Jetii Mirci't

by lilbuddyBD

Summary:

During a raid on a Death Watch compound, a captive Obi-Wan Kenobi is taken prisoner once more, this time by the True Mandalorians.

Notes:

Finish current fics ❌
Start a new one ✔️

Chapter 1: From One Prison to Another

The sounds of blaster fire through the walls of the compound pulled Obi-Wan from his attempts at meditation. He shot up from the floor and reached out with the Force, an instinct ingrained in him from years of training. He reached the mental equivalent of a brick wall, and hissed out a curse at the Force-suppressing cuffs that sat tightly around his wrists. 

Without the Force, he was forced to rely on his remaining senses. Holding his breath, he listened. In the distance, he could hear the sounds of fighting alongside the blaster shots; the clang of beskar armour, shouted orders, screams from the injured. This wasn’t a readiness drill. The compound was being raided. This was his chance to escape. 

He cast his gaze around the room, but his options were beyond limited. His personal prison held no weapons or sharp objects - not even a blunt object that was heavy enough to be useful. The walls were bare, and the sparse furniture was all bolted down. There was nothing he could use to improvise a melee weapon with. 

The sounds of combat drew closer, and Obi-Wan cursed. He was going to have to fight his way out of this with nothing but his fists. 

Well. He could at least cover himself up a little. 

With no desire to attempt to escape naked , Obi-Wan threw open his captor’s wardrobe, pulling on the first pair of pants he could find with a drawstring and securing it tightly around his waist, then a training sweater. It was several sizes too big for him and hung loosely on his underweight frame, but the sleeves were fitted so at least they wouldn’t be in the way. He considered pulling on a pair of socks, but quickly dismissed it. The sounds of combat were quickly drawing closer, and he didn’t want to be caught unprepared. If whoever was attacking knew just whose room this was, they would almost certainly blast their way in. And on a planet populated by people who were very anti-Jedi, Obi-Wan could take no chances. 

He needed to escape. 

The sounds of heavy footsteps became audible, muffled as they were through the wall, and Obi-Wan waited beside the hinges of the door, breathing as quietly as he could as his heart pounded. His body was weak from malnutrition and he was far too out of practice in combat, but he had no choice but to trust in his instincts. He could do this. He must. 

The door opened. 

Obi-Wan jumped onto the back of the mandalorian that entered from behind the door, wrapping his arm around their neck and squeezing. The mando let out a grunt of surprise, spinning in an attempt to dislodge him, but Obi-Wan wrapped his legs around their hips and held on tight, squeezing his arm even tighter around their neck. There was a shout as another mando came running through the door. Before the newcomer even had a chance to offer assistance, the mando Obi-Wan was trying to knock out twisted and then threw themself backwards against the wall. A breathless gasp was forced out of his lungs as he was crushed against the stone, the angles of the mandalorian’s beskar digging painfully into his chest, and his hold on the mando weakened. 

The second mandalorian grabbed him by the sweater and yanked him off their compatriot, throwing him to the floor with enough force that he was knocked breathless once again. He recovered quicker this time, though, and rolled out of the way of their next attempt to grab him. He shot to his feet, muscles already burning after so long without use. He dodged the punch that was thrown at his face, but wasn’t quick enough to avoid the swift kick to the stomach that followed. He stumbled backwards, and then the first mando was on him, grabbing his upper arm and yanking it behind his back. Obi-Wan used the momentum to spin around, now facing the mando, delivering a swift strike to his neck below the helmet. The mando gagged, letting him go, and Obi-Wan spun back around to make a break for the door. 

The second mando barrelled into him with the force of a mudhorn, wrapping their arms around him as they both went down. Trapped in their hold, his own arms pinned to his sides, Obi-Wan tried to kick out at them, but then the first mando was there, grabbing at his ankles and using their weight to keep him pinned down. Their grip sent a jolt of panic through him, and he let out a wordless shout as he struggled harder, but it was impossible to escape their hold. 

“Give up, kyr’tsad scum!” the second mando hissed, the vocoder of their helmet crackling faintly as they spoke. “You’re beaten.” 

“I’m not Death Watch!” Obi-Wan gasped out, his struggles weakening as his energy swiftly waned. The mando on top of him scoffed.

“Sure you’re not,” they retorted, shifting upwards and using their knees to pin Obi-Wan’s arms at his sides. Hands free, they activated their comm. “We found someone in the room,” they reported. Obi-Wan didn’t hear whatever response they received beyond a very muffled sound inside the second mando’s helmet, but they gave an affirmative in response, and their legs squeezed around Obi-Wan even tighter. Obi-Wan almost went limp, a hairsbreadth from giving up, when the mando shifted, almost imperceptibly, causing their codpiece to press over Obi-Wan’s groin. 

His vision went white, and the next thing Obi-Wan knew, he’d yanked one leg out of the first mando’s hold and kicked them in front of the helmet. The mandalorion let out a pained shout, causing the one on top of him to become momentarily distracted. Obi-Wan twisted, managing to pull an arm free, and when the mando grabbed it, Obi-Wan jerked it downward and used the only weapon he had available. 

He sank his teeth into the second mando’s arm. 

The mando roared, yanking their arm, which only served to imbed Obi-Wan’s teeth deeper past their sleeve and into their flesh. He bit down harder, grinding his teeth. The taste of blood and fabric filled his mouth. 

A fist connected with the side of his head. He shouted in pain as his vision blurred, and the mando pulled his arm free at last. A moment later, though, that same bloodied arm was pressing against his throat, cutting off his air supply. As he struggled to breathe, a hand fisted in his hair, tugging painfully. 

“ Surrender ,” the mando ground out, their voice gravelly. Obi-Wan tried to claw at him with his free hand, but the arm against his throat pressed down harder in response. 

“I- s-surrender,” Obi-Wan choked out, and immediately, the pressure was gone. He coughed and gasped for breath, blinking tears out of his eyes as he was finally able to breathe again, then went limp beneath the heavy mando on top of him. 

“Good decision,” they sneered at him. Warily, the mando raised themself off his hips and twisted him around so that they could cuff his hands behind his back. The cuffs were standard issue, and locked tightly around the force suppressors already around his wrists, which the mando didn’t seem to notice. The room spun around him as he was hauled to his feet, and he swallowed down a groan. 

They led him out of the room on shaky legs, the first mando leading the way in front and the second pulling him along via a harsh grip on his upper left arm. Obi-Wan didn’t try to fight, or run, as he was led through countless hallways he barely even recognised. He’d been soundly beaten, and he barely had the energy to keep moving, let alone launch another ill-advised escape attempt. He was still breathing heavily minutes later as they finally made it outside the compound, and Obi-Wan was able to breathe fresh air for the first time in…he didn’t even know how long. He’d had no way to keep track of time inside the compound. 

The warm sand felt utterly delightful under his feet after so long being trapped in a room made of duracrete, and he let his eyes slip closed for just a moment, curling his toes around the sand as he basked in the sensation of something different. The early morning sun felt wonderful on his skin, as did the light breeze. 

Of course, his enjoyment didn’t last. Before long he was loaded onto what appeared to be a very secure transport ship. He counted at least five heavily armoured mandalorians guarding the row of prisoners strapped down into the seats along the right wall, and another three bearing the medic symbol on their pauldrons moving about checking up on both the prisoners, of which there were six in total, and their own comrades. 

Obi-Wan recognised a few of the prisoners, but couldn’t recall any of their names. The men he recognised, unfortunately, recognised him in turn, and sneered at him as he was loaded onto the transport ship. He immediately dropped his gaze, swallowing down the lump that built in his throat. 

He was shoved down and strapped in at the end of the row, and he tried not to look at the man strapped in next to him. 

“So they got you too, little whore,” the Death Watch soldier, one of Vizsla’s commandos, hissed smugly, leaning over into Obi-Wan’s space to whisper in his ear, “maybe I’ll get lucky, and we’ll share a cell.” Obi-Wan went still. He wanted to lean away, but the hot breath puffing against his neck activated the freeze response that had been beaten into him, and he found himself unable to move. He barely flinched as a large hand slid across his thigh, fingers digging into him. “How long do you think they’ll let Tor’s bitch live?” 

His breath hitched, and the commando chuckled against his neck. The hand on his thigh squeezed tighter. 

“Hey!” Obi-Wan flinched as the mando he’d bitten shouted from the other side of the transport. The bite on their arm was being tended to by one of the medics, revealing tanned brown skin beneath the fabric of their torn sleeve. “Hands to yourself!” The commando sat up straight and pulled his hand back, and Obi-Wan let out a relieved breath, shifting in his seat as far to the other side as he could manage. It was barely an extra inch of distance. 

Closing his eyes, Obi-Wan tried to mediate as several more prisoners were loaded on, and then takeoff preparations began. Soon, the ship was roaring to life, and then they were in the air. He had no idea where they were being taken. He had his suspicions about who they’d been taken by , but he hadn’t seen anything yet that fully confirmed it was the True Mandalorians, led by Jaster Mereel. From what little Obi-Wan knew of the man, he was the far better choice for leader of Mandalore than the New Mandalorian faction the Republic was backing, and infinitely better than Vizsla. Still…Death Watch hated the Jedi on principle. Mereel had personal reasons to despise him. If they found out who he was…

Obi-Wan swallowed down his nerves, and attempted to center himself. He tried to recall his Master’s training, and focus on the here and now, rather than what could be. Force, he hoped his Master was okay…he hoped Satine had managed to find him, after Obi-Wan had been captured. He hoped they were both safe. 

The ship gave a slight jolt as it landed, pulling Obi-Wan back to the present. He opened his eyes to watch as the mandos began unstrapping prisoners from their seats and leading off the transport. Obi-Wan half expected to be passed off onto someone else, but the same two  mandos that had captured him came to collect him again. He got to his feet without giving them any further trouble once he was unstrapped and let himself be led off the ship, following the line of other prisoners being marched out. 

The hangar they’d landed in was huge, rivalling the Temple in size. There were ships of all kinds docked, large and small, many of which were currently being offloaded. None of the other ships appeared to contain any prisoners, from what he could tell. At least some appeared to be offloading items that must have been repossessed from Vizsla’s compound. 

“Stop gawking,” the mando he’d bitten groused, and Obi-Wan quickly ducked his head, not wanting to incite any more anger. 

How long do you think they’ll let Tor’s bitch live? 

A cold shiver ran down his spine. They hadn’t believed him when he’d said he wasn’t part of Death Watch. They thought he was one of them. If this really was the True Mandalorians he’d been captured by, and, really, he had no reason to assume anything else, then he was most likely going to be executed. If they discovered he was a Jedi, he was definitely going to be executed. 

The line of prisoners was led right as they exited the hangar, but, to Obi-Wan’s dread, he was pulled in the opposite direction. Silently, they descended a single flight of stairs, then boarded a turbolift which took them further downwards again for about thirty seconds. They exited into what was very clearly a cell block, and he was led down towards the end. A mando guard stood beside an already open door, and Obi-Wan was shoved inside with little fanfare. The cell was about standard size, containing a single bunk with a pillow and a sheet, a lavatory unit, and a sink. The light above wasn’t offensively bright, but it was by no means dim, either.

Without a word to him, the door to the cell was slammed shut, the locking mechanism echoing loudly in the small space as it was secured. Helpless frustration bubbled up within him, and Obi-Wan sat himself down on the bunk before his legs could give out from underneath him. 

“From one prison to another,” he murmured, closing his eyes. 

At least this one didn’t have Tor Vizsla.

Chapter 2

Summary:

Obi-Wan meets Medic Mij Gilamar, and revelations are had. Jaster needs a drink.

Notes:

I can't be bothered thinking of a chapter title lmao. Enjoy

He was alone in the cell for barely an hour before someone came to retrieve him. 

When the door opened, Obi-Wan was sitting cross-legged on the cot, attempting to meditate. With his hands still cuffed behind his back, the position was somewhat awkward, and his shoulders were starting to ache from the strain. His head throbbed, swelling mildly on the left side where he’d been punched during his escape attempt. His throat ached from being choked, but that was bothering him considerably less than the headache. Every time he breathed in, his ribs twinged uncomfortably. 

“Get up,” he was commanded by the guard that had entered his cell. Female, judging by her helmet. Her voice was firm, and left no room for argument. Despite his discomfort, Obi-Wan uncrossed his legs and got to his feet, suppressing a wince as his aching body protested the movement. The floor was freezing on his bare feet. “Follow me.” 

In no position to do anything but obey, Obi-Wan followed. Once they stepped out of the cell, another guard brought up the rear. Obi-Wan tensed at having another person behind him where he couldn’t see, and had to remind himself to breathe. This was normal procedure for transporting a prisoner. Still, he felt discomforted. 

They boarded the turbolift, the guards standing either side of him, and went upwards. Once the lift stopped and the doors opened, he was led down several hallways through what appeared to be a medical wing. He counted the turns they took, just in case, until he was led into a private medbay. Inside sat a mandalorian man with sand-gold armour, helmet angled toward him with an air of expectancy. Obi-Wan swallowed lightly as he felt the medic’s gaze on him, assessing. 

The guard behind him moved slightly, and Obi-Wan didn’t quite manage to abort his flinch in time for it to go unnoticed by the medic. “Thank you,” he said to the two who escorted him. “You can leave now.” 

The female guard shifted on her feet slightly. “We were instructed to remain with him,” she informed the medic slowly. The medic looked at her for a long moment. 

“This is my medbay,” he asserted, “and my patient. Leave.” 

She stiffened, then sighed. “Alright, but I’m not taking the fall if anything happens.” She told him. 

“Understood,” the medic responded, and Obi-Wan got the distinct feeling he was rolling his eyes. The two guards left without another word, and Obi-Wan was left alone with him, standing stiffly. 

“I’m Baar’ur Mij Gilamar,” the medic introduced himself as, directing Obi-Wan to sit on the med-cot. He complied, though it was a bit awkward to shuffle up onto it with his hands still cuffed behind his back. When Gilamar didn’t receive a verbal response from him, he prompted, “and you are?” 

“Ben,” Obi-Wan told him, meeting the baar’ur’s gaze through his helmet for a moment before averting it and looking at the floor instead. He could feel his heart rate picking up, his chest beginning to tighten. Behind his back, his fists clenched. He tried to think logically; Mij Gilamar was a Haat’ade medic. He wasn’t going to hurt him. Obi-Wan was safe with him. 

His body didn’t seem to get the memo. 

He sat painfully still as Gilamar looked him over, shining a torch into his eyes after he noticed the swelling on his head to check for a concussion. He was informed, thankfully, that he didn’t have one. The baar’ur leaned closer, lightly pressing a fingertip to the swelling on his temple, and Obi-Wan flinched, his shoulders curling forward as much as the cuffs would allow. 

There was a moment of silence. “I’m not going to hurt you,” Gilamar assured him, his voice gentling. “I just need to look you over. Okay?” Unable to speak past the lump in his throat, or even look at him, Obi-Wan just nodded. Gilamar began voicing what he was going to do before he did it, letting Obi-Wan know any time he was going to touch him. Obi-Wan appreciated it. He didn’t want to be touched at all, but having forewarning at least made it easier to control his reactions. Once Gilamar was satisfied that he wasn’t in any immediate danger, he stepped away and sat back down on his chair, grabbing a pen and a clipboard with a sheet of flimsi on it. 

“You said your name was Ben?” Obi-Wan nodded. The pen made a light scratching sound as the medic wrote it down. “Surname?” 

Obi-Wan hesitated for a moment, then shook his head. His mind was too out of order to think of something other than Kenobi , and he didn’t want to give out his real name. Gilamar’s helmet tilted slightly. “You don’t have a surname?” When Obi-Wan didn’t respond past a small shrug of his shoulder, Gilamar sighed, and continued. “Age?” He asked. 

Again, Obi-Wan hesitated. “...what year is it?” He managed to ask, his voice sounding much smaller than he’d have liked. The medic’s voice was heavy when he answered, and Obi-Wan had to dig his nails into his own palms to ground himself at the revelation. Two years…he’d been locked in that bedroom for almost two years. 

“Seventeen, then,” he answered quietly. 

He answered as honestly as he could as they went through the rest of the chart, informing the medic of his allergy to Hoi broth when prompted, as well as his blood type. When asked about his parents, Obi-Wan shrugged again. “No idea,” he responded truthfully. He was about three years old, if he remembered rightly, when he was taken in by the Jedi. Apparently, his mother had tried to drown him in a river, believing his Force-sensitivity to be some sort of bad omen. He had no memory of this, but he did retain a wariness of any body of water deeper than his ankles. 

Gilamar wrote something else on the chart. “Are you sexually active?” He asked next, his voice and body language feigning casualness. Obi-Wan felt his heart skip a beat, his entire body tensing again. 

“No,” he blurted, shame and humiliation compelling him to lie as it swept through him so abruptly it threatened to spill out of him. The words of Tor’s commando echoed in his mind, reinforcing his decision. “No,” he repeated, forcing himself to sound calm. “I’m not-” he ducked his head, unable to even say it. Thankfully, Gilamar seemed to take his reaction as one of embarrassment rather than fear. 

“Just have to ask,” he assured, setting down the chart and getting to his feet once more. The probing questions were finished, it seemed. Thank the Force. “Okay, I just have to get a blood sample from you, and then we’re all finished here.” Obi-Wan nodded, relieved. 

The baar’ur stepped around behind him, and Obi-Wan turned his head to keep him in his line of sight. “I’m going to unlock these cuffs now,” he stated. “Don’t try anything.” He produced a key, a hand curling around Obi-Wan’s forearm to steady him. As the cuffs unlatched and fell from his wrists, Gilamar pulled back, and his fingers grazed over the second pair of cuffs hidden beneath his sleeve. 

Obi-Wan didn’t dare to even breathe as he felt Gilamar tense at the same moment he did. His large hand wrapped around his wrist, and the cuff dug into Obi-Wan’s skin as he squeezed. Obi-Wan let his head fall forward, closing his eyes as his sleeve was yanked up, and Gilamar bit out a curse. His other arm received the same rushed treatment, and the matching cuff on that wrist was revealed.

“These are…” he didn’t bother finishing whatever he was going to say. Obi-Wan heard his comm beep as he activated it, and then again as it was answered. “Meet me in my medbay,” he snapped urgently before whoever he’d called even had a chance to speak, “ Now! ”

His heart pounding in his chest so fast he feared it might jump out, Obi-Wan wrapped his arms around himself, barely even acknowledging the painful twinge in his shoulders. What did it matter, in the face of his imminent execution? 

 

Jaster Mereel, despite everything, had a headache. 

The raid on the kyr’tsad compound had gone entirely to plan. Tor Vizsla was dead, by his own hand, leaving him the uncontested ruler of Mandalore. If, of course, one ignored the problem of the evaar’ade. They had freed dozens of captives, including a disturbing number of children, many of whom had been reported missing for some time now. They would likely all need some sort of rehabilitation. Death Watch was known for being effective at brainwashing, after all. Thankfully, they’d prepared for it, and there were already programs in place to help anyone who needed it. 

The only thing he hadn’t accounted for was the boy found in Vizsla’s room. 

His presence there troubled Jaster, and, despite almost everyone around him celebrating their overwhelming victory, his mind kept coming back to it. He wasn’t aware of Tor having any children, and -

His thoughts were broken as his adoptive son, Jango, clapped him on his back. “Relax, Buir, ” he said with a grin. “It’s over. We won!” Jaster’s lips pulled up into a smile. It was very rare indeed that his hot-headed son was so cheerful. It was nice to see. 

And yet…

“I keep thinking about that boy,” he admitted. Jango’s smile immediately twisted into a scowl, making Jaster wish he hadn’t said anything. 

“The little fucker that bit me?” Jango scoffed, his eyes flashing with familiar anger. Absently, he ran a hand over the bandage wrapped around his arm. Normally, bacta would have been sufficient for a wound of that depth, but Jango had refused, insisting that the bacta be saved for those more in need of it. Though the father in him disliked knowing his son was in any amount of pain or discomfort, he also felt proud that Jango thought to put his people before himself, even in something like this. He had a long way to go, to be sure, but Jaster was sure that Jango would do him proud as his successor one day. 

“The very same,” he confirmed with a small sigh. “I want to know what he was doing in Vizsla’s room.” 

“Join in the interrogation, then,” Jango suggested bluntly. “As soon as Gilamar clears him, he’s headed straight there. Myles will get him to spill whatever it is he’s hiding.” As much as Jaster had faith in Jango’s young friend - he wouldn’t have given him his position as head of security if he didn’t - he decided Jango was right; he would feel better if he was present for the interrogation. Something wasn’t right about this situation, and Jaster wanted to be there to find out what it was. 

“I might, actually.” Jango’s lips pulled upward, evidently pleased with himself. 

“Good. In the meantime-” he was interrupted by Jaster’s wrist comm going off. Jaster gave him an apologetic look, and answered the call as soon as he saw the number. He didn’t even manage to get out a greeting before Mij was talking. 

“Meet me in my medbay! Now!” Mij’s voice was urgent enough that Jaster had pulled his helmet on and was out the door of his office within moments, Jango following close behind. Having been provided no details about the situation beyond the urgency of his presence, Jaster ran. Nobody tried to greet him as they sprinted through the halls to the medical wing, jumping out of the way to let him through. He mentally apologised to each of them as they passed, but didn’t waste the breath it would take to do so verbally. 

In record time, the two of them were outside Mij’s door. Unsure of what awaited inside, Jaster knocked briskly, and was bade to come in. The baar’ur didn’t protest Jango’s presence, so the younger man followed him in and closed the door behind them. Mij was standing with his back to the door, and the young man they’d captured from Vizsla’s room was seated on the med-cot, shoulders hunched and head down, with his arms wrapped tightly around himself. 

“What happened?” He asked, frowning behind his helmet. 

“Show them, Ben,” Gilamar instructed tersely, addressing the prisoner. The young man - Ben - drew in an unsteady breath, and slowly unwrapped his arms from his middle, and held them out in front of them. Jaster was confused for a moment, before he spotted the strange set of manacles fitted around his wrists. His brows furrowed. 

“Those,” Mij explained when no one said anything for a few moments, “are Force-suppression cuffs.” 

Jaster barely even had time to process the revelation before Jango was lunging forward with a war cry. Mij had obviously anticipated this reaction, because he reacted instantly, blocking Jango from reaching Ben and locking his arms around him as Jango fought to reach the- the Jedi. Jaster recovered a moment later, and helped to pull his son back. On the cot, the young Jedi had pulled his arms up to cover his face. 

“Jango!” He barked, making his son go still. “If you can’t control yourself, you need to leave.” He could hear Jango’s heavy breathing through his helmet, the vocoder catching every sound. 

“He’s a Jedi! ” Jango rasped, anguish and fear and rage in his voice. Jaster’s heart broke for him, that even years later, what had happened on Galidraan still had such a hold over him. He cupped the back of Jango’s helmet and pulled him into a mirshmure’cya , letting his hand slip down to grasp Jango’s neck firmly to help ground him. Jango shuddered, leaning into the touch.

“I know,” he responded quietly. “Breathe, Jango. Remember where you are.” He held him until Jango’s breathing evened out, and let him go when Jango pulled away. He didn’t say anything else, and for a moment, Jaster thought he was going to leave. Instead, he posted himself beside the door, arms held tensely at his sides. Attaboy, Jaster thought to himself. 

Returning his attention to the Jedi on the bed, Jaster allowed himself to get a proper look at him. He was much younger than he’d realised. Jaster had been expecting to see someone Jango’s age, in their early twenties, but he’d eat his own hand if this boy had even reached twenty. He was small, and concerningly thin. When he looked up and Jaster was able to look at his face, something inside him lurched. 

Over his many years, Jaster had seen many beings, from dying from an injury or waiting to be executed and damn near everything in between, who knew they were going to die, and were resigned to it. Try as he might, it was hard to forget those faces. 

The boy before him wore the exact same expression. 

Slowly, Jaster approached him, and the boy’s already tense body stiffened further. His breathing was shallow, his chest barely rising with each inhale. His blue eyes were wide and alert. 

He thought he was going to die. 

Against his better judgement, Jaster slowly removed his helmet, and set it down on Mij’s desk. “I am Mand’alor Jaster Mereel,” he greeted, keeping his voice low and level, like he was speaking to a spooked animal. After a moment, he continued, “and you are a Jedi, yes?” 

The boy looked at him with sheer terror for a moment, then schooled his face into something that could almost be convincing neutrality, if not for the way his frame trembled slightly. “ S-su cuy’gar, Mand’alor ,” the boy responded, his voice wavering ever so slightly. Jaster blinked, surprised. “I am Jedi Padawan, Obi-Wan Kenobi.” 

Fuck. A Padawan. They’d captured a jetii apprentice. An old bounty hunter saying resurfaced in his mind: If you want the Padawan, make sure the Master is dead. 

Manda help him, he hoped the Master was dead. 

“And how did you end up on Mandalore, Jedi Padawan?” He inquired. The padawan swallowed, seeming to consider his words for a moment, before answering. 

“My Master and I were sent to protect Adonai Kryze and his daughters,” he confessed quietly. “When he was killed, we were split up amidst the chaos. My Master went to search for the youngest, and I fled with Satine.” 

Jaster remembered that day well. He’d mourned the loss of Adonai, despite their political differences. He had been a good man, and a proud mandalorian. His youngest daughter, Bo-Katan was never found. The eldest, Satine, had turned up about six months or so afterwards, all the way on Coruscant. Since then, she’d put a lot of work into re-establishing the Evaar’ade movement, and was a ceaseless pain in Jaster’s ass. 

“How did you end up with kyr’tsad ?” He asked. 

“We spent a few months on the run, Satine and I,” he began, his voice low. “Eventually, Death Watch caught up to us. I told her to hide while I led them away, that I would double back for her once I lost them. I…I was overwhelmed, and they captured me. Took me straight to Vizsla.” The boy’s voice broke over the hut’uun’s name, and he held himself tighter. “I’ve been in that room ever since. His pet Jedi .” 

Jaster believed him. The boy was clearly traumatised, and he wasn’t stupid enough to believe any Jedi would put those cuffs on themself for some sort of ruse. The padawan was telling the truth. Though, that still left a couple of questions he wanted answers to. 

“If you’re not with kyr’tsad , why did you attack my men?” 

“I had no idea who was going to come through that door!” Kenobi exclaimed, then shrank inwards, lowering his voice. “For all I knew, it was Vizsla, coming to spirit me away before he evacuated. I wasn’t taking the chance.” 

“Well, I can’t blame you for that,” Jaster conceded. “But why didn’t you tell us who you were, instead of letting us think you were one of them.” 

Kenobi’s voice was quiet and resigned as he said, “because I didn’t want to die.” 

Jaster’s eyes narrowed, his attention catching on the phrasing. “Didn’t?” He repeated. The padawan looked down at the floor, shrugging one shoulder helplessly. 

“Didn’t, don’t, it doesn’t matter. I’m going to die now whether I want to or not.” He curled in on himself, looking for all the world like a kicked strill puppy. “If I could make just one request?” He forged on before Jaster could respond. “Will you please send my body back to the Temple? I don’t…I don’t want my Master left wondering about me…”

Manda, he was going to be sick. This boy thought he was going to die, that Jaster was going to kill him, and instead of pleading for his life, his only request was that his body be returned to his people? Jaster needed to set things straight before any more heartbreaking requests or revelations could come out of this boy’s mouth.

“I’m not going to kill you, jetii apprentice,” he told him gently. “So disabuse yourself of the notion. I’m not sure what to do with you yet, but you’re not going to die.” 

The padawan’s head snapped up to look at him, a mixture of hope and distrust in his eyes. “You’re…not?” Was all he managed to get out. 

“How old are you?” Jaster asked. The boy’s eyes flicked to Mij for a moment, before he told Jaster that he was seventeen. Over the age of majority on Mandalore, but still a child in most of the galaxy. Still a child to him. 

Manda help me.

“Seventeen,” he whispered inaudibly to himself. He remembered when Jango was still seventeen… “I’m not going to kill a child,” he said firmly. “For now, I’m placing you in protective custody. I can’t let you go free, being what you are, but you haven’t actually committed any crimes, either, so you don’t belong in the cells.” He looked over his shoulder at Jango, who was still standing stiff as a board next to the door. “Go fetch Myles,” he ordered. “Have him arrange somewhere secure for young Kenobi to stay.” 

Jango practically fled the room the moment Jaster finished speaking. Satisfied that Myles would be able to multitask setting up secure quarters for the padawan and providing comfort to Jango, Jaster returned his attention to the Jedi in question. 

“In the meantime, I will leave you in Baar’ur Gilamar’s capable hands to finish your medical examination. Is that alright with you?” Evidently in shock, Kenobi nodded wordlessly, wide-eyed. Jaster offered him a gentle smile, then stepped back, retrieving his helmet and setting it back over his head. He instructed Mij to comm him again if he needed anything, then stepped out of the room, closing the door just as Mij was saying something to Kenobi about a blood test. 

Alone in the hallway, Jaster let out a heavy breath, leaning against the wall and closing his eyes for a moment. What a mess… of all the things he’d prepared himself for, having a Jedi Padawan in his custody was not one of them. 

Manda, he needed a drink.