Chapter 1: Saalor (Rescue/Salvation)
Chapter Text
The metal cuffs bit into Jango's wrists as he sat slumped against the cold wall of the spice frigate's cargo hold. Around him, other slaves shuffled and murmured in quiet despair, their faces haggard and bodies broken by years of forced labor. Jango Fett might have looked the same to an outsider, physically weak, his armor long gone, replaced by rags that reeked of drugs and desperation. But inside, his mind was razor-sharp, his anger burning like a forge that had never been allowed to cool.
The anger had many targets. The slavers who'd bought him. The Death Watch demagolka who'd orchestrated his fall. But most of all, the Jedi. Always the Jedi.
It was the Jedi who had made this possible. Their betrayal on Galidraan had cost him everything, his family, his friends, his people, his freedom. He had spent years simmering in that knowledge, the rage growing stronger with each passing day of captivity, each humiliation, each moment of helplessness. In true Mandalorian fashion the fire inside him refused to die, fed by memories that played over and over in his mind like a holovid stuck on repeat.
The ship shuddered suddenly, and the sound of blaster fire ripped through the air, followed by distant shouting. Jango's head snapped up, his combat instincts screaming danger even as his body remained too weak to act on them. Around him, the other slaves huddled closer together, some whispering in panic, others staring blankly at the walls as if nothing could surprise them anymore.
The guards in the corridor shouted orders before the sound of their footsteps faded into the distance. The commotion grew louder, closer. Jango tensed, his sharp eyes fixed on the locked door, cataloguing every sound. The slavers were screaming words like "pirates" and "attack" with a desperation that suggested they didn't expect to survive whatever was happening out there.
The door burst open with a deafening clang, and a group of ragtag fighters spilled into the room. At their center was a young man, barely more than a boy by Jango's reckoning, who raised his hand and—
The distinctive snap-hiss of an igniting lightsaber filled the air as the guards in the room raised their blasters to reply.
The sound of the lightsaber hit Jango like a physical blow, and suddenly he wasn't in the cargo hold anymore.
He was back on Galidraan, watching blue and green blades cut through his people like they were nothing more than training dummies. The Jedi had come in the name of “justice,” responding to reports of Death Watch activity, but they'd made no distinction between the terrorists and the True Mandalorians who'd been hunting them.
"We're not your enemy!" Jango had shouted, even as the Jedi pressed their attack. "We're hunting Death Watch too!"
But the Jedi hadn't listened. They'd carved through his brothers in arms, his friends, with the efficiency of executioners. And when it was over, when the blood had soaked into Galidraan's soil, they'd simply left. Left the survivors to be sold to slavers, left Mandalore defenseless, left Jango to rot in chains for years while they returned to their comfortable Temple to meditate on their "peace and justice."
The memory shattered as the pink-white blade hummed to life in the present, and Jango's vision went red with fury. Another Jedi. Another lightsaber. Another chance to watch everything burn while the wielder claimed righteousness.
He tried to surge to his feet, chains rattling, but his weakened body betrayed him and he collapsed back against the wall. The young Jedi (he had to be Jedi, despite his shabby appearance) moved gracefully, deflecting a blaster bolt and sending a slaver sprawling with a precise kick. Behind him came more fighters, some armed with blasters, others with makeshift weapons that looked scavenged. They moved awkwardly, like they'd learned to fight from holovids rather than proper training.
Pathetic, Jango thought viciously. Undisciplined shabuire following their Jedi master like trained strills.
But he had to admit they were effective. The fight was over quickly, the remaining slavers either fleeing in escape pods or lying dead or unconscious on the deck. One of the Jedi's followers rushed forward to unlock the chains binding the slaves, fumbling with the mechanism before finally releasing Jango.
He staggered to his feet, his legs unsteady from malnutrition and months of confinement, but his glare as sharp as any blade. When the young Jedi approached him, offering a canteen of water with that same calm assurance they all seemed to possess, Jango wanted nothing more than to smash it into the boy's face.
"Who let the ad out to play with the adults?" he growled instead, snatching the canteen but not drinking. The Jedi looked even younger up close, sixteen, maybe seventeen at best. A child playing at being a warrior.
"My name is Ben," the boy said evenly, his voice carrying an undercurrent of steel that didn't match his apparent age. "And you're Mandalorian."
The casual observation made Jango's blood boil. Of course he was Mandalorian. Of course this Jedi shabuir would identify him as easily as reading a datapad, probably already planning how to use that information. They always did.
Jango wanted to hit him. Wanted to wrap his hands around the boy's throat and squeeze until those calm eyes bulged with panic. If only he wasn't so kriffing weak, so helpless after years of captivity. The irony burned, saved by the very people he hated most, too broken to do anything about it.
For now, he drank the water and plotted.
Over the following hours, as they transferred to the Jedi's ship and began the journey to wherever they were taking the freed slaves, Jango watched. And everything he saw only fed his anger.
The jetti boy, Ben, moved among the former captives, organizing them with casual commands that were instantly obeyed. Just like a Jedi, Jango thought bitterly. Always in charge, always knowing what's best for everyone else. The freed slaves looked at him with gratitude, some with something approaching worship, and it made Jango's skin crawl.
Fools. They don't see it yet, how he's already controlling them, making them dependent on him. Give it time and they'll be his slaves just as surely as they were the spice runners'.
Ben's so-called students were even worse. They hung on his every word, eager to please, desperate for approval. When he told them to distribute food, they scrambled to obey. When he suggested they practice their meditation, they sat in neat little circles like younglings.
Pathetic. No warrior should kneel so easily.
But what disgusted Jango most was how genuine it all seemed. The gratitude in the former slaves' eyes looked real. The respect Ben's students showed him appeared earned rather than forced. Even their clumsy attempts at Jedi techniques carried a sincerity that made Jango's teeth ache.
He's good at this, Jango admitted grudgingly. The manipulation, the act. Probably been practicing since he was old enough to hold a lightsaber.
When Ben paused to help an elderly Twi'lek woman who was struggling with her breathing, kneeling beside her and speaking in low, reassuring tones until her panic subsided, Jango felt his lip curl in disgust. The woman clutched Ben's hand like he was some kind of savior, tears streaming down her face as she whispered thanks in heavily accented Basic.
Performance art. All of it. Wait until he gets bored, old woman. Wait until helping you stops serving his purposes.
But even as he thought it, doubt crept in like sand through armor joints. The boy's touch on the woman's forehead was gentle, patient. He stayed with her until she was calm, then made sure she had extra blankets and water before moving on. There were no witnesses to impress, no audience for his compassion except other freed slaves who were too exhausted to pay attention.
Jango crushed the doubt before it could take root. Jedi were liars. Manipulators. It was what they did.
When evening came and the ship settled into hyperspace, Ben withdrew to a quiet corner of the hold. He sat cross-legged on a piece of salvaged hull plating, his lightsaber resting unignited beside him, and simply... existed. Just sitting quietly while his people settled in for the night.
Jango had been planning this moment all day. Time to confront the little Jedi, to strip away his mask and show everyone what he really was underneath. Time to make him pay for wearing the face of compassion while representing everything that had destroyed Jango's life.
He approached through the dim lighting, his footsteps deliberately heavy on the metal deck. Ben didn't look up, didn't acknowledge his presence, which only made Jango angrier.
"So," Jango said, his voice thick with contempt, "this is what passes for a Jedi these days."
Ben opened his eyes but didn't turn his head. "I've never called myself a Jedi," he said quietly.
The response caught Jango off guard. He'd expected denial, or arrogance, or that insufferable Jedi serenity that masked their superiority complex. Instead, he got... honesty?
"Don't play word games with me, boy," Jango snarled, stepping closer. "Lightsaber, Force tricks, pretending to save people, you're a Jedi. Own it."
"As you say," Ben replied, still not looking at him.
The casual dismissal stoked Jango's rage to white-hot intensity. "Your people have a long history of kriffing over Mando'ade," he spat, his voice rising despite his weakened state. "Galidraan was a slaughter. You sold me to slavers, you sanctimonious shabuir!"
Finally, Ben turned to face him, and Jango was surprised to see genuine regret in the young man's eyes. "You're not wrong," Ben said simply. "The Jedi failed that day. Failed Mandalore, failed the galaxy, failed you specifically. It was a mistake that cost too many lives."
Jango blinked, his prepared tirade derailing. This wasn't how Jedi responded to accusations. They were supposed to make excuses, to justify their actions with talk of greater good and necessary sacrifices. They weren't supposed to just... agree.
"So that's it?" he demanded, scrambling to regain his momentum. "You admit it and everything's forgiven? My people are still dead!"
"No," Ben said, shaking his head. "It's not forgiven. It shouldn't be." He paused, his gaze steady and unflinching. "There are many reasons I'm not on Coruscant right now. That's one of them."
The admission hit Jango like a punch to the gut. He'd expected defensiveness, justification, the usual Jedi arrogance. Instead, this boy, this ad, was taking responsibility for crimes committed before he even would have passed his verd'goten, acknowledging failures that the Temple itself refused to address.
It's a trick, Jango told himself desperately. Some new manipulation tactic they're teaching younglings. Pretend to care, pretend to understand, get them to trust you, and then—
But Ben wasn't asking for anything. Wasn't demanding gratitude or forgiveness or even basic civility. He'd simply stated facts and left them hanging in the air between them like unexploded ordnance.
Jango opened his mouth to continue the argument, to pour out years of accumulated hatred and pain, but the words wouldn't come. His rage was still there, burning just as fiercely as ever, but it suddenly had nowhere to focus. Ben wasn't fighting back, wasn't giving him anything to push against.
Say something, he thought frantically. Defend yourself, make excuses, show me who you really are underneath this act.
But Ben just sat there, waiting patiently, as if he had all the time in the galaxy for Jango to work through whatever he needed to work through.
The silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken pain and confused fury. Finally, Jango turned away, his hands clenched into useless fists.
"This isn't over," he muttered, though the words felt hollow even to him.
"I know," Ben replied softly, and somehow that simple acknowledgment was worse than any threat could have been.
As Jango stalked back to his makeshift bedroll, his thoughts churned like a ship caught in a maelstrom. Everything he'd believed about Jedi, everything he'd used to fuel his hatred and keep himself alive through years of captivity, none of it seemed to apply to this strange boy who wielded a lightsaber like it was just another tool and spoke of Jedi failures like they were personal wounds.
He's different, Jango admitted reluctantly as he lay staring at the ceiling. But different doesn't mean trustworthy. Different doesn't mean he won't betray everyone who follows him when it serves his purposes.
The rage was still there, still burning bright as ever. But for the first time in years, it was tinged with something else, confusion, uncertainty, the unwelcome possibility that maybe, just maybe, he didn't understand the situation as well as he thought he did.
He hated that feeling almost as much as he hated the Jedi.
Almost.
Chapter 2: Nynir (To Anger)
Chapter Text
Jango spent the next several days observing Ben's students from a distance as he regained his strength. Thankfully they had detox meds for the spice so he wasn't going through the worst of withdrawal, but it wasn't comfortable. His muscles were still knotted from years of hard labor, his reflexes dulled by malnutrition and fatigue, but his mind remained sharp as ever. Clear for the first time in years, clear enough to see through whatever game this boy was playing.
Because it had to be a game. No one was genuinely this selfless, this dedicated to helping strangers. Jango had seen enough of the galaxy to know that everyone had an angle, everyone wanted something. Ben's angle was just more sophisticated than most.
He's good, Jango admitted grudgingly as he watched Ben demonstrate a combat form to his students. Knows how to make it look natural. But there's got to be something underneath all this performance.
There were at least fifteen students, ranging from teenagers to middle-aged adults of various species. Jango had always understood that Jedi only took one apprentice at a time, a Master and an apprentice, training until the student was ready for a solo hunt or whatever Jedi did. But Ben moved among his followers like a teacher in a classroom, offering individual guidance while somehow maintaining the cohesion of the group.
Collecting followers, Jango thought darkly. Building a power base. Jedi manipulation, just on a larger scale.
Some of the students showed promise. A human woman with close-cropped hair moved through combat forms with grace, her borrowed blaster an extension of her arm. A Rodian male demonstrated surprising accuracy with Force-pushed objects, sending debris flying at targets. But for every competent student, there were three who could barely manage the most basic techniques.
Jango watched as a burly Zabrak attempted to lift a small crate with the Force. The man's face contorted with concentration, veins bulging at his temples, yet the box only shuddered slightly before remaining stubbornly grounded. Beside him, a younger human couldn't even manage that much. Some didn't seem to have any Force sensitivity at all.
Pathetic. What's he planning to do with this collection of misfits? Unless...
"Don't force it, Daro," Ben's voice carried across the training ground. "The Force isn't something you wrestle with. It's a river you redirect, not a beast you tame."
The Zabrak, Daro, nodded and tried again, his expression softening. This time the crate rose a few centimeters before settling back down. The man beamed as though he'd just lifted a starship, and Ben's encouraging nod seemed genuine.
Unless the point isn't to make them strong. Unless the point is to make them dependent.
They were not the most impressive bunch, Jango had to admit. Yet there was something about them that gnawed at his assumptions. They trained from dawn until dusk, pushing through failures with determination that bordered on stubbornness when not helping the freed slaves who needed it. When one struggled, the others offered encouragement rather than scorn. They moved as a unit, covering each other's weaknesses in ways that reminded him uncomfortably of Mandalorian training camps.
No. Don't go there. They're not warriors. They're not vode. They're just... confused.
But as the days passed, his certainty began to develop hairline cracks. He watched as a human boy, no more than sixteen, attempted to block stun bolts from a training remote using nothing but a metal rod and his instincts. The first shot caught him in the shoulder, making him yelp in pain. Ben didn't intervene, merely watched as the boy composed himself and tried again. This time he managed to dodge one bolt and awkwardly block another.
"Better," Ben said simply. "Trust what you feel, not what you see."
The boy nodded, his expression hardening with resolve, and prepared for another round. There was no theatricality in the moment, no audience to impress except other struggling students who were too focused on their own training to pay attention.
Maybe he's just a really good actor, Jango told himself, but the thought felt hollow.
What struck him most was their loyalty to Ben, though he refused to call it that. They hung on his every word, not with blind devotion, but with genuine respect. It made no sense. The boy was so young, eighteen would be pushing it, Jango thought, yet he carried himself like a seasoned commander. There was something odd about him, as though he were both younger and older than he appeared. His eyes held a weariness that didn't match his youthful features, and his instructions carried the weight of hard-won experience.
An act. It has to be an act. No one that young could have that kind of experience unless...
The thought trailed off, leaving him with more questions than answers.
One afternoon, Jango decided to test his theories. He approached the fighter he'd seen on the slave ship, a stocky human with cropped hair and a jagged scar running down his left cheek. The man was practicing with a makeshift staff, executing a series of strikes against an improvised training dummy.
"You fought well on the ship," Jango said without preamble. "For someone who doesn't know what he's doing."
The man lowered his staff, eyeing Jango cautiously before breaking into an easy grin. "Thanks. I think."
"How long has he had you?" Jango asked bluntly, nodding toward where Ben was instructing another group.
The man, Korr, he'd introduced himself, blinked in confusion. "Had me? What do you mean?"
"The boy," Jango said, injecting just enough contempt into his voice to provoke a reaction. "Your Jedi master. When did he recruit you? Steal you from your family? Promise you power if you followed him?"
Korr stared at him for a long moment, then burst out laughing. "Steal me? Mate, look at me. I'm thirty-four years old. Ben's barely eighteen on a good day. You think he kidnapped me from my mum?" He wiped tears from his eyes. "That's brilliant, that is."
Jango felt heat rise in his cheeks. "Then why—"
"Because he saved my life," Korr said simply. "Found me in a cantina brawl, drunk off my ass and about to get stabbed by some Rodian whose girlfriend I'd been chatting up. Kid stepped in, talked everyone down, then offered me a chance to do something that mattered." He shrugged. "Never thought I'd be doing anything like this, but here we are."
"So you're what, a Jedi now?" Jango pressed, looking for the angle, the manipulation.
Korr snorted. "Hardly. I can barely move a pebble with the Force, and Ben says that's fine. Says not everyone needs to be a Jedi to make a difference." He gestured toward the others. "Most of us are just learning to be better fighters, to work together. The Force stuff helps, but it's not everything."
The sincerity in his voice was unsettling. Jango had expected defensiveness, worship, fear, something that would confirm his suspicions. Instead, he got matter-of-fact gratitude and the confidence that came from someone who'd found their place in the world.
Later, he tried a different approach with a young Twi'lek woman who was cleaning her blaster with practiced hands. "Must be hard," he said, settling beside her on a crate, "being controlled by someone barely old enough to shave."
She looked up, her lekku twitching in what might have been amusement. "Controlled? That's an interesting way to put it."
"Isn't it?" Jango pressed. "Kid that young, telling adults what to do, how to think. Making you call him Master, probably."
"He's never asked anyone to call him Master," she said mildly. "Most of us just call him Ben. Some of the younger ones call him Teacher, but that's their choice." She resumed her work on the blaster. "As for control... I was a slave before Ben found me. You know what control actually looks like? Shock collars. Ownership papers. Being bought and sold like cargo."
Jango felt his arguments crumble before they were fully formed.
"Now I'm free," she continued, her voice carrying quiet strength. "And I'm helping others get free too. If you want to call that being controlled, that's your business. But I know the difference."
The next day, Jango cornered another student, a grizzled human who had to be pushing fifty, his face weathered by years and hardship. Surely this one would have some insight into Ben's true nature.
"You don't seem like the type to follow a child," Jango began.
The man looked up from the weapon he was maintaining, his expression neutral. "You don't seem like the type to make assumptions about people you just met, but here we are."
"I'm just saying," Jango pressed, "someone your age, with your experience. What's he got on you? What's he promising?"
The man set down his weapon and gave Jango his full attention. "Name's Voss. Been a merc for twenty-three years. Fought in conflicts from the Core to the Rim. You know what I learned in all that time?" He didn't wait for an answer. "Most people who talk about honor and justice are full of shit. They want something from you, and they'll say whatever it takes to get it."
Jango nodded, sensing vindication. "Exactly. So why—"
"Kid's different," Voss interrupted. "First time I met him, I was bleeding out in an alley on Nar Shaddaa. Three gangs wanted me dead, and I'd run out of places to hide. Ben found me, patched me up, got me off-world. Didn't ask for nothing in return. Didn't even tell me his name until I asked."
"So you owe him," Jango said.
"I owe him my life," Voss agreed. "But that's not why I'm here. I'm here because for the first time in decades, I'm part of something that actually makes the galaxy better. We free slaves. We protect the innocent. We fight against injustice." He picked up his weapon again. "Kid doesn't promise us power or glory or riches. He promises us a chance to matter. And he delivers."
By the end of the week, Jango had interrogated nearly every student in Ben's group. Each conversation chipped away at his certainty, leaving him more confused and frustrated than before. These weren't brainwashed cultists or manipulated victims. They were ordinary people who'd found something worth believing in. (Some with magic powers.)
But that doesn't mean the boy isn't using them, he told himself stubbornly. Just means he's better at it than most.
Yet as he watched Ben train with his students, saw the genuine care in his interactions, witnessed the quiet competence with which he handled everything from tactical planning to settling disputes, Jango found his anger gradually giving way to something more complicated.
The boy was different from other Jedi. There was no denying that. Whether that difference was genuine or just a more sophisticated form of manipulation remained to be seen.
But for the first time since Galidraan, Jango found himself entertaining the possibility that maybe (just maybe) not all Jedi were cut from the same cloth.
The Tatooine dawn painted the sky in fierce oranges and reds as Jango loaded the last of his meager supplies onto the small ship Ben's group had provided. It wasn't much (a battered Z-92 Headhunter that had seen better days) but it had a functioning hyperdrive and enough firepower to get him out of trouble if needed. After years in chains, even this humble ship was a freedom he had almost stopped believing would ever be his again.
He sensed Ben's approach before he saw him. The boy moved with that same unsettling confidence, as if he knew exactly where he was going and why.
"Leaving without saying goodbye?" Ben asked, his tone light but his eyes watchful.
Jango secured the cargo hatch with a firm click. "Not big on goodbyes."
Ben nodded as though he'd expected nothing else. "I have something for you." He held out a small datapad, its casing weathered but the display bright and clear in the early morning light. "Information you might find useful."
Jango's eyes narrowed with suspicion, but curiosity won out. He took the datapad, scrolling through its contents with practiced efficiency. His breath caught as he recognized what he was seeing, detailed intelligence on Mandalore's current situation, factions, with strength assessments, leadership profiles, and territorial claims.
Most importantly, the data included a map with several marked locations, Death Watch strongholds hidden throughout the Mandalore system and beyond.
"How did you get this?" Jango demanded, his voice low with a mixture of suspicion and grudging respect.
Ben shrugged. "I have my sources. The information is accurate as of three months ago." He paused, watching Jango's reaction carefully. "There are two Jedi currently stationed on Mandalore, advising the New Mandalorians. Master Qui-Gon Jinn and his Padawan. They're good people, but their perspective is... limited."
Jango's jaw tightened at the mention of Jedi on Mandalorian soil, but he said nothing, continuing to scroll through the data. Then he stopped, his finger hovering over a particularly interesting entry.
"The Governor of Galidraan," Ben continued, as if reading Jango's thoughts, "has apparently acquired quite the collection of Mandalorian artifacts. Including a set of armor he claims once belonged to a Mand'alor."
Jango's head snapped up, his eyes locking with Ben's. There was no mistaking what this meant. His armor. His soul. His identity. Stripped from him after the massacre, now displayed as a trophy by the very man who had orchestrated his people's slaughter.
"Interesting timing," Ben said quietly, "that the request for Jedi intervention on Galidraan came right when it did. Right when Death Watch was weakest. Right when someone might benefit from both sides destroying each other."
The pieces clicked together in Jango's mind like a weapon being assembled. "The Governor wanted us gone," he said slowly. "Death Watch and the True Mandalorians both. We were in his way."
"Were you?" Ben asked mildly. "In his way, I mean."
Jango's fists clenched as the full scope of the betrayal became clear. "We were hired by the Governor to suppress an insurrection. He said he knew where Death Watch and Vizsla were." His voice grew harsh with remembered anger.
"But have you thought about the deeper why?" Ben said. "Who would benefit from your groups destruction? How could they get the Jedi involved?" He shrugged. "The Jedi do what they're told by legitimate authorities, after all."
“So I should blame the Senate?” Jango spat.
Ben smiled mirthlessly. “You could, they likely deserve your ire a few dozen times over, if I’m honest.” Ben paused and looked at Jango. Really looked at him, then nodded. “An ancient enemy is to blame.”
Jango sneered. “Yes, I know, the Jedi are our ancient enemy and I blame you.”
“I didn’t say it was your ancient enemy, Jango Fett,” Ben said with more ice than Jango had heard in the ad’s voice before.
Jango paused and thought about it. To the stories he learned at his buir’s feet. About the warnings of aruetiise who would come bearing gifts. Who would tell the mandalorians what they wanted to hear. Who would do anything to accomplish their goals. But they were dead, weren’t they? "Dar'jetii," Jango spat, the Mando'a curse carrying all his accumulated hatred. But for the first time, that hatred wasn't directed at Ben or even the Jedi as a whole. It was focused on who might be the real architects of his people's destruction.
"Oh yes," Ben agreed. "Hidden Sith. Playing the long game, turning Jedi into unwitting tools. It's an old strategy. Works too well sometimes."
Jango stared at the datapad, seeing his people's deaths in a new light. Not an assault by the Jedi, but a manipulation of them. They'd been used just as surely as the True Mandalorians had been destroyed.
"This is your fight, Jango," Ben said, his voice taking on a depth that seemed beyond his years. "But fight for the right reasons. Not for revenge, for restoration. The armor is just beskar if all you seek is to punish those who wronged you. But if you use it to rebuild what was lost, then it becomes something more."
"Pretty words from someone who's never lost everything," Jango said, though the heat had gone out of his anger.
A shadow passed across Ben's face, so brief Jango might have imagined it. "You'd be surprised," he said softly, before his expression cleared. "Either way, the choice is yours. Your future is yours to decide."
Jango was quiet for a long moment, processing everything he'd learned. When he spoke again, his voice was thoughtful rather than bitter. "What would you do? If you were me?"
"I'd go home," Ben said without hesitation. "I'd reclaim what was stolen. And then I'd start building something better than what came before."
"Mandalore's a mess," Jango pointed out. "Pacifists on one side, terrorists on the other. The land's poisoned, the people are divided. What's there to build on?"
Ben's eyes lit up with something that might have been excitement. "Everything. You could restore the clans without the endless warfare. Teach the warrior traditions without the mindless violence. Show them there's a middle path between Death Watch brutality and New Mandalorian surrender."
"With what resources? What support?"
"The Jedi owe you reparations for Galidraan," Ben said firmly. "More than you know. The Agricorps, the Jedi farming division, they've developed techniques that could make Mandalore green again. Heal the soil, restore the ecosystem. It's not much, but it's a start."
Jango felt something stir in his chest that he hadn't experienced in years—hope. Not just for revenge or personal satisfaction, but for something larger. "You think they'd help? After everything?"
"I think some of them would be eager to make amends," Ben said. "Especially if you approached it as an opportunity to right old wrongs."
"And what about the people? The New Mandalorians won't give up power easily. Death Watch will fight any challenge to their vision."
"Then you give them something better to fight for," Ben said simply. "Show them what Mandalore could be. Not the sterile pacifist paradise or the violent terrorist state, but something that honors strength and wisdom and tradition. Something worth rebuilding."
Jango found himself nodding slowly. The vision Ben painted wasn't impossible, difficult, dangerous, maybe even foolish, but not impossible. And for the first time since Galidraan, he had a path forward that was about more than survival or revenge.
"Ret'urcye mhi," Ben said as Jango headed up the ship's ramp. "Maybe we'll meet again," in perfect Mando'a.
Jango paused at the top of the ladder, looking back. "Maybe," he allowed, and for the first time, the word carried possibility rather than doubt.
As the ship's engines roared to life, Jango found himself thinking that if all Jedi had been like Ben, perhaps Galidraan would never have happened. It was still a useless thought, a rewriting of history that changed nothing. But it no longer felt like a condemnation of everyone who carried a lightsaber.
Some Jedi, at least, seemed to understand that the galaxy was more complicated than the Temple teachings suggested.
The datapad rested heavily against his chest. Galidraan first, to reclaim what was his and settle accounts with those who'd betrayed his people. Then, perhaps, Mandalore itself.
Despite everything, despite years of slavery, despite the pain of loss, despite his ingrained hatred of all things Jedi, he found himself grateful to the strange boy who'd shown him that even in the darkest places, hope could take root and grow.
The weight of the beskar armor felt right on Jango's body as he guided his ship toward Mandalore's atmosphere. The weeks following his freedom had been good, quiet but filled with reflection on what he had gone through and learned. He flexed his hands in the familiar gauntlets, the helmet's HUD display flickering with atmospheric readings and navigational data. Getting his armor back from the Governor of Galidraan had been almost disappointingly easy. The man's security had been sloppy, complacent. Jango hadn't even needed to kill any guards, just a few well-placed stun charges and a quick infiltration.
The Governor himself had been another matter. Jango's lips curled into a grim smile beneath his helmet as he recalled the man's face when he recognized who stood before him. The fear in his eyes had been satisfying, but not as satisfying as the justice that followed.
Fight for the right reasons, Ben's voice echoed in his memory. Not for revenge, for restoration.
This hadn't been revenge, Jango thought. This had been justice. (And maybe a little revenge.) The Governor had orchestrated the deaths of hundreds of good verde, had profited from their slaughter, had displayed their sacred armor like trophies. His death wouldn't bring back the fallen, but it closed a wound that had been festering for years. No evidence, no witnesses, no loose ends. Just one less corrupt official in the galaxy, and one step closer to setting things right.
Now, as Mandalore's scarred surface grew larger in his viewport, Jango felt more like himself than he had in years. The armor wasn't for only protection, it was a mark of his identity and his heritage. It was a physical link to what had been stolen from him. With it came a clarity of purpose he had almost forgotten.
What he found on Mandalore only strengthened that resolve. The intelligence Ben had provided was accurate but couldn't capture the full picture of his homeworld's degradation. The New Mandalorians controlled Sundari (and named it the capital) and also controlled most of the major population centers. They had transformed Mandalore into something unrecognizable, gleaming, sterile structures of glass and durasteel that rejected everything traditional Mandalorian architecture stood for. Most offensive of all were the propaganda holos that played in public spaces, extolling the virtues of pacifism and denouncing their warrior heritage as "barbaric relics of a shameful past."
Death Watch was no better. Jango spent two weeks verifying Ben’s intelligence and gathering more, moving through the shadows of Mandalore's outskirts and observing their operations. They claimed to uphold traditional values, but their tactics (bombing civilian targets, executing dissenters, terrorizing communities, child soldiers) betrayed their true nature. They were thugs in Mandalorian armor, perverting the very traditions they claimed to protect.
Most recently, they had launched an attack on the ducal residence in Sundari. Jango observed the aftermath from a distance, the blackened walls, the increased security, the hushed conversations among citizens. Rumors spread that the young Duchess Satine had fled with Jedi protection, which explained the two Jedi Ben had mentioned.
Jango's initial resentment, at the New Mandalorians for their betrayal of heritage, at Death Watch for their perversion of it, gradually hardened into determination. There was an opportunity here. A space between extremes where true Mandalorian culture could be reclaimed and rebuilt.
Show them there's a middle path, he thought, remembering Ben's words. The boy had been right. Mandalore didn't need to choose between mindless violence and soulless surrender.
He made his first contact in a dingy cantina on the outskirts of Keldabe, once the traditional capital of Mandalore. The place was a shadow of its former glory, but it still attracted those who hadn't fully embraced the New Mandalorian way.
"Su cuy'gar, vod," came a gruff voice from a darkened corner. "Didn't think I'd see that armor again in my lifetime."
Jango turned to find Kal Skirata watching him from behind a half-empty glass of tihaar. The older Mandalorian looked more weathered than Jango remembered, his face lined with new scars, but his eyes were as sharp as ever.
"Kal," Jango acknowledged, taking the seat across from him. "Been a while."
"Thought you were dead," Kal said bluntly, studying him with undisguised scrutiny. "Lot of folks did."
"Came close," Jango admitted. "Slavers got me after Galidraan. Just got free."
Kal's expression darkened at the mention of slavery. "Bad business, that. Glad you made it out. Even gladder to see that armor back where it belongs." He lifted his glass in a small salute before draining it. "What brings you back to this mess of a planet?"
Jango considered his answer carefully. "Heard things have gone to haran since I've been gone. Thought maybe it's time someone did something about it."
A flicker of interest crossed Kal's weathered features. "Someone, eh? Anyone particular in mind?"
"Maybe," Jango said. "Need to get the lay of the land first. See who's still around. Who still remembers what it means to be Mando'ade."
Kal leaned forward, his voice dropping. "More than you might think. Not everyone bought into the pacifist osik. Not everyone joined up with the dar'manda terrorists either." He glanced around the cantina before continuing. "I know a few folks you might want to talk to. If you're serious about this."
"I'm serious," Jango confirmed.
The next day, Kal led him to a nondescript building on the edges of Keldabe. Inside, Jango found Mij Gilamar, the medic who had patched him up more times than he could count. The man looked up from his medkit, his expression frozen in disbelief before breaking into a rare smile.
"By the ka'ra," Mij breathed. "Jango Fett. Back from the dead and looking worse for wear." His practiced eye ran over Jango's frame. "Sit down before you fall down. When's the last time you had a proper medical scan?"
Jango suppressed a smile at the familiar scolding. "Good to see you too, Mij."
"I mean it," Mij insisted, already pulling out a scanner. "You're malnourished, your muscle tone is compromised, and I can tell from the way you're standing that your left shoulder never healed properly." He muttered under his breath as he worked. "Years in captivity and the first thing you do is put on armor and jump back into the fight. Typical."
"Some things never change," Kal commented dryly from the doorway.
Over the next few days, more of Jango's surviving old comrades emerged from the woodwork. Walon Vau, as severe and precise as ever, arrived with intelligence on Death Watch movements. Rav Bralor brought word from the scattered clans in the outer systems, many of whom still honored the old ways in secret. Each meeting strengthened Jango's resolve. He wasn't alone in his vision for Mandalore, and the skills and resources these veterans brought to the table made it more than just a dream.
They established a secure base of operations in an abandoned mining facility outside Keldabe. As they gathered around a holotable displaying a map of Mandalorian space, Jango found himself naturally falling into the role of leader again. The others deferred to him without question, even Kal, who had never been one to follow blindly.
"Death Watch has a few hidden strongholds on world," Vau was saying, marking points on the map. "They're recruiting heavily where they can, kidnapping children where they cannot, feeding them twisted versions of our history."
"The New Mandalorians are worse in their own way," Rav added. "They're systematically erasing our cultural heritage. Traditional language instruction has been removed from schools. Weapons training is forbidden. They've even started melting down beskar for 'civic art projects.'" She couldn't keep the disgust from her voice.
Jango studied the map, considering their options. Ben's advice echoed in his mind: Show them something better to fight for. Something that honors both strength and wisdom.
"We start small," he decided. "Gather more allies. Establish safe spots away from the cities. Show people there's a middle path between mindless violence and pacifism." The words felt right as he spoke them, carrying the weight of hard-won wisdom.
"The True Mandalorians rise again," Mij said with quiet approval. "It's about time."
The meeting continued late into the night, plans taking shape as each veteran contributed their expertise. As they were wrapping up, a commotion outside drew their attention. Jango's hand went to his blaster as Kal moved to check the perimeter sensors.
"Single visitor," Kal reported, his expression puzzled. "Armed, but not drawing weapons. Looks like... but it can't be."
The door slid open, and a figure in battered Mandalorian armor stepped into the light. He removed his helmet, revealing a face Jango had never expected to see again.
"Silas?" Jango breathed, momentarily frozen in shock.
Silas Mereel grinned, though his eyes held a wariness that hadn't been there before Galidraan. "Heard you were back, vod. Figured I'd see for myself."
For a moment, Jango could only stare. Silas had been more than a comrade—he'd been a brother, a friend, a right hand during the most difficult campaigns. Jango had mourned him along with all the others lost at Galidraan.
"I thought everyone died," Jango managed finally.
"Nearly did," Silas admitted. "Took a lightsaber to the chest, was buried under bodies. Woke up after the Jetti left." His expression darkened briefly before the grin returned. "Some of us are harder to kill than others."
Something tight in Jango's chest loosened as he clasped Silas's arm in the traditional Mandalorian greeting. The gesture turned into a brief, fierce embrace.
"Good to have you back, Mand'alor," Silas said quietly.
Jango hadn't officially reclaimed the title, but hearing it from Silas, who had stood with him through countless battles, who knew what it meant to lead as a Mandalorian, made it real in a way it hadn't been before. Not just surviving anymore, he thought, remembering Ben's challenge. Building something worth leading.
As the others welcomed Silas with backslaps and gruff affection, Jango felt something he hadn't experienced in years: hope. Not just for himself, but for Mandalore. With his oldest friends beside him, wearing the armor that was his birthright, Jango Fett was exactly where he belonged.
The path ahead wouldn't be easy. They were caught between extremes, outnumbered and outgunned. But true Mandalorians had faced worse odds throughout history and prevailed. This was their way, and Jango was ready to walk it again.
"Haat, ijaa, haa'it," he thought to himself. Truth, honor, vision. The words of the ancient Mandalorian oath settled over him like a familiar weight. It was time to rebuild, not just to tear down, but to create something better from the ashes of what was lost.
Chapter Text
After Silas's return, things moved fast. Jango and his team struck at Death Watch targets with surgical precision, in part due to the intelligence Ben had provided, which turned out to be remarkably accurate, much to his verd's amazement. Each successful operation strengthened their position and drew more Mandalorians to their cause. Jango kept the source of his intelligence close to his chest; the last thing he needed was his warriors knowing a jetii of all beings had given them such an advantage. And he had collected a good deal himself, to be honest. Some prejudices ran too deep to challenge head-on.
They were en route back to Keldabe (where they had established a more permanent base of operations) when Silas spotted something through the transport's viewport.
"Mand'alor, movement below," he reported, adjusting the scope on his helmet. "Looks like Death Watch, six of them. They're pursuing... osik, those are ade. Two of them, running hard."
Jango moved to the viewport, his own helmet sensors zooming in on the scene. A flash of blaster fire confirmed Silas's assessment, Death Watch warriors were chasing two figures across the rocky terrain. One wore what appeared to be dark brown robes, while the other was dressed in the refined clothing of Sundari's upper class.
"They're just kids," Jango muttered, a flicker of disgust rising at Death Watch's tactics. Without hesitation, he made the call. "Take us down. We're intercepting."
"They could be New Mandalorian sympathizers," Walon Vau pointed out, ever the pragmatist.
Jango's voice hardened. "Ade are ade. Death Watch hunting children isn't the way, no matter whose side they're on." The firmness of his tone left no room for argument, not that any true Mandalorian would.
The transport descended rapidly, its engines roaring as Jango and his team readied their weapons. Once the ship was low enough they jumped and used their jetpacks to slow down. They hit the ground running, closing the distance quickly. The Death Watch warriors were so focused on their prey they didn't notice the approaching threat until it was too late.
Jango's first shot caught the lead pursuer in the lower back below his armor, dropping him instantly. The others scattered for cover, finally aware they were under attack. The firefight was brief but intense, Death Watch fought with ferocity, but Jango's warriors were better trained and better coordinated. Within minutes, four of the Death Watch lay dead, and the remaining two had fled, trailing smoke from damaged jetpacks.
Jango approached the young pair cautiously. They stood back-to-back, the boy holding an ignited lightsaber with a blue blade, the girl clutching what looked like a small holdout stun blaster with steady hands. Both were breathing hard, exhaustion evident in their postures, but their eyes remained defiant.
Then Jango saw the boy's face clearly, and he froze. "Ben?"
The young Jedi blinked in confusion, his stance remaining defensive. "Do I know you?"
Jango removed his helmet, revealing his face. "Don't play games. We just talked on Tatooine a few weeks ago, Jetti."
The boy's confusion only deepened. "I've never been to Tatooine. My name is Obi-Wan Kenobi, Padawan to Master Qui-Gon Jinn. I have been using the name Ben as a pseudonym while on the run, so it is odd you know me by that name." His accent was pure Coruscanti, cultured and precise despite his obvious fatigue.
"Yes, how did you know what I called him?" the girl demanded, her eyes narrowing with suspicion as she kept her blaster trained on Jango.
"I met him on Tatooine? And the spice freighter? He literally freed me from slavers a few weeks ago," Jango insisted, his patience wearing thin. The resemblance was uncanny, but this boy was different, rougher around the edges, less assured, more like what Jango would expect from a teenaged warrior, than whatever Ben was.
"What are you talking about?" Obi-Wan shook his head. "I've been with Satine for the past two months. And I’ve never been to Tatooine."
The girl, apparently the Duke's daughter herself, had clearly reached her limit. She lowered her stun blaster and stepped forward, her posture shifting from defensive to aggressively exasperated.
"Oh, for the love of all that's sacred in this galaxy!" she exploded, her refined accent slipping into something rawer as exhaustion and frustration boiled over. "I have been shot at, chased across half the planet, forced to sleep in caves—caves!—and eat ration bars that taste like they were manufactured during the High Republic. I haven't had a so much as a sonic shower in weeks. My hair is a disaster, my favorite boots are ruined, and I've had to deal with brainless, helmet-wearing lugheads like you constantly trying to kill us!"
She threw her hands up dramatically, nearly hitting Obi-Wan in the face. "So if you're going to execute us or kidnap us or whatever it is you Mandalorians brutes do for fun these days, could we please just get on with it?" It seemed like the rant was over until it continued. "And you didn't even introduce yourself! Just standing there accusing my protector of being someone else, as if one Jedi isn't enough trouble!" She glanced at Obi-Wan and said, "No offense." She paused, looking at Jango again. "The absolute rudeness of it all!"
She turned back to Obi-Wan, who appeared slightly stunned by her outburst. "See what I have to deal with? This is what happens when society breaks down, Ben. This. Right. Here."
A moment of stunned silence followed her tirade. Then a soft chuckle came through Jango's private comm channel.
"Wow," Silas's amused voice said, "didn't know the pacifists had it in them."
Jango found himself fighting an unexpected urge to smile. The girl had spirit, he'd give her that. Maybe there was still some actual Mandalorian fire inside these New Mandalorians after all. He cleared his throat. "Jango Fett," he said simply.
The effect was immediate. The girl's eyes widened, her regal composure returning with visible effort. "The Jango Fett? The last true Mand'alor?" Her voice had lost its edge, replaced by genuine shock. "You're supposed to be dead."
"I get that a lot," Jango replied dryly.
Obi-Wan's lightsaber lowered slightly, though he didn't deactivate it. "If you're Jango Fett, then you oppose Death Watch as well."
"Among others," Jango confirmed, eyeing the young Jedi thoughtfully. The resemblance to Ben was uncanny, yet this boy was clearly not the same person. There was a hesitancy to him, a roughness around the edges that Ben hadn't shown, despite their near identical appearances. How were they so different yet so similar?
Satine straightened, her diplomatic training reasserting itself. "We need to reunite with my father and Master Jinn. They're holding a defensive position on Kalevala, trying to maintain what's left of our government."
Obi-Wan shook his head. "We can't go back yet, Satine. Death Watch is watching all routes to Kalevala. It would only endanger you further."
Jango found himself studying the pair more carefully. They were just kids, the Duke's daughter couldn't be more than sixteen, the Padawan perhaps a year older. Yet there was a determination in both of them that spoke of what they'd endured these past months. The boy held power, Jango could sense, but he lacked the quiet assured confidence of Ben. He felt as young as he looked, a student still finding his way.
"If you would offer us protection," Obi-Wan continued, his tone carefully diplomatic, "it would be most appreciated."
Jango stood silent for a moment, comparing this Obi-Wan to the Ben he'd met on Tatooine. Almost identical in appearance, yet fundamentally different in demeanor. An impossible puzzle that made his head hurt if he thought about it too long.
Children are the future, he thought suddenly, remembering something his own buir had said to him. A future of Mandalore stood before him, both the pacifist New Mandalorians and the Jedi Order that had betrayed his people. By all rights, he should walk away. Or worse.
Instead, he sighed. "Sure, come on. We'll help you out." He gestured toward their transport. "Perhaps we can see about finally ending this civil war."
The relief on their faces made them look even younger. Jango replaced his helmet, hiding his expression as he led them toward the ship. One more complication in an already complicated life. But something about the coincidence, this Obi-Wan and the mysterious Ben, felt significant in ways he couldn't articulate.
For now, he had two more charges to protect. And later, perhaps, answers to questions he hadn't even properly formed yet.
With Jango's communications equipment, they established a secure channel to Kalevala. Duke Adonai Kryze's face appeared on the holoterminal, his expression transforming from tense alertness to profound relief when Satine came into view.
"Satine! Thank the stars," he breathed, his eyes scanning his daughter for signs of injury. "We've been trying to track your position for days."
"I'm safe, Father," Satine assured him, her usual composure cracking slightly. "We had... assistance."
Jango stood back, watching the reunion with a carefully neutral expression. He'd never been one for sentimentality, but even he could appreciate the genuine affection between father and daughter. The Duke's eyes drifted to him, widening in recognition.
"Jango Fett," Adonai said carefully. "Your return to Mandalore is... unexpected."
"So I keep hearing," Jango replied dryly.
The Duke's diplomatic veneer settled back into place. "Perhaps this encounter presents an opportunity. Death Watch grows bolder by the day, and our position is becoming untenable. We have common enemies, Fett. Perhaps we should discuss how we might find common ground."
Before Jango could respond, an explosion rocked the Duke's transmission, the hologram flickering as dust and debris filled the air behind him. A tall Jedi, Qui-Gon Jinn presumably, appeared at the Duke's side, pulling him away from the terminal.
"We must evacuate immediately, Your Grace," the Jedi insisted, his calm voice betraying only the slightest urgency.
The Duke nodded, then turned back to the hologram. "Satine, I empower you to negotiate in my stead. Whatever agreements you reach, I will honor." Another explosion, closer this time. "Remember who you are, daughter. Remember what Mandalore can be."
A young girl with fiery red hair darted into the frame, her expression fierce despite her youth. "Let me go! I can fight!" she protested as Qui-Gon firmly guided her away from the door she was trying to reach.
"Bo-Katan, this is not the time for heroics," the Duke said firmly. "Go with Master Jinn. Now!"
The transmission cut off abruptly, leaving the command center in silence.
Jango raised an eyebrow at Satine. "I didn't realize pacifists raised children like that."
A hint of a smile tugged at Satine's lips despite the situation. "Bo is... special. Our father gave up trying to control her years ago."
"Your sister has the spirit of a true Mandalorian," Jango observed, not bothering to hide his approval.
Satine gave him a sharp look but didn't argue the point.
In the days that followed, Jango provided Satine and Obi-Wan with quarters in the Keldabe compound. With negotiations pending and Death Watch still hunting the Duchess, it made sense to keep them close and protected. What he hadn't anticipated was how their presence would affect his warriors, or how exposure to traditional Mandalorian culture might affect his guests.
The first evening meal proved particularly enlightening. Mij had prepared a traditional tiingilar, a casserole infamous for its potent spices. Jango watched with barely concealed amusement as Obi-Wan took his first bite, the young Jedi's eyes widening in alarm before he began coughing violently.
"Water—" Obi-Wan gasped, reaching desperately for his cup. "Why would anyone—" He couldn't finish the sentence as another coughing fit overtook him.
Silas clapped the Padawan on the back, laughing. "That's how you know it's good! Clears the sinuses, sharpens the mind!" He shoveled another heaping spoonful into his mouth with evident relish.
When Obi-Wan had calmed down and his face returned to its normal color, he continued to work at his mean and asked to send the recipe to his friend on Coruscant. Silas agreed happily, delighted to corrupt another Jedi palate.
"If warfare was a casserole, it’d be this," Satine muttered, though Jango noticed she managed her own portion with surprising composure. When she caught him watching, she shrugged. "I've had worse."
Later that evening, Jango found Silas reviewing intelligence reports in the war room. His old friend looked up as he entered, noting his expression.
"Something bothering you, Mand'alor?"
Jango settled into a chair, pulling off his helmet and setting it aside. "That Padawan. Obi-Wan."
"What about him?"
"He looks exactly like someone I met on Tatooine. Someone who called himself Ben." Jango shook his head. "Same face, same voice. Jetti. But completely different person."
Silas raised an eyebrow. "Twins?"
"Maybe. But the resemblance is too perfect. And the timing..." Jango trailed off, unable to articulate his suspicions.
"Could be coincidence," Silas suggested. "Galaxy's a big place, but not infinite. People look like other people sometimes."
Jango wasn't convinced, but he nodded anyway. Next time I see 'Ben,' he thought grimly, we're going to have a very long conversation.
The days fell into an unexpectedly comfortable rhythm. Mornings were spent discussing the political situation, afternoons often found Obi-Wan observing the warriors' training routines while Satine explored the compound. By unspoken agreement, they avoided the most contentious topics, instead finding neutral ground in shared concerns about Death Watch and the system's future.
One afternoon, Jango found Satine in the armory, watching with undisguised curiosity as the clan's armorer worked. The elderly woman's gnarled hands moved with surprising dexterity as she shaped a vambrace, the sacred beskar glowing faintly under her careful ministrations.
"The metal remembers," the Armorer was saying as Jango approached. "Every piece of beskar carries the echo of those who wore it before. That's why we never waste it, never disgrace it. The armor is history, it is identity, and it is soul."
"I thought that was just an expression," Satine admitted, watching the Armorer work. "The 'soul of Mandalore' preserved in armor."
The old woman looked up sharply. "It is not an expression, child. It is our religion." She set down her tools, fixing Satine with a penetrating gaze. "This is why so many fight against you and yours. Why they see you as monsters who wish to destroy them. You seek to strip away not only their tradition, but their faith."
Satine stiffened. "I don't want to destroy anyone! I just don't want people to fight wars that devastate our world and leave children orphaned!"
"Armor is not an offensive weapon," the Armorer replied evenly. "It protects. Preserves. Honors. A warrior in beskar stands between harm and the innocent. This truth is older than any Duke or Duchess."
Jango watched as Satine struggled with this perspective, her brow furrowing in thought. He could almost see her re-evaluating her assumptions, challenging her own preconceptions. It was, he had to admit, an admirable quality.
"I... hadn't considered it that way," she finally admitted, her voice quieter. "Our educational reforms focused primarily on the violence of Mandalore's past, not the spiritual aspects of the warrior tradition."
The Armorer nodded, satisfied, and returned to her work. As Satine turned to leave, she caught sight of Jango. A faint blush colored her cheeks at being caught in her moment of uncertainty, but she lifted her chin with the same defiance he'd seen when they first met.
"Your Armorer makes a compelling case," she acknowledged.
Jango nodded, oddly proud of her willingness to listen. "There's more to Mandalorian culture than conquest. Always has been."
That evening, he came upon Satine and Obi-Wan on one of the compound's observation decks, standing closer together than strict propriety would suggest as they watched Mandalore's moon rise over the horizon. Neither seemed aware of his presence, caught up in their quiet conversation.
"Do you think it's possible?" Satine was asking softly. "What they're proposing? A Mandalore that honors both traditions?"
"I think," Obi-Wan replied, his voice equally quiet, "that if anyone could make it work, it would be you and Jango. You're both too stubborn to let it fail."
Satine laughed, a sound softer than her usual sharp wit. "Is that supposed to be a compliment?"
"From me? Definitely." There was something in Obi-Wan's tone that made Jango uncomfortable witnessing the moment, an intimacy that spoke of feelings neither would probably ever act upon.
The space between them seemed to shrink for a heartbeat, both leaning slightly forward before they caught themselves and stepped back, the moment passing but leaving an electric tension in the air.
Jango retreated quietly, leaving them to their complicated dance. Some things were better left undisturbed. (He had enough to deal with.)
When formal negotiations finally began, they met in the command center, with Obi-Wan present as a neutral observer. Silas and Mij flanked Jango, while Satine stood alone but unbowed, every inch the Duchess despite her youth.
"Death Watch must be our first priority," Satine began. "They threaten everything both our factions value, albeit for different reasons."
"On that, we agree," Jango said. "But defeating them requires a unified Mandalore, which we clearly don't have."
"Perhaps what we need," Obi-Wan suggested carefully, "is not unity of ideology, but unity of purpose. A power-sharing arrangement that acknowledges the validity of both traditions while creating a structure that prevents either from dominating."
Jango regarded the young Jedi thoughtfully. "Go on."
"Mandalore has traditionally separated martial and civil leadership in times of crisis," Obi-Wan continued. "What if you formalized that division? Jango takes command of Mandalore's military forces, defense, security, warrior training. The Duchess manages civil affairs, trade, education, infrastructure, governance. Foreign policy requires consensus between both leaders."
"And when we disagree?" Jango asked, eyeing Satine.
"Then you talk," Obi-Wan said simply. "Find compromise. And if you truly believe the other is acting against Mandalore's interests, there are several options, and more you could consider. Perhaps you each have a certain number of vetoes per year. Perhaps a council of respected leaders from across Mandalore, Armorers, Clan Elders, etc., steps in to break deadlocks. Or perhaps an outside arbiter, maybe a Jedi—"
Obi-Wan saw Jango's face sour and backed off slightly.
"Or not. It could be someone chosen jointly, or even a rotating post, neutral and accountable to both of you. Trusted. The point is not to win every fight, but to keep the political battle from becoming a war."
Jango raised an eyebrow, impressed despite the Jedi offering Jedi help. The Padawan had clearly done his research on Mandalorian customs.
Satine considered the proposal, her expression thoughtful. "A dual leadership. It's not unprecedented in Mandalorian history. The ancient Mand'alor often worked alongside a council of clan elders."
"With clear boundaries," Jango added. "No one can be forced to be a warrior, or a pacifist. Both philosophies taught, both respected. The people choose their path."
"But Mandalore cannot be an aggressor," Satine insisted, her voice firm. "We cannot return to the days of conquest and mercenary campaigns. Not if we want recognition from the Republic."
Jango's jaw tightened, but he nodded slowly. "We will not start wars," he conceded, then added with steel in his voice, "but we will finish them. Mandalore will maintain the ability to defend itself and its allies."
"And specific disputes?" Mij asked practically.
"A council," Satine suggested. "With representatives from both traditions. For matters that affect all Mandalorians."
They continued deep into the night, hammering out details, challenging assumptions, finding unexpected areas of agreement. The hardest fought debate came over education, Jango insisted on comprehensive combat training for all students, while Satine advocated for it being purely optional.
"You want to raise a generation of sheep," Jango accused at one point, his patience finally fraying.
"And you want to raise a generation of soldiers!" Satine shot back, her own composure cracking. "Not every child needs to know seventeen ways to kill with their bare hands!"
"Every child needs to know how to protect themselves and others!" Jango slammed his palm on the table. "That's not militarism, that's responsibility!"
"Gentlemen. My lady." Obi-Wan's calm voice cut through their rising anger. "Perhaps a compromise? Basic self-defense and situational awareness for all students, escape techniques, recognizing threats, calling for help. More advanced combat training as an elective for those who show interest or aptitude?"
Both leaders glared at each other across the table, neither wanting to back down. Finally, Satine sighed. "Basic training for all. Advanced training by choice. But the basic curriculum includes conflict resolution and negotiation."
"And the advanced curriculum includes ethics and when not to fight," Jango countered.
"Agreed." The word came through gritted teeth from both of them.
It was an uneasy peace, built on compromise neither side would have considered months ago. But it was a beginning.
"This could work," Silas murmured to Jango as they reviewed the final terms. "Not perfect, but workable."
Jango nodded. The arrangement preserved what mattered to him the most, the soul of Mandalore, its warrior traditions, its right to self-determination. And perhaps Satine's influence would prevent the excesses that had led to disaster in the past. Balance, as odd as it seemed coming from a Jedi's suggestion.
"One more thing," Jango said as they prepared to finalize the agreement. "Duke Adonai should step down. Satine will take his title."
Satine's eyes widened. "That's not necessary. My father—"
"Is a symbol of the old ways," Jango interrupted. "We need new symbols for this new path. You and I have proven we can work together, however unlikely that seemed. Your father and I cannot say the same."
After a moment of consideration, Satine nodded. "I will speak with him. But I believe he will agree. He has always placed Mandalore's needs above his own ambitions."
They sealed the agreement in the traditional Mandalorian way, with clasped forearms and a shared oath: "Haat, ijaa, haa'it." Truth, honor, vision.
Two weeks later, after a flurry of activity establishing the new government framework, Master Qui-Gon Jinn arrived with reinforcements to escort the newly recognized Duchess to Sundari, where she would formally assume her title. The lanky Jedi Master showed no surprise at finding his Padawan working alongside the infamous Jango Fett, merely accepting it with the same unflappable calm that had apparently been passed to his student.
As the Jedi prepared to depart, Jango approached Qui-Gon with purpose in his stride.
"Before you leave," he said without preamble, "there's the matter of reparations."
Qui-Gon raised an eyebrow. "Reparations?"
"For Galidraan," Jango clarified, his voice hard. "The Jedi Order was complicit in the slaughter of my people. You owe a debt."
To his credit, Qui-Gon didn't deny it. "What do you propose?"
"The Agricorps," Jango said. "Mandalore's ecosystem was devastated by generations of war and the Dral'Han. Your agricultural specialists could help restore it, as penance."
Something that might have been respect flickered in Qui-Gon's eyes. "I will bring your request to the Council. It has merit."
Jango nodded curtly. It wasn't justice, nothing could compensate for what had been lost, but it was acknowledgment. A beginning.
As he watched the Jedi and Satine prepare to leave, Obi-Wan approached him. "This isn't the last you'll see of me, you know," the Padawan said with a hint of humor. "The Duchess and I have developed a... professional rapport."
"I'm sure," Jango replied dryly, having observed the lingering glances between the two teenagers.
"I still don't understand why you thought we'd met before," Obi-Wan added, curiosity evident in his expression. "On Tatooine, you said?"
Jango studied the young Jedi's face, still struck by the uncanny resemblance to Ben. "Must have been someone else," he said finally. "Easy mistake to make."
Obi-Wan didn't look convinced, but he nodded politely and moved to join his Master. As the Jedi transport lifted off, Jango found himself again wondering about the strange connection between Ben and Obi-Wan. Another mystery in a galaxy already full of them.
For now, though, he had a world to rebuild. The warrior and the pacifist, finding common ground after generations of conflict. It wasn't the future he'd imagined when he first returned to Mandalore, but perhaps it was the one his people needed.
Time would tell if their unlikely alliance could survive the trials ahead.
Jango stood on the balcony of the rebuilt Keldabe Palace complex, watching as a gentle breeze rippled through fields of grain that stretched toward the horizon. Five years had passed since his return to Mandalore, and the transformation was nothing short of remarkable. Where dead, toxic soil had once dominated the landscape, vibrant crops now thrived under the careful stewardship of Agricorps specialists working alongside Mandalorian farmers.
The transformation hadn't been easy, years of soil treatment, failed crops, and painstaking progress measured in meters rather than kilometers. The Agricorps specialists had warned from the beginning that full planetary restoration would take decades, but the progress was undeniable. Every season now brought new growth, new hope. What mattered was that it was working.
People were beginning to live outside the dome cities again, tentatively at first, establishing small settlements and farmsteads, reclaiming land that generations had written off as uninhabitable. The domes remained, of course. Satine had insisted they be maintained as a reminder of what Mandalore had endured, and Jango hadn't argued. Some lessons were worth preserving.
He absently traced his finger along the hilt of the Darksaber, secured at his waist. The ancient weapon had come into his possession after the final confrontation with Death Watch's leader, Tor Vizsla. Jango didn't use it often, his own blasters and traditional beskad suited him better, but its symbolic value was undeniable. The Darksaber represented legitimacy, continuity with Mandalore's past.
"Admiring your handiwork?" Silas asked, joining him at the railing.
Jango snorted. "Hardly mine alone."
"No," Silas agreed, "but you were the catalyst. Whatever else happens, Mand'alor, you brought our people back from the brink. Mand'alor the Restorer, they start to call you."
Jango tried not to think about that particular title as his thoughts drifted to the strange sequence of events that had led him here. His captivity, his liberation by a young Jedi on Tatooine, his fateful meeting with Obi-Wan and Satine, each link in a chain that had seemed random at the time but now felt almost... designed.
Ben. The memory of the young man still puzzled him. Jango had never found a satisfactory explanation for the uncanny resemblance between Ben and Obi-Wan Kenobi, nor for Ben's impossible knowledge of Mandalorian affairs. Over the years, he'd compiled a mental list of questions he'd ask if they ever crossed paths again.
Ben's influence was undeniable. Reports from the Outer Rim told of continued slave rebellions, Hutt syndicates in disarray, and a growing network of freed beings establishing new communities. Some whispered of Jedi involvement, but there was nothing official, even if the Republic Senate had been grilling the Jedi Council for the last few years. It sounded exactly like something Ben would do, and Jango found himself approving despite his lingering distrust of Jedi in general.
The relationship between Mandalore and the Jedi Order had evolved in unexpected ways. While the Temple on Coruscant maintained a cautious distance, individual Jedi were increasingly welcome on Mandalorian soil. Kenobi visited annually, ostensibly on diplomatic missions, though his extended private conversations with Satine fooled no one. Even Qui-Gon had returned twice, bringing new Agricorps specialists and, on his last visit, a solemn acknowledgment from the Jedi Council of their role in the Galidraan massacre.
It wasn't an apology, not exactly, but it was recognition. And it was more than Jango had expected.
The Agricorps themselves had gained near-venerated status among the population. Mandalorian farmers worked alongside them, learning techniques to heal the damaged soil, sharing meals and stories in the evening hours. Ancient enemies finding common purpose in creation rather than destruction. Jango had observed these interactions with some amazement, watching barriers of mistrust crumble one conversation at a time.
"Latest report from the eastern territories," Silas said, handing Jango a datapad. "The last Death Watch holdouts have either surrendered or fled off-world. Young Pre Vizsla was reported killed as well. It's over, Mand'alor. Truly over."
Jango took the datapad, scanning its contents with practiced efficiency. "They'll regroup eventually. Always do."
"Maybe," Silas conceded. "But not today. Not tomorrow. Maybe not for years. For now, Mandalore has peace."
Peace. The word still felt strange in Jango's mind, associated more with Satine's idealism than his own worldview. Yet here it was, not the stagnant, enforced tranquility the New Mandalorians had advocated, but something vibrant. Something real. People trained for war while praying it never came. Children learned both traditional combat forms and how to talk their way out of a fight. The best of both worlds, perhaps.
Working with Satine remained... challenging. She was stubborn, principled to a fault, and one of the few beings in the galaxy who could drive Jango to genuine anger without ending up on the wrong side of his blasters. Their disagreements were legendary among those who worked with them, just last week they'd spent three hours arguing over whether the new agricultural settlements needed defensive walls or community centers built first. They'd finally compromised on community centers with defensive capabilities, satisfying neither completely but somehow working anyway.
But there was respect there, grudging at first but increasingly genuine as the years passed. They wanted different things for Mandalore, approached problems from opposite perspectives, yet ultimately shared the same core goal: a strong, independent homeworld that honored its past while building toward a better future.
A chime from his comm unit interrupted his thoughts. Satine's voice followed, crisp and formal as always. "Fett, we have a situation that requires your attention. The Council Chamber, one hour."
Jango suppressed a sigh. "I'll be there."
"Don't be late," she added pointedly before disconnecting.
Silas chuckled. "Another day, another crisis?"
"Just governance," Jango replied dryly. "She probably wants to debate the new mining regulations."
Yet for all the frustration, the system worked. Mandalorians were figuring out how to be Mandalorian again, without the extremes of terrorism, militant expansionism, or enforced pacifism. It wasn't perfect, but it was theirs.
As Jango turned to leave, his gaze swept once more over the fields stretching toward the horizon. Five years ago, he couldn't have imagined this future. Couldn't have pictured himself here, rebuilding rather than avenging, creating rather than destroying. Couldn't have foreseen working alongside a pacifist Duchess, or finding common ground with the very Jedi whose Order had devastated his verde. He wondered what Jaster would think, and figured his buir would be pleased with how things ended up, strange as they might be.
As he walked, his mind drifted to Ben. And Obi-Wan. And grudgingly Qui-Gon, and all the help the Agricorps sent, despite the Senate's complaints. Maybe the Jedi aren't so bad after all, he thought, surprising himself with the sentiment. Or at least, not all of them.
With the Darksaber at his hip and Mandalore's future secured, Jango Fett walked back into the complex, ready to face whatever new challenges awaited. This was the way, his way, forward.
Notes:
Wanted to post this yesterday but the day got away from me. Hope you enjoy the conclusion to this one! Next one is a bit different. It'll go back in time a bit from the 5 year time skip here. It's going to be an OC Hedge Jedi working with a Temple Jedi (who doesn't know that the OC is not a temple Jedi. See you on Sunday!
Also, special thanks to Umbrae Storm (Goldengirl01) for correcting me on my Vizslas. I had said Paz when I meant Pre Vizsla. I have edited the chapter now so it is corrected. Feel free to correct me if there's something like that!