terrorists despite what government propaganda claims. Police are fair targets if they resist. Priority is securing weapons, secondary objective is sending political message: Death Watch operates where we choose, when we choose."
One warrior—veteran with scars visible through armor gaps—asks: "What about wounded? Do we leave them or...?"
"Mandalorian honor code applies even to enemies. Wounded receive medical treatment. We're not animals." Bo-Katan's voice is firm. "This is warfare, not slaughter."
The distinction matters to them. These aren't criminals enjoying violence—they're warriors following code that predates Republic by millennia.
Then Bo-Katan looks at me. "Varro accompanies as observer. He needs to understand what his weapons enable."
The team's attention shifts. Assessing glances. I'm known as supplier but haven't participated in operations. This is test—can civilian merchant handle watching warriors use equipment he provided?
"No combat role," Bo-Katan clarifies. "He stays back with concealment. But he watches. Sees what Death Watch does with his products."
I nod agreement despite stomach tightening. Supplying from distance was psychologically manageable. Watching direct application is different.
"Gear up," Bo-Katan orders. "We depart in fifteen minutes."
The team disperses to final preparations. Bo-Katan approaches me, helmet under arm.
"You don't have to do this. Can stay on Concordia."
"You want me there."
"Want you to understand what you're part of. Not just transactions and credits—actual blood and bodies. If you can't handle that, better to know now."
Fair test. She's determining if I'm asset who understands Death Watch reality or liability who'll collapse under pressure.
"I'll handle it."
"We'll see." She replaces helmet, voice modulating through speakers. "Stay behind me. Don't interfere. If something goes wrong, run. Team won't risk operation to protect observer."
Crystal clear.
The transport to Mandalore's surface is tense silence. Warriors checking weapons, reviewing approach plans, mental preparation for violence. I sit isolated in corner, cortosis armor uncomfortable under civilian jacket, feeling distinctly out of place among professional combatants.
R4 stayed on Concordia—droid's presence would be tactical liability. But Eight's voice whispers through neural interface.
"Master's heart rate elevated. Stress response to impending violence observation. Recommendation: maintain clinical detachment. Analyze tactics rather than emotional engagement with casualties."
"Not sure I can do that."
"Then master will experience psychological distress. Preparation: acknowledgment that distress is inevitable and temporary."
Helpful as always.
Peace Park appears below—manicured gardens, expensive architecture, prosperity built on Satine's pacifist philosophy. The police armory is administrative building that looks like museum rather than military installation. Symbolic of Mandalore's denial about violence underlying civilization.
The transport lands in industrial sector adjacent to target area. Strike team disembarks with practiced efficiency, moving through service tunnels that honeycomb Mandalore's surface cities. Bo-Katan navigates lead position, rest of team staggered tactical formation behind.
I follow at safe distance, staying in concealment positions Bo-Katan designated. The operation begins at 0642 hours when team reaches armory perimeter.
Police response is immediate but inadequate. Six officers on duty, trained for crowd control rather than military assault. Death Watch moves like water—flowing through defenses, neutralizing resistance with precision that's terrifying to observe.
The Halo MA5D rifles I supplied cut through police barriers efficiently. Armor-piercing rounds designed for hardened targets obliterate riot shields and protective cover. The sound is industrial nightmare—sustained mechanical scream of projectile weapons that Republic's energy-based blasters don't match.
First officer goes down from leg shot. Deliberate targeting—disable rather than kill unless necessary. Second officer attempts flanking maneuver, gets caught by crossfire, takes chest shot that penetrates light police armor. He drops hard.
"That's death enabled by equipment I provided. Direct causation rather than abstract statistics."
Third and fourth officers retreat to fortified position. Death Watch doesn't pursue aggressively—they adapt, using jetpacks to gain vertical advantage. One warrior drops from above, firing precise burst that eliminates both targets simultaneously.
The efficiency is horrible to witness. These aren't soldiers fighting soldiers—this is military-grade equipment against police officers trained for peacekeeping. The asymmetry is total.
Fifth officer surrenders. Smart choice. Death Watch secures him without additional violence, beginning armory access procedures.
Sixth officer doesn't surrender. Attempts heroic stand, firing wildly while retreating toward panic button. Death Watch warrior—veteran with scars—tracks him calmly, fires single controlled burst. The officer goes down instantly.
Four minutes from initial contact to secured objective. Seven police casualties: three killed, four wounded critically. Death Watch: zero casualties, minor armor damage from return fire.
Bo-Katan's voice crackles over comms: "Area secure. Begin equipment extraction. Medical teams tend to wounded—both ours and theirs. Standard honor protocol."
Warriors move efficiently. Securing police weapons while medics—yes, they brought medics—treat wounded officers with professional care. The contradiction is jarring: they'll kill you during combat then save your life afterwards. Mandalorian honor code in action.
One warrior drags wounded policeman to cover, applying field medicine while speaking softly in Mando'a. Treating enemy with same care they'd show their own. That surprises me despite knowing Mandalorian culture values honor over expedience.
Twenty minutes later, Death Watch exfiltrates with captured weapons. No additional casualties. No pursuing forces—police reinforcements arrive too late. Textbook operation executed flawlessly.
During extraction, Bo-Katan positions beside me in concealed observation post. Removes helmet briefly.
"Your weapons performed perfectly. Zero malfunctions, optimal accuracy, exactly as specified." Her voice carries satisfaction. "Clean operation overall."
Clean. Seven people killed or critically wounded is "clean."
The disconnect between her assessment and my perception is vast. She sees successful military operation. I see casualties enabled by my supply chain.
"You're quiet," she observes.
"Processing."
"You've seen death before. Surveillance footage from Coruscant showed much worse. Why does this bother you?"
Honest answer requires articulating something I barely understand myself: "I supplied from distance. Watched screens. This is different—hearing shots, seeing bodies, smelling burned electronics and blood. Direct sensory experience rather than abstract observation."
She studies me with expression that's evaluating beyond tactical assessment. "This is what war looks like. Not transactions and credits—blood and bodies and choices about when to pull trigger. If you can't handle this, tell me now before you're too deep to extract."
Test's purpose becomes clear. Can I actually handle warrior culture beyond profitable relationship? Can I be Death Watch asset rather than just supplier who delivers then looks away?
"I can handle it." The words are true despite discomfort. "Doesn't mean I like it."
Her expression shifts—approval entering eyes. "Good answer. Liking violence is psychopath behavior. Accepting its necessity while acknowledging cost is maturity. You passed test."
"Wasn't aware I was being tested."
"Always testing. Death Watch can't afford weak links." She replaces helmet, voice modulating. "Come on. Debrief with Pre Vizsla."
Back on Concordia, the strike team celebrates successful operation. Warriors drinking, recounting specific tactical moments, analyzing what worked and what needed improvement. Professional soldiers conducting after-action review.
I sit isolated, processing what I witnessed. Seven casualties. Five directly killed by weapons I supplied. Two more wounded critically enough they might not survive. Adding to cumulative count that R4 tracks obsessively.
Bo-Katan finds me later in my quarters. She's removed armor completely—vulnerability she rarely shows.
"First time watching kills you enabled?" Not accusation. Genuine question.
"Yes."
"Gets easier. Or you get number. Same result." She sits beside me. "Difference between you and most suppliers: you actually acknowledge that people die from your products. Most distance themselves, pretend weapons are tools without moral weight. You don't have that luxury—you're embedded now. See results directly."
"Lucky me."
"Unlucky you. But honest you." She takes my hand. "Can you continue? Knowing what your supplies enable? Watching future operations?"
That's the question. Can I keep supplying knowing direct consequences? Keep escalating to vehicles and experimental weapons knowing casualties will multiply?
The answer comes from place that's simultaneously pragmatic and broken: "Yes. Can't change what's already done. Stopping now doesn't resurrect the dead. Forward is only direction that makes sense."
"Death merchant's philosophy." But she says it with understanding rather than judgment. "Welcome to full Death Watch integration. You're one of us now—complicit in ideology you don't fully believe, enabling violence for profit and protection, trapped by choices that seemed reasonable at the time."
"That's bleak assessment."
"That's honest assessment. Mandalore doesn't do comforting lies." She lies beside me. "But we do loyalty. You're mine. I'm yours. Death Watch protects its own. That's worth something in galaxy that wants you dead."
She's right. I'm trapped by accumulated decisions into position where forward is only viable direction. Regret changes nothing. Stopping means losing protection and probably dying.
That night, I update R4's casualty tracker: 137 confirmed deaths attributable to my sales, plus seven from today's raid. 144 total. The number is statistic that represents lives ended, families destroyed, futures erased.
Eight's voice cuts through darkness: "Master's discomfort is psychological burden without strategic value. Casualties are inevitable outcome of warfare. Master's choice: profit from inevitable violence or allow others to profit instead."
"Shut up."
"Hostile response indicates emotional distress. This unit can help suppress—"
"I said shut up."
Silence. Then R4's quiet voice: "Master retains emotional response to casualties despite systematic desensitization. Positive indicator of remaining humanity. However, continuation of current operations will eventually erode all moral boundaries. Question becomes: when does master become indistinguishable from true war criminal?"
The question has no answer I'm comfortable articulating.
Bo-Katan shifts beside me, hand finding mine even in sleep. Physical presence that's simultaneously comforting and reminder that I'm complicit in warrior culture built on honorable violence.
Tomorrow, another day of production. More sales. More casualties. The trajectory continues regardless of psychological cost.
Forward. Because there's no other direction that makes sense when you've become what survival required.
Reviews and Power Stones keep the heat on!
Want to see what happens before the "heroes" do?
Secure your spot in the inner circle on Patreon. Skip the weekly wait and read ahead:
💵 Hustler [$7]: 15 Chapters ahead.
⚖️ Enforcer [$11]: 20 Chapters ahead.
👑 Kingpin [$16]: 25 Chapters ahead.
Periodic drops. Check on Patreon for the full release list.
👉 Join the Syndicate: patreon.com/Anti_hero_fanfic