Chapter Text
“That jetii kicks like a ronto,” Jango grumbled, easing into the pilot’s seat and taking controls from Boba as they streaked through Kamino’s stormy atmosphere. Even the weather seemed to conspire with the redheaded jetii he’d left behind, protesting their departure, the wind slamming into the sturdy durasteel of the ship’s hull, sheets of rain assailing the viewport like a coordinated attack. Still Slave 1 soldiered on, breaking through the turbulent miasma to the pitch black of space. Through the ringing headache, Jango entered the coordinates for Geonosis, and charted the path to the nearest hyperlane, squinting at the panel.
“You okay, Dad?” came the uncertain question from Boba. Jango scowled, then winced. He knew the ad asked out of concern, but that softness worried him. There was no place for softness in the world of bounty hunting. He was only ten, but—
“Fine,” he grunted. “Jetii was a wily one.” And he had been. Jango wasn’t used to being bested, and that had been a pretty even draw. He’d given the jetii a hell of a mirshmure’cya and he’d still come back for more; he undoubtedly had a concussion, if Jango did as well.
The old rage prickled at him, that a jetii had given him the best fight in years. And that if it had been anyone other than a jetii, he would have enjoyed it. The redheaded, blue-eyed bastard had been impressive, holding his own in hand-to-hand far better than any other Force user he’d met, and looked hot as hell doing it, in the heavy rains of Kamino no less; most of them were shab at close-quarter combat. The memory of a frail neck dusted in snow, giving way under his gloved hands, flickered and faded just as fast as it rose. The blue-eyed jetii was annoyingly persistent, and had given as good as he got, and Jango had the ringing head to prove it.
But jetiise were good for only one thing: dying. And Jango owed it to himself, and to every verd who had died at Galidraan— Myles, Silas, all of the 200 Haat’ade who fell that day— to ensure the jetiise paid in full. Jango took a slow breath, willed his head to stop throbbing. The Sith’s master plan was coming to fruition; all he needed to do was lead the blue-eyed jetii to Geonosis, and then avoid being tied up as a loose end. They were nearly home-free. Then he could sit back from whatever planet he felt like buying, and watch a comeuppance decades in the making unfold across the galaxy.
“Heh, you got him good, Dad,” Boba snickered, and Jango spared a fleeting smile for his son. “Think he’ll try to follow, or stay on Kamino?”
Follow. “We’ll see, son.”
“Are… we ever going back to Kamino, Dad?”
Jango glanced over at Boba, who was fidgeting with something in his hands. “No. That part of our lives is over. We’ll make our way through the galaxy elsewhere from now on.”
“‘kay,” but Jango frowned at the tone. He’d considered leaving Boba with Roz for a few weeks in the past— get him used to the wider galaxy, cut his ties with Kamino— but had always set the thought aside. That had been a mistake; he should have done more to separate Boba from the rest of Kamino. He knew Boba snuck out from time to time, visiting the clones. Maybe he’d grown more attached than Jango had realized.
“Once we conclude our business on Geonosis, you can pick our first bounty. How does that sound?”
Boba cut him a suspicious scowl, and damn, when had the kid gotten so clever? But Jango received little more than an ambivalent shrug. He let it go. Boba could sulk if he wished; he’d get over it. There wasn’t much on Kamino to get over, anyway.
The cockpit was silent for a while before Boba spoke again. The quiet soothed Jango’s aching head; he needed to take a painkiller and possibly a bacta injection if he wanted to get any rest before Geonosis. Only the hum of the thrusters and occasional chirp of the ship’s computer notifications broke the silence.
“So… tomorrow is Life Day,” Boba began, tentative again. Jango forced his eyes open with effort, glancing over at Boba again in confusion.
“The Wookiee holiday?”
“Yeah, but everyone celebrates it now,” Boba insisted, eyes wide and earnest. “I was wondering if, maybe when we’re done… we could go to Kashyyyk? Or one of the big planets that celebrates? They have lots of food—“
“We’re not Wookiees,” Jango frowned. Since when did Boba want to celebrate frivolous holidays? This sounded like Skirata’s doing. That crusty old shab constantly filled his Nulls’ heads with this kind of nonsense. Faint memories of holidays on Concord Dawn flickered in his mind, and he crushed them down ruthlessly. Sentiment served no one. "And we don't celebrate holidays."
“Yeah but it’s not just for Wookiees, Dad—”
“We’re. Not. Wookiees.” Jango fought the urge to grip his head as it pulsed in his irritation, feeling the pain gnaw on his temper. “And we’re not celebrating Life Day. End of discussion.”
Boba looked ready to argue again, until he met his father’s glare. The kid backed down, scowling as he turned in his seat, giving his back to Jango.
“Fine. I’m going to sleep.”
“Why don’t you go sleep in the bunk, Boba?”
“I’m— I’m fine here. Leave me alone.”
Nonplussed, Jango let it go. The kid was ten; he’d grow out of these notions eventually. Jango loved his son with an intensity that outshined every other emotion or urge, knew what that kind of love had looked like for him at this age— but it had left him unprepared to have it all ripped away by a merciless enemy. He’d lost, and lost, (and lost) and now there was nothing left to lose but Boba— but Boba would be stronger, more resilient. He’d learn sooner, and more effectively, to kill sentiment before it killed him.
Engaging the autopilot, Jango stood carefully. “I’m going down to get a ration bar and some meds. You want anything?”
Silence.
Jango shook his head, and left the cockpit.
The soothing thrum of the engine thrusters pulsed throughout the ship, as he stood in the silent galley, a pair of painkillers in one hand and a box of ration bars in the other. There really was no choice in flavor, they all tasted like dirt, and yet the concussion must have really rattled his brain, as he stood staring at his options like it mattered.
Soon enough, he’d be able to pick up some real food, fresh ingredients and maybe some spices, if anyone was still making them. Kiffar and Twileki food had some kick, though nothing to a Mandalorian seasoning, but that was getting harder to find.
Not that Jango cared; he didn’t owe anyone anything, even the courtesy of wondering what was happening in that sector. He was just a simple man making his way through the galaxy, just as he told the jetii. The Haat’ade were gone, and Kyr’tsad and the Evaar’ade were both dar’manda; there was nothing left to worry over. And he hardly counted as a Mandalorian anymore, either. The spices were merely personal preference.
He snorted, imagining what the blue-eyed Coruscanti jetii would look like choking on a bite of tiingilar, then shook his head, wincing as he cut off that train of thought. Damn concussion. Crazy thoughts.
"Jango…"
Jango glanced up, frowning. “Boba?” he called, before remembering that Boba was asleep in the cockpit.
And Boba didn’t call him by his name.
“Jango…”
He frowned. He’d checked the hold before he made his way up to the cockpit, right? His head ached, he couldn’t remember, but he always did—
What if the jetii had had a partner, who had snuck onboard?
But why would they call his name and give away their location?
“Jango…”
Superstitious nonsense, but he couldn’t ignore the sound, not if it could be a threat to Boba.
With an irritated grunt, he tossed back the pills, swallowing harshly, and grabbed the ration bar off of the counter, making his way carefully through the ship towards the hold, one Westar out and ready. As he crept, the silence grew heavy, ominous. The chill of space crept through the hull, sending a shiver down Jango’s spine that he resolutely ignored.
He needed a thicker kute, that was all.
The hold was predictably empty. Still, Jango cautiously cleared the space, checking the bounty cage, the crates, the locker; ignoring the low moan of the engine thrusters that echoed through the open space. All was well.
He turned and froze.
A Mandalorian stood by the ladder to the galley. Battered green and blue armor hung loosely from a frail frame, transparent and slightly indistinct like a bad holo. The kar’ta beskar was missing from the chest piece, and Jango grimaced in instinctive sympathy. The face was ravaged, covered in tiny slashes and punctures, as though the being had been tortured extensively by interrogation droids. Brown hair hung lank and limp, as though doused with sweat and grime. But as Jango met the haunted eyes that bored into his soul, he knew exactly who this was.
“Silas. I… thought you were dead.”
“I am.”