For sale: Baby Yoda, never speaks.

The assignment was simple. I was to capture and return the target, dead or alive. Bounty hunting was a good profession because it was a noble profession. There was much scum and villainy in the universe and a good man such as myself could bring them to justice. The only things that a Mandalorian needed in life were a gun, a ship, courage and grace under pressure, and a bottle of good Corellian wine. All of which I had in abundance. This is the way.

I was paired with a droid. The droid was chatty, vaguely effeminate, and engaged in far too many needless words and comic relief. I did not care for the droid, but I tolerated it for the sake of the mission. I remained stoic beneath the cold exterior of my helmet for it would not be manly to express any emotion, necessary or otherwise.

We located the target, which turned out to be a child. The Child was small and green and seemed to have a connection to the Force. While he did not speak, I could sense an ocean of meaning beneath his silence. The droid attempted to kill the child. Instead I killed the droid, if it could be said that a droid has a life to be taken. This Child needed me. It was good to be needed.

We approached an Imperial checkpoint. There were many Stormtroopers at the checkpoint. I carried myself with the same bravado wielded by the great fighters when entering the Rancor pit at Jabba’s palace. Yet it was all for show. Stormtrooper blasters are as impotent as a gelded Bantha. They opened fire. Their aim was not true. The Child and I continued on unscathed.

The Child and I would travel from planet to planet, evading the Empire as I accepted more bounty hunting jobs. It was a comfortable life, a moveable feast of Wampa meat and beskar steel. Occasionally we would offer aid to the small villages we encountered. The townsfolk would fawn over the Child no matter what he did, whether he was chasing frogs or sipping broth from a bowl. People loved the Child. Over time he grew on me in two ways: gradually then suddenly.

For those who say that there is no friend as loyal as a book, they have never met a tiny Jedi who can levitate and devour unfertilized eggs with unceasing hunger. He was a partner, which was a fine thing to have. It was rare. And even though other people entered my orbit, like Boba Fett or Ahsoka or veterans of the Clone Wars, the Child and I were the only two who seemed to matter. As it should be.

It soon became clear that the Child needed guidance in the Force and I was not capable of providing that. I left the Child with Luke Skywalker. In a world of new ideas and new characters, it was comforting to see someone familiar, even if his face was slightly more robotic and smooth than I recalled. The Child struggled with this decision, but I reminded him that the world breaks everyone and many are stronger at the broken places. This would be for the best. I returned to my ship alone, ready to set sail. The old Mandalorian and the sea.

As I traveled the galaxy I discovered that word had spread about my exploits. People had heard tales of my adventures with the Child. Women and younglings were taken with the Child’s cuteness, while men of a certain age appreciated that my story was honest and clean. It was a throwback to simpler times. My missions did not subvert expectations or engage in social commentary, gender politics, or revisionist takes on the Force. I was simply a man with a blaster and a ship, which was precisely what a star war should entail.

To these people, I offer advice: Do not get attached. I speak not as a Mandalorian or as a bounty hunter but as a man. Keep your distance. Never love anyone or anything too much. The most painful thing a man can do is lose himself to fandom. You find yourself over-thinking and over-theorizing, then lashing out at those who merely prefer different sorts of stories or prose. That level of devotion is not worth it, especially not over something as silly as a space western.

These men were lonely. As was I. I wished the Child were here. After fueling up, I decided to go find my friend. My new mission would reaffirm my courage, my friendship, and my simple and familiar status quo.

This is the Hemingway.

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