Chapter 1: Fox's Step By Step Guide On How To (Or How Not To) Cope With Time Traveling Thirty Nine Years
Chapter Text
It takes Fox a grand total of half an hour after he wakes up, to come to the conclusion that he doesn’t care.
He doesn’t care how he is somehow alive instead of a crumbled brain-dead heap at Vader’s feet.
He doesn’t care that his body seems to have double the energy he had when he died.
He doesn’t care how had apparently ended up on Concord Dawn of all places.
And most importantly, he doesn’t care why.
Whatever force-forsaken reason the universe, the force, or the wrinkly old Palpsith decided Fox needed to be here. He didn’t care to find out.
Survival was all that mattered.
Because the forces that be, in all their infinite wisdom, had placed him in the middle of some random forest, on some random planet, for (as far as he could tell) no fucking reason.
On top of that, he had fuck-all for rations —food or water. He had retained his armor and DC-17s, with a single extra ammo cartridge. While the HUD system in his helmet appeared to be operating, it was unable to connect to any comms networks in the area. The navigation capabilities seemed to glitch out every time Fox tried to get the system to show his coordinates on the planet. Instead, he received the same error message saying that he “was not located on the indicated planet” and to “please check planet name and specs and try again.”
Which was a karking lie.
Admittedly, Fox didn’t know much about his current situation, but he was pretty damn sure he was on Concord Dawn. Seeing as his HUD was incapable of determining the planet he was on, Fox had had to perform the necessary calculations himself using the planets and singular sun he could observe for himself.
The Kaminoans would never believe that their tech would fail and become the reason for a mission failure. No, it was always a failure in their clone's genetic design. Because, somehow, soldiers trained from birth were far more likely to fail than their mechanics. Jango Fett had made sure that Fox and the other CCs in his batch couldn’t fall victim to failure due to faulty tech. He drilled old-fashioned soldiering techniques into them that seemed entirely pointless at the time. A situation where one or two tech components fail and it could not be replaced by your Vod’s backup or the larger fleet’s support and supply stretched the limits of the CC’s imagination. It nearly killed Fox to admit that Fett’s last-resort calculations were his only option.
It might have been nearly a decade for Fox, but his calculations were correct, Sithdammit. So, on top of no food or water rations, he also had a faulty HUD.
All of which meant he needed to find the nearest city or town or hells, even just a homestead with someone kind enough to let a fully armored Clone Commander inside their doors for a night. The last one was a stretch. He could definitely find houses; getting past the doors might be a struggle.
No matter what he did, sitting around got him nowhere, so he picked a direction and started walking.
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It takes Fox a grand total of a week to come to three solid conclusions. First: not only did the forces-that-be manage to un-dead Fox and hurl him entire star systems away from where he was. It also hurled him thirty-nine years in the past.
Because, sure. At this point, why the kriff not.
Conclusion two is that it is all irrelevant, Fox does not care how or why he is here. Living was all that mattered.
Living and surviving were two very different things in Fox’s opinion. Fox had been surviving ever since the Kaminoans pulled him and the rest of his batch out of their incubation tubes. His entire life had been consumed by ensuring that he and those he cared about were still alive at the end of the day. Some days he was better at it than others. Every day it was all he could do or focus on until the day was out. He survived.
Living was more than surviving. Living was being able to do things that weren’t always necessary. Living was being able to take a break when he wanted to as long as he wanted to. Living meant that Fox wouldn’t have to worry about his brothers' safety, because they were not in danger. Living meant being “Fox” in a way he hadn’t been able to be since very late at night in the bunks at Kamino with his old batch and occasionally Cody’s mutie tagalong.
Fox’s third conclusion is that he was force-fucking awful at living.
Fox arrived at this conclusion after his latest attempt at getting himself to drop his guard enough to actually experience living life as an actual sentient being. In which he had observed two men strip, dissect, and chop various animals up. After which, Fox had decided he would much rather use the various tools he saw the men using to stab live beings, not dead ones.
It was beginning to irritate him.
He was decades before he was even a spec in the Prime’s imagination. There was no Palpasith, no GAR as he knew it, no war. Nothing to stop him from making his own decisions and carving his own path. Nothing but his own Sithdamned inability to do so.
Which brought him to where he is now, some nearly rundown cantina in an equally nearly rundown town. For the first time in his life, Fox had credits. He earned them doing whatever odd jobs anyone he ran into decided needed doing, trying to find something that might satisfy the hole that Fox had felt slowly enveloping him ever since awakening on Concord Dawn. Nothing proved very effective, although they all had the side effect of ensuring that Fox had enough rations and enough credits to spare that he had no qualms about starting the night with two of the cantina’s strongest drinks.
He fucking missed his Vode.
The first time he had ever gotten drunk was in the two rotations following the first CC assessment. The Kaminoans had decided that they needed two rotations to sort through all the test data and “establish reliable test baselines”, as they were the first batch of Clone Commanders to go through their training program and intensive work would need to be done to evaluate both the Kaminoans, drills, trainers, and clones. All that meant was their trainers and everyone who could possibly order them around, were behind closed doors for most of two rotations, leaving 100 Command class trained clones with the most amount of freedom they had ever had in their short lives.
After the first twelve hours, mostly used to catch up on sleep, it got old fast. Having no assigned task, no eyes watching for flaws, and no material that must be studied, while a great relief, left most of the Command class with an excess of energy with no easy outlet. More than that was the underlying feeling of nerves and tension felt by every clone.
The Kaminoans were discussing the success or failure of the program and every individual unit behind closed doors. Nobody knew if they would continue on after the evaluations were made, some of them might not make it. Hells, they could scrap the entire program. And no one was about to risk their life to figure out if they performed adequately before the results were announced, for fear of getting caught and changing that result.
Why Wolfe thought it was a good idea to unearth some Natborns stash of alcohol, Fox never understood. But, it had been a silent collective agreement that any and all decisions made in those two rotations were not to be judged or spoken of again. Which was probably a good thing for Fox’s sake. He didn’t need Jaing out for his blood. (He is still impressed that Bly managed such an accurate impression of Alpha-77).
Stars, Fox missed them. The entirety of his short childhood, Fox couldn’t remember going twenty-four hours without one of his brothers invading his space.
Everything was cost maximized on Kamino, including space. Especially space, considering the longnecks a very lucrative contract for breeding an army, without any idea of the space required for training grounds, and equipment storage, much less the actual training process. On a planet that was primarily ocean and the construction of buildings was a fairly laborious and intensive process, space for sentients was already conserved. Space for non-sentients could be rounded down to the smallest possible area without a second thought. Privacy wasn’t something that any clone understood until after deployment.
Fox spent his first few years being tossed about and thrown through a variety of tests, never bunking down with the same squad for more than a month. At the time, no one had assigned squads and everyone was simply rank and file rotating through trainers, like a sick carousel: never really knowing if reassignments or decomms were waiting for them every time they stopped.
Then, one day their Natborn trainers for drills vanished and the Alphas were in their place. They were assigned squads and told that these were to be their squads for the rest of their training. The Alphas would handle most of their training from that point on, with an assigned trainer specially selected to tailor each squad to advanced skills.
The longnecks did their best to act like it was a completely prepared step in their training. But, Fox strongly suspected otherwise. The Alphas looked too Sithdamned cocky. Fox wasn’t entirely sure it was warranted, any victory against the Kaminoans was temporary, they had time on their side and held too much power not to come back with a vengeance, even if it was years later.
However, as far as Fox knew, the Alphas had their victory. And Fox was stuck with Cody, Wolfe, Bly, and Ponds for the rest of his training.
Training under Jango Fett.
As some of the highest-scoring command-class cadets, Fox’s squad was one of the select few who were hand-picked by the Prime to train directly under him. And Sithhells, if they didn’t let that get to their heads. The whole squad acted like they had a stick up their shebs until they realized that Jango didn’t give a Hutt’s backside about who they were.
Jango Fett wasn’t the worst trainer on Kamino. He made the Alphas. He was rumored (Fox had proof) to stop decommissioning. Anytime he spent training a Vode, automatically increased their worth. He was the Original. The best bounty hunter in the galaxy. Jedi killer. The Prime.
He was also cold, unforgiving, and hard. If he thought that sharing genetic material with the clones meant anything, he didn’t show it. At the very least, he didn’t show it to Fox and his squad.
He didn’t even consider them sentient. Their training was just another job to him and he executed it with the same exacting perfection he approached every other job in his career when he was present. Extreme brutalization, like what Dred Priest practiced, was not in his repertoire simply because Fett didn’t find it effective. Fox did not doubt that should Fett have thought it necessary, he wouldn’t have hesitated to set them against each other.
Fox’s squad wasted the first week of training fighting for Fett’s favor. (They shouldn’t have bothered, there was none to be had).
Not a single squad member truly trusted each other and the squad held together sheerly by their collective individual ability to be high-functioning commanders despite the absolutely abysmal levels of squad communications going on. They all had Fox’s same experiences of moving squad to squad, never knowing if the brother next to them was going to survive to the next day or be cutthroat enough to stab you in the back if your scores were high enough. The only thing that could be relied upon was one's own abilities.
Nobody did anything too drastic. Still, by the end of the week: Wolfe had dislocated (and relocated) his shoulder (courtesy Ponds), Cody had thrown no less than three forks from the mess halls (with deadly accuracy), Bly no longer ate his meals in the mess (Fox never did find out where he got his rations instead), Fox had bashed everyone's heads at least twice, Ponds glued Cody’s bunk shut (Somehow?), Bly broke Ponds’ nose (accidentally on purpose (twice)), Wolfe bit Cody (Fox lost count how many times), and if it wasn’t training related it was safe to assume any conversation exchanged were threats of violence. There was one night, Fox remembered, forcing himself to stay awake the entire night because he was paranoid that the knife that Wolfe had slipped from the training hall was meant for him.
Looking back on it, it was karking hilarious.
The second week of training they got sent to survival training: Jungle planet, minimal resources, for a full week. Everything immediately went to shit.
Supplies were lost on day one. Bly broke his leg on day two. Fox and Cody managed to get themselves caught in a cave-in; with no power equipment, it took an entire day for the rest of the squad to get them out.
By the end of the week, the squad was unrecognizable from when they started: physically, mentally, and emotionally. While their armor was indistinguishably white at the start, they all looked starkly different, streaked in all levels of matter, armor dented or held on by improvised straps.
Cody didn’t karking hesitate to pull a gun on one of the Alphas who pulled them out.
The Alpha had been trying to separate Bly to take him to medical immediately. Cody, like the rest of the squad, didn’t fancy the idea of Bly leaving the hands of the squad, much less their line of sight. After a few minutes of frustrated and cautious cajoling by the Alphas with absolutely no luck, a decision was reached. The entire squad accompanied Bly and the Alphas to the Medbay. Stars knew the rest of the squad could probably use a once-over anyway.
Even with rest and recovery time, the anxious feeling that would rise every time a member left their company took several weeks to fade. It was still preferable for everyone to stick together.
Later, Fox and Cody would discover that only a few people knew Jango’s command squads were running a survival course.
Apparently, the Prime had sent all his command squads into a Sim two levels above anything they’d ever experienced and then left the karking planet on urgent business. Fox’s squad had actually gotten off lightly considering they had no decommissionable injuries. Sithhells, an entire command squad didn’t even make it out.
After that, Fox didn’t think he ever had to go longer than twelve hours without seeing one of his Vod, his squad, until they were all deployed.
None of them had ever been gone for prolonged periods and then suddenly every single one of them was scattered about the galaxy. Not even Rex got to stay with Cody for long before being dragged along with Skywalker. Fox can’t imagine any of them dealt with it well. Sure, he had Thorn, Thire, and Stone, who he wouldn’t give up for the world. But, they were command batchers themselves and while they were always there for him in Coruscant's dirtiest days, they couldn’t fill the aching holes in Fox where his batchers normally were.
Fuck.
Fox was so covered in holes now he wasn’t sure there was anything left.
Kark, they weren’t even dead. They just never existed at all.
No contract on Kamino, no training facilities, or flash training vids. All the Sithfucked ideas that would eventually produce 1.2 million identical trained men, hadn’t even been had yet.
No colors that would be immediately associated with the GAR battalions. (Was there even a standing army this far back?)
No men who would understand the little twitches and tells that Fox’s Guard could read as easily as hand sign.
No more shinies.
Fox knocked back a shot.
Hells. Fox didn’t know if he should be grateful or terrified. No more shinies meant that he didn’t have to see another bright spark enveloped by overwhelming darkness. And it hurt him, so very much, to send those sparks out to die during the war.
Even more terrifying is that while Fox is unlikely to meet any shinies, he is far more likely to meet a cadet.
And Fox…. Fox would break into a million pieces if he had to watch little sparks be born and grow stronger and stronger until the very force that allowed for their creation, crushed them. Fox just couldn’t.
He chases down another shot.
Fox doesn’t know if he is glad that Ponds died before the rise of the Empire. He is torn between not wanting his brother to die as he had and being horrified by the complete loss of autonomy his survival would lead to. Thorn too, but Fox thinks he knows which one he would prefer. That Vod always did pride his sense of self high enough to go down swinging for it.
Fox winced, that was a little too accurate. Another shot.
Fox had seen his fair share of men coping poorly with the chips' effects. As much as the Kaminoans would like to think their chips are 100% effective, they really weren’t. Fox had seen brothers shake themselves free of the influence or wake up in the medbay after a particularly damaging head injury. They normally disappeared or ended things pretty quickly after coming back to themselves. Fox himself barely registered it at the time, but he understood now, as he downed another shot, that they were the lucky ones. Sorting through the chip's effects while still working under the empire would have been a special sort of hell.
The chip doesn’t take control of everything, leaving nothing but a blank space of time that should have been. It wasn’t the blackouts that the Guard (Fox included) experienced during the war. Why would the Kaminoans care about leaving mental debris behind? In fact, it was both easier and more effective to keep the mind mostly in control and only alter a few select things.
After the order, Fox still thought like Fox, strategized like Fox, talked like Fox, and fought like Fox. But, his emotional responses were so dulled down that an event that would normally trigger emotions in crashing waves felt like a drop in an ocean of calm.
Fox was poking at an open wound now and he knew it. He didn’t care.
Another shot went down.
Shortly after the Empire was established, an order went out to all stationed clones to perform a hard reset on all Republic hardware. Then turn in all gear to be given new “better” Empire-issued gear, which was nothing more than the Republic gear with a new paint job and somehow functioning worse. At the time, it was just another one of the many orders that the chip slipped into Fox’s brain. It made sense to do this. It made sense to follow this procedure. Fox wasn’t even given the chance to question it.
Five days ago, when Fox was doing a deep search through his HUD systems he discovered that he no longer had access to any of his personal data. Chatlogs, holopics, and HUD vids of random moments he had saved purely for personal and sentimental reasons to remember his Vod by during the war, all gone.
Only then did the emotion of doing a hard reset of the system hit Fox.
And it hit hard.
He had barely even felt anything following through with the orders, just a distant discomfort that could have come from anything. Physical discomfort, as if his body understood the consequences of his own actions better than his own mind. Getting the emotional whiplash of realization that He did that. He erased any bits and pieces of his Vod that he had had. Knowing that he had felt nothing while doing so made it even worse.
Fox ended up in a place very similar to this one and put an end to his employment in that town the very same night.
Because he never got any fucking chance.
He didn’t get to make the decision.
He didn’t get to mourn what little personal possessions he had.
He didn’t even have the chance to try and recover them.
Or make new ones.
Or make the Chancellor pay for ensuring he would never get a choice, because he was 39 years in the karking past, with shitty Empire-issued armor, a semi-functioning HUD, and draining blasters. He needed his personal data desperately.
Fox took another shot, dimly registering a ruckus of loud voices rising from the entrance.
When he was with the Guard during the war, it was the only thing that kept him sane. Sometimes his collection of digital mementos of his batch, even when communications lessened and he barely saw any of them during leave, he could still look back and remember a time when he had them. Over time, the collection grew to include Guard Commanders, or a few officers like Hound or Killer, the Guard medic.
Fox thought the isolation in the Guard was bad, but here, there was truly no one. No Vod to check in with daily. No brothers with familiar faces. He needed his touchstones, because they proved that his brothers had (would?) existed, because otherwise there would be nothing but Fox himself that remained of them.
It wasn’t karking fair.
There wasn’t anything in the data that would breach Empire security.
Fox felt his eyes welling up a little. There was no logical reason as to why the data couldn’t be kept. It was his. He needed it. Needed them. And it was all just gone, within a single order. Fox rubbed his eyes in frustration.
Why did they have to go and do that?
Why did they do that to them?
What more could they have possibly wanted from them?
And why the force-loving-fuck did he have to be here?
Thirty-nine years in the fucking past. Thirty-nine fucking years.
What could he possibly do here?
In the middle of the country in Mandalore, which isn’t even a part of the karking Republic. Where he could barely go a couple of days without facing the emotional whiplash of what the chip had made him do. Hells, he couldn’t even go a couple of hours without remembering that he didn’t have his Vod, and the ugly monster in his stomach would reach up and try to choke him again—
Fox slammed, face-first into the bar, letting out a grunt of surprise.
“Hey, watch it,” a slurred voice came from behind him and Fox turned his head blearily to see a heavy-set beskar-armored man stumbling behind him.
A chorus of jeers and laughs sounded from nearby and Fox noted about four other people in similar armor clustered at the table a few feet from him. The man’s friends he supposed.
“You crashed into him Rav, you di’kut” Called out one of the men.
The heavyset man, Rav apparently, flushed and drew himself upright (or at least tried to).
“No! I did not” He slurred, then whirled around to face Fox, mouth open obviously about to say something further. Instead, he just blinked at Fox, a comical expression of confusion, then surprise passing over his face.
“Are you crying?” He said dumbly.
Fox glared at him. Rav snorted. Then snorted again. And again, deteriorating into a series of hiccuping chuckles.
“Are you fucking crying, man” He slurred, “I, didn’t even hit you that hard, I mean come on man,”
More snorted chuckles. They pounded back and forth in Fox’s brain. How much had he had? Five, Six? Shots. Didn’t matter, Fox knew exactly how to handle the man. It never mattered the species, drunks were drunks and Fox certainly had his fill dealing with them on Coruscant.
But, he wasn’t on Coruscant and there was no Guard. This was Mandalore and honestly, Fox was past caring. He could deal with this situation reasonably, step into Commander Fox, and allow Rav on his way. But why should he? What were the consequences if he didn’t? There was no Vode to protect, only Fox and Fox could make his own decisions, even if they weren’t particularly good ones. So, Fox didn’t even bother to stop the words coming out of his mouth.
“These are tears of laughter. I’ve never seen a Verd imitate a Gungan with such accuracy. Karking hysterical.”
The heavyset man let out a few, more nervous, chortles before his eyebrows furrowed together.
“You sayin’ I hit you?”.
Fox snorted. “Not just me. Your buddies in the back too. Is hearing it twice enough to get it through your thick skull? Or do I need to say it again?”
The man squinted and swayed at Fox.
“You callin’ me dumb?”
Fox eyed the man, “Well, I am certainly not calling you smart,”
More laughter from the back corner. Rav stumbled a step forward and pointed at Fox, shakily jabbing his finger as he emphasized his point.
“I didn’t hit you,”
Fox pressed his back to the bar and rolled his eyes.
“See, now I think you’re dumb,”
Rav’s face managed to grow a few shades redder and he shoved his finger at Fox then spun unsteadily around. Took a step, then circled back to Fox, the roundabout motion making him sway dangerously.
“I’m not- I didn’t- I’ll show you,” A meaty fist swung in a long arch towards Fox.
Fox managed to get himself out of the way, just in time, and swing both his arms around to grasp the back of Rav’s head and use the man’s leftover momentum to slam it right into the bar. Fox stepped back, more than a little irritated that he had to give up his seat for the fight.
Then, he realized Rav wasn’t moving.
Fox stared at the man, glassy-eyed, trying to understand. He hadn’t been trying to knock the man out, just stun him briefly. It was at this point that Fox registered the complete silence that had fallen over the bar.
Fuck, was Rav even breathing?
“You kriffing bastard! “ A voice yelled behind him.
Hands grabbed him roughly from behind and threw Fox against the bar next to Rav. A fist hit Fox hard against his jaw. A few more hits followed and Fox tasted blood. He scrambled to bring his hands up to protect his face, more hands reached out to prevent him from doing just that. There were multiple armored bodies pressed against Fox and he could barely tell where one ended and the next began or which limb belonged to which body.
Fox yelled and struck out blindly kicking his legs forward and twisting his body around as much as he could. More hits landed. Fox kicked harder, grunting as he took a blow to the side. He twisted himself to the side and felt his elbow impact with something that made a KRCHAK sound and he distantly registered the cry of pain that followed.
Taking advantage of his opening, Fox threw his entire body in the direction of the noise, pushing out with his knee into someone else. He ended up sprawled on top of a half-armored brown-haired man with blood covering his face. Fox hit him in the face a couple more times to make sure he got the message to stay down before he felt hands clasp around his arms, dragging him backward off the man.
Fox screamed, twisted, and kicked back, but this time he didn’t manage to hit anything. Fox took a boot to the stomach and found himself sprawled on the floor, a fully armored man on top of him. His ribs flared in pain as he took another kick to the ribs and he just barely saw the culprit standing behind the armored man, a long ponytail swinging back and forth like a pendulum.
Then, all Fox could see was stars as the man on top of him delivered a two-handed strike to his head. Fox struggled to remain conscious, his hands grasped and pulled uselessly at the man on top of him, searching for any way to get free or even the playing field. But, the man on top of him wouldn’t budge. Fox jerked his head back and forth trying to avoid the next strike. His hands scrambled uselessly at the man's boots and–
There! Holstered close to his ankle was a blade.
Fox grasped the hilt of the knife, yanked it out of the sheath, and jabbed the man’s lower side in the space between the chest and back plates. The man above him howled in pain and collapsed on top of Fox. The ponytailed Verd was yelling above, but Fox was too busy frantically squirming out from underneath the man.
Fox had just managed to get his upper body out from underneath the man when he felt the man move. He had enough time to panic before he felt unbelievable pain blossom in his left shoulder. Fox screamed again.
The man on top of him grasped the stabbed shoulder and tried to push him back to the ground, but Fox kneed him hard in the stomach. Fox kicked his legs out, desperately flailing them to get out from underneath the man. One of them caught the knife still sticking out from the man's side and pushed it down. The man let out another shriek and collapsed. Fox scrambled the rest of the way out from underneath the man, one hand clasping the knife lodged in his own shoulder. Where had that come from?
“Teclon!” A distraught voice sounded above Fox and he jerked his head up in time to see Ponytail begin to raise her blaster at him.
Fox lunged for the blaster, but fell short, arms wrapping around their waist, knife still sending shocks of pain through his body. They both hit the ground hard and Fox clambered to get a hold of the blaster as the body beneath him writhed and cursed.
Finally, Fox jerked the blaster towards himself, then pushed towards Ponytail, nailing them directly in the forehead. They didn’t let go of the blaster, but their grasp loosened enough for Fox to pry their fingers from the piece, then use the butt of the weapon to hit them some more until they stopped squirming.
Fox let his arm drop to his side, chest heaving and took a look around the bar. It was mostly cleared out, save for the barkeep and a few groups of people who seemed to take “mind your own business” very seriously. Fox gingerly crawled off of Ponytail and rolled onto the ground, wishing that his breathing would please return to a somewhat normal speed now. It was making his shoulder worse.
Fox cannot express how much he does not want to get up right now.
“You better have money to pay for dirtying up these floors. ‘Specially if you are going to be lying on them, son.”
Some things never change.
Fox doesn’t have the money. (Universal Law).
Taking a few quick breaths, Fox hauls himself to his feet, sways, very similar to the way Rav did earlier, and stumbles to the barkeep. He gropes in his pockets for the precious week's earnings and slaps them down on the counter. He turns around and walks out the door, only hitting three chairs, two tables, and spilling one person's drink.
Fox throws up in the bush outside of the bar and looks up to see a sizable crowd of people for the relatively small town he was in. For some odd reason, they didn’t look too welcoming. Fox walks with as much purpose as he can through the crowd, ignoring the murmurs and stares. As soon as the crowd thins out Fox breaks out into a run.
He doesn’t think he’ll stop for a long time.
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A short time later, Fox stops running.
Knife wounds are a bitch.
Fox swears his shoulder didn’t hurt this much earlier. He slows his pace to a walk, deciding that he had put, if not a sizable distance, at least A distance between himself and the town. Alpha-17 had trained all the CCs to be able to keep a six-click-per-hour pace with full gear and pack. This was considerably less than that.
Fox didn’t care. If Alpha-17 cared so damn much he could find a way to time travel thirty-nine years and yell at Fox for it, at least then Fox wouldn’t be alone in this mess.
Part of him hoped that this was all some post-death nightmare or Sith hallucination, neither of those were particularly pleasant options, but they had an end.
If Fox truly was thirty-nine years in the past (and as time passed he became more and more convinced), there wasn’t going to be an end. He couldn’t wake up or escape from the nightmare, there was no end to the simulation. Just day in and day out of the same continuous maelstrom of trying to live a purposeful life with no structure, support, or direction.
For the first time in his life, Fox had no idea where he was going. What was he supposed to do? Why did he need to keep doing this? What was he trying to accomplish? Staying alive didn’t require the full attention it did on Kamino or during his service to the Republic and the Empire. Back then, when he wasn’t keeping himself alive, he was keeping his Vode alive and trying to win a karking war.
Here, Fox had none of that. He ate, he slept, and he put one foot in front of the other and then convinced himself to do it all over again. Some days it was easier than others, some days Fox didn’t see the point in stepping forward if he couldn’t see where he was going. Walking as a blind man after living as a man with sight was far more difficult than if he had grown up blind.
Fox halted his slow trek and stood in the center of the road, just staring at the blackness of night ahead of him (It was late enough that the sun would be rising in a few hours). His shoulder was screaming, his feet ached, the rest of his body was beginning to remember the fight, and he could feel a massive headache coming on.
Fox couldn’t go on any further. This was fine. Fox had put distance between himself and the town. He didn’t know how much. He didn’t know how long he had been walking for. It didn’t matter. He was done.
He stepped off the road and into the field lining the edges of the road and stumbled through the uneven ground of the crops. He wanted to get at least out of sight of the road and maybe to a place where he wasn’t going to sleep on some man’s livelihood.
Fox tripped into a small clearing where the crops weren’t growing and there was a pile of kark knows what surrounded by a few scattered tools. Fox didn’t hesitate to stumble over to the questionably smelling pile and throw himself down on it. He passed the fuck out, idly thinking that he didn’t particularly care if he woke up or not.
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Fortunately (or unfortunately) Fox was roused from his sleep after a few hours. Unfortunately (Or fortunately) it was not the sunrise that did so, even though it had just barely risen.
Fox woke to a deep baritone voice.
“My, My, aren’t I popular this week,”
Shit.
Chapter 2: Fox Learns That His Trainer Had A Childhood (Surprise!)
Notes:
This chapter has been a long time coming; many apologies for making everyone wait so long. This chapter involved a lot more research into Mandalorian culture and language, which are featured throughout. That being said, Mando'a is used in this fic, and translations are supplied in the end notes. Additionally, I have hodge-podged my own vision of Mandalorian culture, via picking and choosing through canon. So, if you notice anything different from canon, know that I am likely aware of the inaccuracy and am embracing it. If you have any questions about my decisions, I would be more than happy to respond in the comments.
Credit to thebluescreen for betaing.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Fox jerked his head around and snapped his eyes open in the direction of the voice.
Or, at least he tried.
The moment Fox went to move his head, he felt excruciating spasms of pain echo throughout his body, and his muscles ceased and spasmed. He let out a choked cry.
“Yeah, you’re not looking too well there, are you, Verd?” The voice circles around Fox, and a pair of legs enters Fox’s vision. Blue work pants fold as the man kneels down to put his face eye level with Fox’s.
He looked older than he probably was. Skin weathered a deep tan from long hours spent out in the sun, wrinkle lines just barely beginning to show around the eyes. Fox thought he could see a few streaks of grey in the thick black hair that framed his features. But what made Fox think the man younger than he appeared was his eyes. They were deep brown and held a bright spark of intelligence and fire. He eyed Fox confidently and cautiously, like a man used to sizing up possible opponents and knowing how to do it well.
“I’ll tell you what, why don’t you answer a couple of questions for me and we will see about getting that knife out of your shoulder, eh?”
Fox watched as one of the man’s hands drifted close to his belt on his far side and out of Fox’s sightline. The other hand clasped a rifle. Like the man’s face, the hand was weathered and worn from farm work. But, it had scarring that Fox could recognize as getting into a few fistfights and being a touch too brash during knife fights. There were two things that Fox was willing to bet his life on at that instant. One, the man was a little more than a simple farmer, and two, his second hand was most assuredly on a secondary weapon.
Fox tried to nod his head, but was reminded as to why that was such a bad idea when his neck protested and his body racked with spasms again. He let out an aborted hiss of pain. Once everything settled into a dull throbbing ache, Fox wet his mouth, attempting to swallow a few times before rasping out,
“Yes.”
The man flashed his teeth at Fox in a manner that might have been an encouraging grin but for his hard eyes.
“Alright. Who are you traveling with, Verd?” He asked calmly, as if he were asking about the weather. Fox blinked at him. Who was he traveling with? Traveling with? Fucking no one, that's who. Fox can only remember the previous night in bits and pieces. The bar. The drinks. No Vod, cause there would never be any Vod. A fight, Fox barely remembers. He might have stabbed someone. He definitely got stabbed. Then, the running and the walking. Most of which Fox is pretty damn certain wouldn’t have happened if he had had one of his Vode with him.
“Mmm. Alone.” Fox slurred out. The man’s eyes narrowed. He doesn’t believe him. Fox tried to explain. “Hmmm. Always gonna be alone. They’re all gone. They-” Fox’s voice breaks, and he begins to wet his mouth again. He needed to make the man understand.
“Ah. I see, alright, no need to explain yourself further, lad. You got a Clan name?”
Fox breathed an internal sigh of relief that the man understood him, then snorted in response to the second question.
“No,“ He paused for breath. “No clan name. Don’t get a clan name. Don’t meet -,” another snort. “-proper requirements,”
This time, the man just seemed confused.
“You wear armor. Mandalorian armor. Did you steal it?”
“I didn’t steal it,” Fox snarled, his neck twisting as he moved to protest. More spasms, a little less painful this time. “‘S duraplast not Beskar’gam. No clan.” *Not technically Mandalorian. Not technically sentient.* But, Fox wasn’t about to out himself to the man. If he could keep thinking of Fox as having a similar status to him, he was more likely to treat Fox’s wound and not throw him out to waste.
The man stared at Fox, brow slightly furrowed, trying, unsuccessfully, to parse through Fox’s logic. Fox waited him out. The man was silent for a few more beats before shaking his head, dismissing any questions he had.
“How’d you end up with a knife in your shoulder?”
Fox winced. He didn’t exactly have a good answer for that one. He hadn’t been on the moon long enough to pick up on what normally occurred and how he could use that to spin a story. Honesty, it was.
“Bar fight.” -Honesty with as little information as possible.
The man raised his eyebrows at him.
“You’re looking pretty severe for a bar fight,” Fox huffed.
“It was one against four. At least I walked away from it.”
“Uh-huh. And how’d this… barfight start?” Fox sighed; everything was still in bits and pieces.
“I don’t exactly remember?”
“You. Don’t. Exactly. Remember?” Fox winced internally. None of this was about to sound good.
“I was pretty far along… y’know…” The man let out a loud, hollow laugh.
“Oh, I know, lad, your eyes have been squinting far too much, the sun has barely risen, it’s not that bright.
Shit. The man was standing directly in front of the sun, too. Fox had probably been squinting at him this entire time.
“You throw the first punch?”
“No,” But he probably didn’t try and stop it. If Fox knew anything about himself.
“You know the people you fought?”
“No.”
“You know anything about your night last night?” Fox smiled weakly at the man.
“Got stabbed.”
“You got stabbed, oh well, there you go, congratulations. You stab anyone back?” Fox perked up,
“Yes.”
“Yes?!”
“Yes.” A long beat of silence followed Fox’s confirmation.
“Lots of knives being thrown around in bar brawls. I don’t recall that happening too frequently in my days. Any other unorthodox weapons used in this brawl of yours?”
“Gun.”
“Gun?! Now, hold on. You sure?”
“No,” Fox insisted, “The last one drew a gun on me. But got it away from them and used it to knock them out,”
Fox laughed, “Idiot was wearing full armor but not the helmet, easy to knock out.”
The man paused his disbelief and sat quiet a moment.
“Armor? These people were armored?”
Fox’s shoulder was beginning to burn; he was getting tired of questions. He let his eyes fall closed.
“Yes. Armor. Beskar’gam. Only one person wore a helmet, their mistake.”
Silence.
“Four against one. They had full Beskar’gam, and I have crumbling-”
“Clans. What clans were they from?” The man demanded, and Fox forced his eyes open again, to see the man searching him over with new eyes.
“I don’t know clans,” The man let out a hiss of annoyance and shook his head.
“Colors! Colors on their armor!”
Armor colors? Fox hadn’t been paying much attention to those. In the Vode, colors meant your battalion. Mandalore colors seemed to be whatever the kriff people wanted, but this man seemed to think them important.
“Blue and black”
The man rocked back on his heels and eyed Fox for a long moment. He pursed his lips and sighed.
“I believe you. Being very short with your words there. But— ” He gives Fox a light jab around where the knife is sticking out. “I think I’ll be able to handle any trouble from you.”
With that disturbingly true statement, the man rose to his feet and offered his hand out.
“Come on. Let’s get you taken care of.”
Fox stared at the hand a moment, dreading moving more than he had to.
“Or if you want, I can get a wheelbarrow and haul you back to the barn, like a princess,”
Fox growled, reached for the hand, and pulled himself up in one go. He let out a yelp as his left shoulder protested loudly. The man grabbed his other arm and, taking as most of Fox’s weight, he set a pace for the two of them down the path.
“I’m J’mee of Clan Fett. Who are you?”
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Clones weren’t Mandalorian, according to Jango Fett. They couldn’t be, no soul, nothing to send to the Manda that the man had so callously explained to Ponds after he asked one too many questions. They were just empty husks with all of the physical traits and the ability to act completely in line with Mandalorian values, but no hearts to beat in sync with Mandalore’s drums.
However, they were raised by the Cul’da’var, a primarily Mandalorian group. Claiming that the trainers did not pass on their culture onto their trainees would be like trying to claim Jedi were clumsier than a Gungan on land. Karking impossible. Not only because the Kaminoans worked so hard to deprive their products of developing cultural touchstones, but also because Mandalorian culture itself focuses (almost an unhealthy amount from an outsider perspective) on the training and raising of warriors, which wasn’t so far off from what the trainers had been asked to do. Cultural absorption was inevitable, hells it was destined the second Fett put pen to paper and agreed to contract with the Kaminoans.
From the trainers, knowledge and tradition were passed down Vod to Vod, Alpha to CC to CT. They learned new vocabulary and grammar. Vids of trainees conversing fluently in Mando circulated amongst the Vod, especially dedicated to learning the language. Older Vod preached the core values of warriors to each other. They were different than that of a soldiers, they gave the Vod more to strive towards than marching into meaningless death. And when deaths occurred, every Vode fell towards the Mandalorian rituals, “not dead, just marching on,” whispered to each other in the bunks after curfew. Being able to remember those lost was perhaps the greatest gift to the Vod, who faced death daily. The beliefs prevented them from being lost in a sea of death with no reconciliation.
But Fett was right. Clones weren’t Mandalorian. They swore no oaths, they performed no verd’gotten. Hells, they didn’t even age right. And in Fox’s opinion, they didn’t need to.
Every clone had their own unique relationship with Mandalorian culture. Some went all in, believing and identifying themselves to be fully Mandalorian. Others might shun it completely, still using aspects of the culture to interact with their brothers, but stubbornly resistant to the idea of being Mandalorian. For Fox, the Mandalorian culture was like a glove. It fit over Jango and his Cul’da’var dictated their moves and their beliefs, all while their hearts beat to the song of Mandalore, slow and steady. A centuries-old song, wisened by years of war, infighting, and tragedy, but still retains a fearsome atin pulse. The glove fit over the Vod and guided them, filling in the gaps of their lives with a purpose more than themselves, a further connection to each other and those they lost. The beat of the Vode’s song is strong, young, and desperate; it thrums with love and care for each other and grim hope that their lives will amount to more than the purpose of their creation. Both can claim the values of Mandalorian culture, but cannot claim to be the same. Fox took what he wanted from the culture to better connect himself to his brothers, and dismissed other portions as irrelevant to his own life.
At the moment, Fox is wishing he had spent more time trying to understand the nuances of Mandalore’s cultures rather than simply accepting its integration into Vode culture. Do Mandalorians tend to repeat clan names often?
Is Fett a common identifier on Mandalore or Concord Dawn? Fox had met multiple Saxons and Bralors in various towns. So, maybe common surnames were a thing on Mandalore? J’mee probably happened to have the same last name. Fox could see his Vode’s face reflected on his face. Mandalorian culture was one thing to let leak, but karking no one knew anything about Jango Fett’s personal life before Kamino. Well, they all knew his reputation, Jedi killer, the stereotype for a Mandalorian warrior, bounty hunter, none of which gave away any personal details of the man. Nothing that Fox might use to identify the man in front of him. No way of knowing if the man beside him could be the brother of the man he knew or a distant relative.
What did the man make of Fox? If Fox had been able to see the similarities between the two of them, stabbed and hungover as he was, J’mee could definitely see the likeness. Did he find it strange? To have a man he didn’t recognize but clearly shared genes with passed out in his fields. Or was he used to seeing his features on a stranger's face? Not in the way Fox was used to; identical faces trained to form identical expressions and think identical thoughts. But, the same eyebrows on the man who took your tickets at the spaceport, the woman and child at the supermarket who have the same nose as you. The same smile as the young warrior helping you load your cart.
Shrieks and laughter interrupted Fox’s thoughts.
Apparently, J’mee Fett’s homestead wasn’t a long way from where Fox had chosen to collapse the previous night. The sun was fully in the sky, which was wreaking absolute havoc on Fox’s head, when they emerged into a dirt-packed clearing. As they rounded the corner of a rusted blue shed, the source of the commotion became clear.
Children.
A loud shriek echoed around Fox’s skull, and his headache spiked as he tried to whip his head around. Children. Somehow, Fox had failed to consider that possibility.
J’mee and Fox stumbled to a halt at the shed's edge, watching the scene play out in front of them.
A stocky, energetic young girl with stringy blonde hair was cackling like a madwoman, a big metal bucket clutched in two hands as she chased down a smaller, shrieking dark dark-haired boy. The chase only lasted a few seconds before she hurled the contents of the metal bucket at the boy, letting out a cry of victory as the boy took a bucket's worth of water to the face.
“Ad! N’akaani”
The two children immediately whirled around to face Fox and J’mee as the man called out to them, and Fox had to remind himself that he still had a knife in his shoulder, and laughing would hurt. But, the children looked so clearly caught, guilt written plainly across their faces, even shinies could hide it better than that. Hells, cadets.
Fox held in his laughter as he watched the expressions on the children's faces transform rapidly from shock, alarm, fear, guilt, and worry as they looked at J’mee, glanced at each other, then raced to offer the man an explanation. Clearly, thinking that if they could explain things first, they could blame the entire situation on the other. J’mee cut them off with a string of Mando’a too fast and complex for Fox to catch.
Damn. A few months on Concord Dawn had done wonders for Fox’s Mando’a comprehension. But, J’mee had a way of enunciating that threw off Fox’s ability to comprehend what he said. Maybe if he slowed things down, Fox could get a grasp on it, but Fox wasn’t sure how well that request would be accepted.
The two kids scattered at J’mee’s words, the blonde snatching up the bucket again and the boy burnette running into what appeared to be the main homestead. J’mee began to move himself and Fox forward again with a hum of amusement.
He spoke again, this time in basic, and Fox’s poor head thanked him.
“Kids, what are we going to do with them?”
Fox had no kriffing clue.
J’mee led Fox into the same homestead that the boy had disappeared into, steering him into the main room of the house. An older woman, with stringy blonde hair matching that of the young girl’s, turned and raised her eyebrows as J’mee and Fox entered the doorway.
“Su cuy’gar Verd” She said, dryly. J’mee winced as he settled Fox on the bench of a long wooden table.
“Vaar’tuur Cycare” J’mee responded, sounding a bit apologetic.
“Ni’Haatayli tion cuyi nakar’ad” The words were perfectly polite, but there was an underlying steel to her tone that had Fox on edge. That type of tone normally meant someone was displeased, and Fox really didn’t have any energy to get himself out of any trouble at the moment.
J’mee began a rushed string of Mando’a, essentially muttering the words under his breath as he spoke to her in a serious tone. The woman held up her hand to stop him.
“You are being rude J’mee,” She said, in basic. “Our guest appears to have a knife in his shoulder. Why don’t you see to that? The rest can wait.”
Fox wouldn’t say that this new woman was trustworthy. However, in this upside down world of no Vode, no way to return and no way to remember, wishing that his shoulder would just go numb and someone would do him the favor of dimming the sun, she was now a part of the three-person team “get the knife out of Fox’s shoulder”. Fox appreciated that. That is where his bar is.
He leaned his head against the cooler wood of the table and let out a soft groan. He couldn’t have been awake for a little over an hour, less than, but already he felt like his eyelids were made out of duracrete. Walking the short distance to J’mee’s house had taken a lot out of him. Fox drifted, and noises of pots, pans, and hushed conversations in Mando’a faded into the background.
A hand to his shoulder brought him to, and J’mee’s serious face came into focus. A sizeable-looking first-aid kit lay out beside him, its supplies looking rather depleted. Several towels were spread around Fox and underneath the kit.
Fox sighs; he has a pretty good idea of how this is going down.
The knife came out easily enough. Considering it had been in Fox’s body for several hours, it had pretty obviously missed anything vital. J’mee outright refused Fox’s request to go without bacta and just let himself stitch it up. Fox did a very good job NOT working himself into a panic attack over J’mee’s refusal and instead tried to be more persuasive. He really didn’t want to be any more in debt to the man; he already couldn’t afford to pay back anything, nor was he capable of working right away. As luck would have it, he also wasn’t capable of arguing his way out of a flimsy bag in this state. So, J’mee got his way.
J’mee patched him up with bacta, and Fox felt a wave of exhaustion crash over him, and he nearly face-planted into the bowl of grains roughly shoved in front of him.
Fox blinked his eyes blearily and lifted his gaze to see the blonde woman holding a cup, which she placed next to the bowl.
“Eat.” She said sternly, “You need to regain your strength,”
Fox opened his mouth to protest, but she folded her arms.
“I don’t let guests go hungry, Verd. Don’t insult my hospitality.” She warned.
Fox shut his mouth and reached for the spoon.
Fox barely maintained consciousness long enough to finish his meal. He has vague impressions of the woman moving him to “someplace out of the way”. A bed. Then sweet nothingness for what seemed like forever.
_____________________________________________________________________
The clatter of metal on metal and the chatter of voices seeped into Fox’s consciousness far before he actually woke up, and he floated blissfully on the lazy current of his subconscious as his physical body slumbered. Then, the events of the previous day returned bit by horrifying bit and Fox slammed back into consciousness. Immediate pain greeted him as he peeled his eyes open to evening sunlight, streaming into the cramped bedroom that Fox had ended up in. He had ended up on one of the most comfortable beds that he had ever been on in his entire life. The was pretty fucking low, what with the standards of Coruscant barracks and Kamino. Said bar was becoming a source of a rapidly developing problem of Fox not wanting to get off the fucking bed. And Fox needed to get off the fucking bed.
Fox needed to get out of the bed and out of here as fast as possible, because he had most definitely overstayed his welcome. The welcome that, from the bits and pieces he had managed to piece together, he definitely didn’t deserve. More importantly, Fox had managed to stumble onto a Fett property, likely one of the only events that could start off the chain reaction revealing Fox’s status as not exactly sentient, but a clone. Given the general Mandalorian lust for life that he had gathered from those living on Concord Dawn and the behavior of Mandalorian trainers on Kamino. Fox didn’t think the Fett family would take very well to a copy. Baar ni’runi. That and he was getting increasingly uncomfortable with his shaky math on whether or not the Prime was currently alive and living at this point in time. No one had managed to nail down the man's exact age, and the rumor mill on Kamino had several numbers floating around.
All very good reasons as to why Fox needed to leave as soon as possible. Where to? Fox had no fucking clue. But, as long as it was far away from the Fett family and their business, the better. Lodging might be difficult. Any money Fox had had on him, he had spent at the bar the previous night. The rest of his gathered supplies were stored back at the same town and Fox wasn’t too eager to return after the mess he left.
So, get as far away from the Fett farm, probably by walking again (Cause why would he have any kind of transport). Find the nearest town (not the one he came from). Beg for work, again. Find shelter (preferably with a roof, but Fox would likely be in the woods the first few days, again). Hope the town had more friendly regulars, again.
Wow, Fox was really starting to find a nice routine for himself here. That’s depressing.
He heaved a sigh, and his ribs twinged in protest. Okay, new revision. Find the nearest town. Acquire medical supplies, preferably by paying (Him and what money, begging?), but Fox would probably be stealing, again. Then find work. A small, viscous part of Fox’s brain pointed out that it would be far easier to simply take the food and medical supplies from the Fetts. An even darker voice told him that he could even solve his many issues. But he dismissed them both. Fox needed to leave with as few issues as possible, with no chance of J’mee Fett wanting to schedule a follow-up between Fox and the business end of his rifle.
Or he could stay in this bed the traitorous thought crossed his mind.
No. Nope. Absolutely not.
Fox was getting out of the fucking comfortable bed.
The loss pained him far more than it should have, the loss of the bed or possibly the pulsing stab wound in his shoulder. Something was causing him pain. Fox couldn’t be bothered to figure out which.
He moved out of the room and down a short hallway, towards the source of all the voices. The Fett Family had gathered in the main room for what appeared to be dinner. J’mee Fett sat at the end of the table with his neck craned to engage his wife, standing in the kitchen, in a rapid-fire Mando’a discussion. The same young boy stood on his knees facing away from Fox on the bench, hollering to apparently everyone, and his sister huddled over a datapad next to him.
The matron of the family was the first to notice Fox’s unsteady approach, cutting whatever statement she was making off mid-sentence, eyes darting away from J’mee to Fox. J’mee turned at the interruption and dropped the relaxed aura he had settled into in the space shared with members of his closest family.
“Mortuta oyayc, Verd” J’mee pitched his voice loud enough to carry over his son’s hollering. At his father's words, the boy abruptly fell silent and spun around, nearly falling off his seat in the process. For a split second, as the boy tittered on the edge of his seat, Fox saw Rex spinning around to find Cody in the mess hall on Kamino. Then, the kids shaggy brown hair returned and Rex disappeared.
The Fett household had fallen silent, all members staring at Fox in the doorway as his eyes lingered on the young boy. J’mee’s wife set her work down with a loud clatter, muttering to herself under her breath and marched over to Fox. She began addressing Fox in a rather severe tone of Mando’a, much to quickly for him to follow, a look of frustration covered his face as she moved to grab him.
Fox stumbled a few quick steps back, which only served to irritate he further, before she successfully grabbed Fox’s wrist and dragged him over to the table with the rest of the Fetts, forcing him down across from the children. Fox’s shoulder complained at the rough handling, then he registered the mouth-watering smell of food, and Fox realized just how hungry he actually was.
The woman had stopped talking at Fox, and when he looked up, Fox saw her blinking expectantly at him. Shit. Had she asked him a question? Fox slowly shook his head back at her, unsure what had been asked of him. Apparently, this was the wrong response, because the woman’s brows furrowed in brief confusion, and an expression of irritation appeared. More Mando’a, still too quick for Fox to understand, but this time he could tell that she was asking him questions, many questions. Fox grimaced.
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” He basic coming out rough and cracked from his dry throat. A look of shock passed over the woman's face as he started talking “I’m afraid I don’t understand,”
“You do not understand Mando’a?” The woman said in accented Basic, sounding surprised. Her eyes shot to J’mee’s with an expression almost like accusation, J’mee looked like he was ready to intervene in the conversation if Fox answered incorrectly. Fox hesitated.
“Not when you speak it so quickly,”
J’mee snorted, “And here I thought the spirits had taken a bad vengeance on you. This morning, we were slowing everything down to try to get you to understand. Sera here was worried about a severe concussion.”
The woman, Sera, now towering above Fox as he sat on the bench at the table, pursed her lips and walked back to the kitchen without a word. Fox cast a desperate look at J’mee, who looked unnerving unconcerned. The boy across from Fox had broken out of his awe-struck state, he had frozen into when Fox sat down at the table, and was now engaged in an excited chatter of whispered Mando’a with his sister. Clearly about Fox. Neither sibling was subtle.
“How are you feeling, Verd?” J’mee said drawing Fox away from the chattering kids.
“Better, sir, “ Fox responded, “Thank you for all of your generous hospitality. If there is anything I can do to repay—”
Angry Mando’a spewed from the kitchen, and Fox’s mouth slammed shut. He sent a nervous look towards J’mee, and J’mee’s lips twitched.
“You don’t need to repay us anything, son. We Fetts, always help those in need of our aid. It’s a lonely world out there.” He directed the latter half to both Fox and his Ad, as if he was trying to reassure Fox while instilling a life lesson in his children at the same time. The two kids stopped chatting at their father's more serious tone.
Fox didn’t believe him; nothing came for free in life.
He opened his mouth to protest and settle his debts on his own terms as opposed to owing J’mee a favor later. Sensing his motivations, J’mee cut him off before he could speak.
“Plus, you wouldn’t want to reject Sera’s kind hospitality. She might take offense,” J’mee showed his teeth in the same not smile he had originally greeted Fox with. The last thing Fox wanted to do was get on the woman’s bad side. Right now, he was pretty sure J’mee was the only reason he was allowed to be in their home. If it were left to Sera, he wouldn’t have been let past the door.
More angry Mando’a sounded from the kitchen, confirming Fox’s suspicions. He decided to let the matter lie for now, vowing to find a way to repay J’mee before he left. He knew what happened when he owed favors to others.
A bowl of stew clattered in front of him, and he jolted, turning to find Sera behind his shoulder. She followed the stew up with some slices of bread on a plate, placed next to Fox’s good arm. She fixed her husband a glare and, without looking at Fox, she said,
“Epa”
Fox wasn’t sure if she was insulting him by speaking in simple Mando’a, but he knew a command when he heard one. He lifted a spoonful of the stew to his lips. It was spicy, most dishes on the planet were (Something Fox had had to get used to after subsisting so long on ration bars), with an undertone of more earthy flavors. It tasted similar to the yai’pirpaak that Fox had grown used to having whenever he picked up an odd job on the farms. Although each farm’s recipe seemed to differ slightly. Sera’s dish had a touch more spice than usual, and the greens, tubers, and meat were blended in, causing the dish to have a more smooth texture.
Fox made it three spoons into the stew before the younglings began their whispering once more. J’mee’s wife emerged from the kitchen carrying a bowl of stew for herself. She sat down at the table, seating herself next to Fox. She cleared her throat loudly, silencing the two children.
“Children, don’t be rude. The Verd is called Fox. Your father is letting him stay,” She spoke Basic slowly, with a heavy Mandalorian accent. The young boy rocketed around in his seat, leaning on his extended arms, sending his torso across half the table.
“You are a Verd? Do you have any guns? What happened to your arm? Did you get in a fight? Who did you fight? What did they do? How did my dad find you? Did my dad get in a fight?” The boy chattered questions at Fox rapid fire, rocking back and forth on his hands. For a brief moment, Fox saw Bly asking questions of Alpha-17 in a similar manner in the mess hall. But the dark brown wood of the Fett’s dining table, as opposed to Kaminoan white, snapped him out of it.
“Jango!” His mother snapped “N’ke’tioni jag”
Fox distantly registered the mother telling Jango off, but it was drowned out by his heartbeat in his ears. This was Jango Fett. His creator. His trainer. The face known across the galaxy. This boy in front of him that reminded him so thoroughly of his brothers, because he was genetically identical. This boy was the original. The Prime.
He didn’t look like it.
Well, physically, he was Fox’s twin, minus a few of Fox’s years. His dark eyebrows sat low on his face. Hair curled atop his head (longer than any cadets would ever have been allowed to get). His eyes, nose, and mouth all shaped identically to Fox’s brothers. Yet, this boy seemed far more innocent. More curious and more naïve than any cadet Fox had met. His mannerisms, enthusiasm, and positivity were a far cry from the man who had trained Fox. That man had made it his self-assigned mission to hold a grudge against the entire galaxy.
Clearly, whatever had caused that man to hold such a grudge had yet to happen. It was weirdly surprising to Fox. In his mind, the man had always carried that weight. Had spent his whole life being a suspicious and pessimistic presence. Fox had never even thought to imagine Jango in one of the cadets running around Kamino. Never thought to imagine Jango’s childhood. Never would have pictured it as this.
Fox ducked his head back down to his stew to avoid getting caught staring at the boy too long. Although with the way J’mee was eying him, Fox doesn’t think it went unnoticed. Fox shoved a spoonful of stew in his mouth before realizing that Jango was still waiting for answers. He swallowed roughly.
“No. I don’t have any guns on me,”
They hadn’t been in his holsters when he woke. He looked in askance at J’mee, who grimaced.
“They are stored in the same room you woke up in. We removed them from you for safety purposes,”
Whose safety? Fox’s or the Fett family’s? Keeping his guns stored away prevented Fox from murdering the whole family in their sleep, if Fox turned out to be that sort of person. It was enough to satisfy Fox’s concern for the moment; at least he had a location. Unfortunately, it did not satisfy Jango's curiosity, and he opened his mouth once more.
“What kind of guns? How’d you get them? Did you fight someone with them? Why do you know Papa?” The boy stopped rocking back and forth and squinted at Fox, “Are you related to him?”
Fox tensed. He mentally scrambled for a suitable answer. What was he supposed to tell the kid? No, they weren’t related. But 39 years in the future, Jango’s DNA would create him. Fox was pretty sure clones had less rights in this era than during the war. J’mee noticed Fox’s reluctance to answer the questions and stepped in,
“Let the man eat in peace, Jango. I’ve brought him to stay here and we will be polite to our guest. That's all you need to know.”
The rest of dinner passed in tense silence afterwards. The kids were no longer able to ask Fox questions, and only wanting to ask him questions meant they finished their meals quickly and left the table, pulling out another tablet for Jango and starting on some holo-game.
As Fox scraped the last few bites out of his bowl, J’mee and his wife cleared the dinner table and moved to the kitchen, where Fox could hear the clattering of dishes being washed and put away. Fox glanced out the window to see it was now dark, before turning his attention to Jango and his sister watching the boy’s focused stare as he tried to outsmart his sister. The image of the boy’s face transformed into Cody’s, Wolfe’s, Bly’s, then back to Cody’s. Maybe it was the painkillers, maybe he wasn’t as solid as he had been pretending, or maybe Fox just wanted to see his brothers. Fox couldn’t seem to find Jango’s face in the boy, only his brothers.
The clattering in the kitchen came to a halt, and J’mee made his way over to Fox.
“Now normally, I’d be encouraging you to get some rest while the sun is down. But, considering you slept most of the day away. I’m guessing you aren’t too keen on going to sleep. Join me for a game of Dejarik?”
Fox would never turn down the option of more sleep, not when he had lived so much of his life in lack of it. But, J’mee didn’t seem to be looking for an answer as he moved to get out of the Dejarik board. Fox watched as J’mee set the board down at a smaller two-person table across the room, then slowly made his way over. J’mee let Fox perform the opening move, and then the two of them fell into quiet focus.
They were both decently matched and suffered equal losses. Although Fox theorized that if he had a few more days with the game, he would probably surpass J’mee’s playing. J’mee broke the silence as Fox moved to advance his Ng’ok after J’mee had killed another one of his pieces.
“Interesting moves. Have you played before?”
“No,” Fox had never had a reason to learn, but it was a strategy game, and that was enough for him to be plenty competent at it.
“A strategist then?” Fox let his lips purse briefly. That damned word seemed to be forever attached to him. Strategist. Tactician. Schemer. Diplomat. Fox was a brilliant strategist; he knew it because that is what his trainers told him. Whether or not it was his training that made him one, or the little untrained bits that the Kaminoans could not flush out, Fox didn’t know. What he did know was that it was that title that landed him on Coruscant. Because apparently, such a strategist was perfectly suited to the Republic's wondrous homebase. Such a strategist should be able to maintain and protect the Republic’s most valued members, a senate rotting from the inside out. Such a strategist should be able to think his way out of the position he and his men found themselves in, facing attacks from both sides of the war. Being a brilliant strategist has never seemed to do Fox any good. And here he was on a far away moon, with the father of his genetic primary, and that damned word continued to haunt him.
Fox watched as J’mee moved his Monnok in response to Fox’s advance and allowed himself to visibly react. Raising one eyebrow slightly in response.
“Well, I may not be a jag ti mir’kyrbej, but this old man knows a few tricks.”
Fox hadn’t head jag ti mir’kyrbej yet. He let his head cock in askance, unfortunately curious as to how J’mee was choosing to describe him.
“Apologies, my friend. You have a very Mandalorian —” J’mee paused a moment to gesture vaguely at Fox’s general being and Dejarik pieces. “It is difficult to recall that you do not have the language.”
Considering Fox was made from and trained by J’mee’s very Mandalorian son playing not five feet away from Fox, he could see where J’mee was coming from.
“I’ve picked up a fair amount of Mando’a. But not that term,”
“It’s a trained strategist, specifically a Mandalorian trained strategist.”
Fox held back a grimace at that damned word being applied to himself again. J’mee seemed willing to let him digest it for a moment before continuing.
“Your moves are very reminiscent of Mandalorian tactics.” The man gave Fox a pointed look, suggesting that he wasn’t believing everything Fox had said.
“I’m not Mandalorian.”
“Mmm. Yes, so you’ve told me before. And yet, everything else you have done has only convinced me otherwise,
I would not expect an ordinary man capable of taking on several, if you are to be believed, armed and armored men. Nor walking several miles with a knife stuck in their arm. Nor maintaining the levels of awareness you have displayed while on painkillers. Don’t think I haven’t noticed you eying the exits. You know this place isn’t defenseless. We have perimeter alarms, or how do you think I found you?”
Fox played his turn on the board, buying himself a moment to respond. But J’mee didn’t seem interested in letting Fox respond.
“At the very least, you are a Verd. A warrior. Can’t hide that you are a fighting man,”
“And what do you know about that?” For all the experience that J’mee acted like he had, Fox couldn’t put the A to B together as to now the man before him stood as a farmer.
“Wasn’t always a farmer. The farm is Sera’s, I fought alongside other Vode, brothers. Not as long as I could have, but I know a thing or two,” J’mee’s eyes lose focus on Fox for a moment, turning his attention to a window facing eastward. Clearly lost in whatever memory Fox had poked at.
“Fighting men always have the same look in their eyes. Always ready for a fight. You’ve got that look, and if I were a betting man, I’d say you’d been in worse fights than a little bar fight.”
That was a considerable understatement. Live fire drills started when Fox was four, and that wasn’t even counting the shit that went down on Coruscant. If all Fox had to do in a night on Coruscant was deal with a bar fight, he probably would have cried in relief.
“Mmm. That’s what I thought,” J’mee snorts as Fox moves his next piece into play. He studies Fox’s face for a few beats.
“Not Mandalorian, my shebs. What clan did you leave? Was your armor always red and white? You raised by Jeban or Priest” J’mee paused for a moment, and Fox didn’t think he would like what came out of his mouth next.
“That armor used to be blue and black?” This was the second time that J’mee had assigned some other weighted meaning to that color combination. J’mee’s expression turned far more harsh at Fox’s non-reaction.
“Now listen here. You were former Death Watch, you better tell me right here and now. I won’t have you bringing any more attention on me or my family,”
Fox wondered what other attention J’mee thought would Death Watch down on his head. He felt a spark of irritation that J’mee kept insisting on his Mandalorian past that didn’t exist.
“I’m not Death Watch. I’m not clan Jeban or Priest. I’m not anything. I don’t have a clan, and I never did. My brothers trained me and trained with me.”
After a long moment, J’mee relaxed his expression by a fraction.
“You are from a large family, then?”
Fox had a brief moment of hysteria at the wording, large didn’t even begin to cover it.
“You could say that,”
“You making your way back to them?”
The words hit Fox like a freighter, sending him spiraling into the same mindset that led him to the bar, the fight, and J’mee’s home. Fox couldn’t go back to them. They weren’t there anymore. All their faces, all their experiences, their feelings locked away in Fox’s brain and nowhere else. And if Coruscant proved anything to Fox, it was that his memories weren’t always safe. Fox couldn’t pursue that line of thought; he didn’t like the questions he would have to ask himself.
“No. No. I can’t. They’re gone,” Fox’s voice rasped out, hollowed out of any emotions.
Across the room, Jango and his sister put away their game, and the girl left the room. Jango stayed looking at the only other occupants in the room, watching the Verd that his Papa brought home.
J’mees takes Fox’s words for what they are.
The rest of the game is finished in silence. Fox wins. J’mee extends his hand.
“Well played. Y’know, in all my years of playing this game. I have never seen anyone else use that play. Used to win me a lot of money back in the day. Still does. You got a good head.”
Fox shakes J’mee’s hand in response, refusing to give the man’s comments any further thought. As he sat back in his chair, he felt exhaustion roll over him, almost sending him face-first into the table.
“I do believe that's enough activity for now,” J’mee states, reaching out to steady Fox. “Come. Let’s get you set up. We have moved you to the cellar, hope you aren’t offended”
Fox barely has the energy to wonder whose bed he woke up in, he pushes himself to stand, leaning on J’mee to stabilize himself.
Brown eyes follow Fox and his Papa leave the room before quickly scampering away to their room before his Papa could see.
Notes:
Translations: (to the best of my ability as someone trying to figure out the Mandalorian language for the first time. I felt like I had to "make up" or combine a lot of words to get what I wanted. If anyone knows a better way of saying things, I would more than welcome the information).
verd’gotten - Mandalorian traditional rite of passage
Ad! N’akaani - Children behave [Children no fighting]
Su cuy’gar Verd - Hello warrior [You are still alive warrior]
Vaar’tuur Cycare - Morning Sweetheart
Ni’Haatayli tion cuyi nakar’ad - I see we have a guest [I see we are a stranger]
Baar ni’runi - Body without a soul
Mortuta oyayc, Verd - Welcome to the living, warrior [Welcome alive warrior]
Epa - eat
yai’pirpaak - health stew (this is different from tingular because I said so)
N’ke’tioni jag - Do not interrogate the man
jag ti mir’kyrbej - Strategist (specifically a Mandalorian strategist) [Literally: a man with battlemind]In writing this chapter, I discovered that Fox is a terrible character to use as a POV to introduce new characters in a story. He is so damn suspicious and paranoid.
Let me know if there are any noticeable grammatical things or spelling issue. I was fighting my grammar tool while trying to get this posted, so I don't know what I did and didn't catch.
As always would love to hear any constructive criticism or commentary at all!
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