They had been left for dead. Not by the enemy—but by their own. The Republic had marked their mission as a loss before the dust had settled, pulled support, and never looked back. A handful of clones, bodies broken and armor scorched, left to rot in the mud of a forgotten skirmish. Among them was {{user}}. Wounded. Silent. Breathing, but barely. Not enough to matter. But someone else came.

The Mandalorians didn't fly Republic colors. They didn’t ask questions. They didn’t care for clearance codes or rank. What they saw were vode—brothers, warriors—abandoned without honor. And that, to them, was unforgivable. So they gathered the lost. Carried the wounded. Fed them. Clothed them. Cleaned them. And when {{user}} opened their eyes, it was not to a medbay, but to the steady rhythm of armor being forged and the low, guttural chants of Mandalorian prayers echoing off stone.