"Death Watch?"
"Not Death Watch. We're Mandalorians."
"New Mandalorians? So the pacifists started doing piracy too?"
"Also not New Mandalorians." Max's tone stayed flat. "We're Mandalorians."
Brave, martial, and obsessed with honor, Max Vizsla's faction was, in spirit, close to what Legends continuity once called the True Mandalorians.
In fact, after Max delivered his "we're leaving" declaration—and publicly criticized both the New Mandalorians and Death Watch for veering into destructive extremes—some warriors proposed that the only group that truly represented Mandalore's future should simply take the name "True Mandalorians."
Max vetoed it.
Instinctively, Max felt that calling themselves the "True" Mandalorians would bring a storm of blood and fire down on them. If they were "true," did that make everyone else "false"? And if others were "false," did that mean the "true" Mandalorians had a duty to purge heretics and enforce orthodoxy?
Wouldn't it be better if everyone just did what they were good at?
Let the New Mandalorians build and develop. Let warrior factions protect what gets built. Division of labor. Cooperation. A stronger Mandalore.
The problem was that both sides were too extreme, and neither wanted that outcome.
The New Mandalorians wanted development, so they demanded everyone develop—and forbade anyone from carrying weapons. Anyone who did would be exiled.
Death Watch wanted war, so they demanded everyone live for war—if you weren't constantly fighting, you "weren't Mandalorian enough."
If everyone farms and builds, who protects the harvest? The New Mandalorians certainly couldn't. When real trouble came, their forces were never built for it.
And if everyone fights, weapons and ships don't grow out of the ground. Somebody has to build the economy. Death Watch's answer was simple: don't build—take. If you lack something, raid for it. Mandalorians only need to wage war.
Up to now, Max wasn't exactly an outstanding—or even qualified—politician. He had galaxy-spanning ambition, but he didn't have a neat, polished platform. Still, in his own mind, if you were forced to choose between bad options, he was at least less catastrophically extreme than Satine Kryze and Pre Vizsla.
So Max made his position clear.
"No. There are no 'True Mandalorians.' We are Mandalorians, and the Mandalorians in other factions are Mandalorians too. We're all Mandalorians." Max's gaze swept the room. "We should criticize the New Mandalorians and Death Watch—not wipe them out. Mandalore's future needs builders, and it also needs warriors to protect what gets built. Find common ground, respect differences. Mandalorians must unite, not fracture."
It was a long, earnest speech—almost painfully idealistic by Mandalorian standards—but among people who'd been ground between two extremes for years, it landed hard.
The room answered as one:
"This is the Way!!!"
"All right, Mando." Killian Fieg waved a hand. "Whatever flavor of Mandalorian you are, you should know this: Corellian law forbids paying ransom to kidnappers."
"A very good law," Max nodded approvingly. "It deters criminals and genuinely reduces extortion and kidnapping. But, my lord… I've heard Republic law forbids tax evasion."
"Hah. Not every law is a good one." Killian Fieg curled his lip. He didn't believe a gang of pirates cared about reporting fraud for a reward. And even if they did—were they really going to show up and claim it? "Fine. How much 'ransom' do you want?"
"My lord, you're joking." Max spread his hands. "We're an anti-piracy security department, not pirates. What ransom? Of course, if you're willing to issue a larger bonus, the whole security team would be very grateful."
The young heir adjusted his posture. He didn't know what game this armored "security manager" was playing, but his patience was already thinning.
Snap.
Max flicked his fingers crisply. "Earl. Give the data cartridge to Lord Fieg."
"Yes."
Killian Fieg frowned hard. "What is this?"
"My lord, this is 'One Thousand and Twenty-Four Vulnerabilities in Cloud City's Security System, and Their Solutions,'" Max said with a smile.
"Look at you—professional." Killian Fieg raised an eyebrow. "Even rounded it to a clean number."
"Of course. Our team is professional."
Killian Fieg had no immediate reply. He stared at the terminal screen on the table. As he read, his expression gradually turned serious.
…
"Manager Cloud," Killian Fieg said at last, standing and extending a hand, "you are the most professional security manager I've ever seen—and the most unusual applicant I've ever met. Fine. Let's talk compensation."
"You flatter me. Happy to." Max stood and took the hand.
Max's proposal was simple: his Mandalorian team would provide full-spectrum security services for Cloud City. All existing profits would remain entirely with the Fieg family. All profit growth from expanded output going forward would be split fifty-fifty.
"Cloud City's tibanna gas output can be expanded by at least five times." Max's tone stayed matter-of-fact. "Whether you were limiting production because you worried higher output would attract attention, or because you worried about distribution and buyers—either way, with my people here, you won't have to worry anymore."
"Manager Cloud knows mining too?" Killian Fieg looked impressed. "A real multi-discipline talent."
"Just a little." (And a little luck.) Max kept his face calm.
"And distribution?" Killian Fieg leaned forward. "Do you have contacts, or do you have an idea?"
"My lord, I'll be frank. We do have some resources on hand, enough to move Cloud City's current tibanna reserves quickly. But that's not the point."
"Oh?"
"The Naboo crisis just ended, but the Trade Federation's conflict with the Republic is heating up again. There will be another 'Naboo'—and soon." Max's eyes stayed steady. "The Trade Federation has already started expanding its military. The Republic will respond. From small arms to ship-grade turbolasers, everything runs on tibanna gas. Tibanna is about to become a strategic commodity. Cloud City's spring is coming."
Killian Fieg's eyes narrowed with excitement. "Mandalorian elite, indeed. That nose for war is sharp." He smiled. "Then let's make a fortune."
They clicked immediately. A memorandum of understanding was signed on the spot, and the Fieg family's legal team began drafting the formal contract at speed.
The young heir had always wanted to prove himself—to prove his business ability wasn't inferior to his ancestors, and that he didn't need to live off inherited glory.
Max's vision landed perfectly in the center of Killian Fieg's ambition.
"My lord—win-win."
PS: The specific "Corellian law" mentioned in this chapter is not an official canon detail; it is the author's invention, inspired by a historical legal principle that refuses ransom payments in order to discourage kidnapping and extortion.