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Chapter Text

Obi-Wan had not meant to disturb the tomb, for whatever that was worth. And he did believe, as a Jedi, that intention did matter at least a little bit. But he’d been injured and Death Watch was on their tail, and… He hadn’t exactly known when he said they could find some safe harbor from the heat of the wastelands within the caves that they’d been sacred. 

Satine had pointed it out, once she’d noticed, explaining the elaborately carved caverns where many clans laid their old iron to rest. The only pieces that weren’t covered in dust were a pair of red vambraces, laid haphazardly against the wall, obviously thrown into the room rather than set gently like the others. Something about that sent a pang in Obi-Wan’s heart.

There weren’t many of the old caches left, looted as they were by Death Watch. Even Satine, who longed to see her people lay down their arms, wrinkled her nose at the disrespect. 

“Beskar that’s been deemed kadala isn’t to be used,” she huffed, “Still, it shouldn’t be cast aside so… So callously. Nor looted. This is just another way that Death Watch…”

Obi-Wan nodded along to her as he inspected the carving closest to him. Ancient Mando’a looked ragged, carved in the stone and painted with what looked like it could very well be blood. If he were more of a scholar, he probably could have guessed at what would be important enough to carve here, but instead he just felt disappointed that he didn’t have any way to take a holo. The favor that something like this could win with Master Nu…

“...which is why beskar should be used to build our people up rather than tearing others down. Coating what is supposedly our very souls in blood cannot possibly be good for our psyche, and I’m not even sure I believe in such a trait…”

Obi-Wan hissed as the cold of the cave floor started registering against his raw and blistered feet. The sole on his right shoe had worn through weeks ago, and they hadn’t found any way to fix it yet. He didn’t need to look to know that he was leaving blood behind with every step. He settled down onto the floor to try to wrap his feet. He didn’t have many bacta patches left, so he rationed, carefully cutting one in sections so that only the worst of his injury was covered. The Jedi frowned. Surely they’d find another village soon, one that had a few more supplies to spare. 

He worked slowly, letting Satine’s chatter wash over him, as cleansing for him to hear with her light and life as it was for her to speak and release the tension of the day.

“...and giving up Mando’a as a language isn’t necessary, but having a standardized written version that uses Aurebesh–or at the very least Outer Rim Basic–would go a long way towards ease of trade, and it would save on the cost of reprogramming! There are so many ways for us to promote progress without–”

A warning flared in the Force and Obi-Wan held up his hand, asking for silence. They’d been on the run together for months, at this point, and she was quick to comply.

Gleaning from her many diatribes on her personal interpretation of Mandalore’s best future, Obi-Wan knew a few things that he hadn’t at the beginning of this mission: throwing knives were the most popular weapon on Mandalore, uj cake recipes were closely guarded secrets, and the ancient religions were incredibly gory in all of their rituals but details were lost to time. Something about a library being lost in the Dral’han…

A mist started creeping towards them from the archway on the far side of the room. It moved slowly, but Obi-Wan had the sickening realization that as it passed over his footprints, the mist would redden, picking up his blood.

Run, he felt, all the way down to his bones.

There wasn’t time to hesitate. He grabbed Satine’s arm and poured lightness into their feet. The cavern entrance rumbled. He threw his charge out of the door, barely able to gentle her landing with the Force as he used it to leap himself, just as rocks crashed down, blocking the entrance. 

That was far too close.

The sun blazed overhead, even more oppressive after the coolness of the caves. Satine scrambled back towards him as he groaned into the earth. She was up and moving, that was good. Master Qui-Gon would have his braid if he let her come to any lasting harm.

She fretted over him, heat slowly eating away his remaining strength as he slowly sat up. Even his thoughts felt sluggish. He got on his feet. The crash had surely attracted their trackers, too. They needed to get moving.

Between one blink and the next, he jolted into somewhere else.

He was looking through a HUD at a navigation map, clearly marked with what seemed to be Death Watch bases, if he was reading the labels correctly.

And he felt very heavy.

Obi-Wan looked down, somehow already knowing why it felt like there was a weight on his chest. Silver beskar greeted him.

Stars, how did he always manage to end up in these sort of predicaments?

In front of her, Obi-Wan lurched in place, then hissed as his injured foot made contact with the hot ground. At her noise of sympathy, he whirled around, like he had meant to turn towards her but had put too much force into it. Honestly, it would’ve been a little funny if she didn’t feel so bad for their situation.

When he finally managed to settle, her Jedi protector pinned her with a glare. She delicately raised her brow.

He scowled, “Who the fuck are you?”

Well, that was decidedly not good.

Jango was not interested in being the jetii bodyguard of Kryze, no matter how many times she tried to explain it, shoving a lightsaber hilt into his hands. The whole situation was osik, and the moment he figured out how this was happening, he was going to crack some heads until it got fixed. 

The little Duchess scrunched her nose, like she couldn’t believe that she had to put up with him. Well, if she’d stop trailing after him, she wouldn’t have to. Who followed someone around when you didn’t even know their name? 

It didn’t help that he could feel the Manda around him for the first time in his miserable life. If this was what it was like to be ka’ra-ad, then he was all too happy that he didn’t have to deal with this. People who envied it were di’kute. Kryze’s panic and confusion battered at him, kriff, even the ground stank of a profound sense of loss. 

That wasn’t even accounting for his current body’s sorry state. He hadn’t been this hungry since his early slave days. His feet burned, and it must’ve been a miracle or jetii magics that kept them from being infected. His skin was tender, like it had just recovered from sunburn. He felt absolutely exhausted.

And worst of all, he recognized where they were. Manda’yaim. The opposite side of the galaxy from where he started. And he recognized the cave, too. It was where he’d dumped his unsalvageable pieces after he recovered his armor from Galidraan’s now very dead governor. It had torn him apart to lose any piece of the beskar’gam that Jaster had gifted him. 

He looked up at the closed cave entrance, his feet stinging. It had been six years since Kyr’tsad had set up the Haat’ade to die at jetii hands. He looked down at the kad’au and grumbled. If they were going to fix this, they were going to have to get in contact with the jetii in his body. He turned towards where he knew the nearest town was and started walking, channeling spite into every painful step. 

Someone better have a comm on hand or he was going to lose it.

It was well past sundown when they made it, and his stupid body was trembling. He scowled at the way it reminded him of the spice withdrawals. He rapped his shaking knuckles on a familiar door and shouted in Mando’a, “Wake up Vau, you stubborn bastard. I’ve got an absolute shitshow to deal with and I need fresh eyes and more hands.” The vowels of the language tasted odd in this voice, too high pitched and slightly accented as his mouth refused to move in his normal way. 

Still, it worked well enough as he heard and felt angry tones on the other side of the door, “Who’re you, the Mand’alor? No one here that goes by Vau, and you can’t go ‘round busting down doors like this. Have some stars-damned manners!” Then the door swung open, and there was Walon Vau, all black armor and blacker humor, just like Jango remembered, last time he’d seen him less than a year ago. The man frowned down at them, “Ben? I thought I told you not to come back here. Last thing this town needs is to be occupied by the Death Watch, and you got your supplies.”

Jango gritted through Ben’s teeth, “See, I remember you taking a vow to me, Walon. I wasn’t kidding about the shitshow. Now, let me inside so I can explain it.”

Vau glanced back at Kryze, who shook her head. Then he stepped aside.

It took less time than he thought it would to convince the man that he was, in fact, Jango Fett in a starving jetii body, thanks to their history.

Then they made their way to the town’s long range comm. Jango dialed his own number and left a message. Within minutes, they got an answer.

On the other side of it, Ben wore Jango’s face and looked very relieved to see him. Jango did not like how soft it made him look. They'd have to work on that if the jetii was going to have to pose as him at all before they figured out how to swap back.

Obi-Wan felt like he could cry with relief when he opened the comm to see his own face. He’d already had to decline three calls from some Mando named Skirata, who was becoming increasingly belligerent with every avoidance. Besides learning that he was apparently in the body of one Jango Fett, a name he did not recognize but who was someone that had an obvious grudge against the Death Watch, he had also navigated the small starfighter back towards the Mandalore sector. He hadn’t been able to get ahold of his Master, nor the Temple.

So, watching his body bunch up and hurl increasingly irate expletives about the situation in his own voice was honestly a bit cathartic. Another part of him cringed, as it was not the way a Jedi was meant to behave if they wanted to uphold the reputation of the Order.

It wasn’t the most productive call; he was already on course for the planet to pick them up, so yelling at him to “get the hell over here” was redundant. 

At least, it seemed redundant until the pirates showed up.

Chapter Text

The jarring pull from hyperspace was unexpected in the empty stretch between systems. Obi-Wan had been in the middle of very carefully taking off Jango’s beskar’gam and setting it on the armor rack next to the bunk. The jolt had him dropping the shin guard he’d been removing, and the subsequent alarms made it an easy choice to scramble towards the cockpit instead of finishing the rest. By the time he’d checked that nothing was damaged, he was caught in a tractor beam and boarded. 

Now, he had a few choices: he could fight, he could hide, or he could let himself be captured.

He felt outwards to try and assess how many beings there were. 

Or, he tried to.

The knowledge that he didn’t have access to the Force in this body came crashing down on him with such velocity that it felt like he might crumple. 

He stumbled towards the door, crouching low and out of easy sight or reach for when his adversaries inevitably charged through the door. When they did, he didn’t take the time to assess them, he just moved. Three assaillants. He had a blaster-pistol and physical strength. 

And really, Obi-Wan knew himself. He was more than capable of handling live-fire situations with, if not grace, then at least enough skill not to fret when up against an average citizen. He grabbed the first through the door, swinging their momentum into the wall to at least stun them momentarily. He paused to shoot at the rifle aimed his way, then slammed the stunned one’s head back into the wall. There was a lot of shouting, and he was running on instinct. But he was in a body with muscle memories entirely unfamiliar to him, no access to the Force, and halfway out of the armor that would’ve let this whole process be a bit more forgiving. 

The third enemy swung a baton towards his head, and there was no ping in the Force to warn him.

He didn’t sense it in time, and when it connected he was out like a light.

Jango was at his limit. Vau insisted that he lay low until the jetii returned with his ship and his body, and that was fine. Smart, even. But he also said that Kryze had to stay, too. Jango had no love for the Republic’s puppets, the Evaar’ade, so the idea of him actively shielding their Duchess was laughable. He wished that he could spit in every face of the aruetii’e that surrendered Mandalore’s independence to the slimy businessmen of the Republic just so they could get more power. 

(He wasn’t ready to be Mand’alor again, not in this lifetime, but he could still mourn. He didn’t think he’d ever stop mourning.)

“It’s clear you have the loyalty of at least a fragment of people, Fett,” she spoke in Basic, her crisp tone clearly used to authority, “If you were to release a statement, just saying that you were in support, then we could be one step towards truly uniting Mandalore again. You’d get a fair say, if you were interested in becoming involved again.”

She was like so many other Republic politicians, and it made Jango want to scream. What did she know about ruling? What did she know about consequences? She knew nothing, and he knew that people would die for that.

He said nothing, not even looking at her as his scowl deepened. Two years older than he was at Galidraan, but still no wiser than he had been. Mandalore and her children deserved better than what its three factions had to offer. He finally glanced at her, and the way she refused to back down even when she was offering what she thought was a compromise. 

“Cut your strings, kih’haastal, then we can talk about ‘the good of Mandalore.’”

She opened her mouth, looking ready to shout, then she closed it and stormed out of the room. 

He wasn’t going to turn down the sudden gift of peace and quiet. The way her distrust and contempt for him bled all over the room left Jango untethered in his own sense of self. He knew he’d feel (and felt) the same way, meeting aruetii. Feeling it directly in the ka’ra was different. It was like he’d dipped his hands in honey, the way the sticky negative emotions tried to coat him. He was constantly having to shake it off of himself mentally. 

No wonder the jetii were so aloof. Kryze was still trying to be polite and he wanted to punt her out of an airlock in hyperspace. If he’d had to feel something really bad this strongly? He’d have had a mental breakdown the first time his buir sent the ‘I’m not mad, just disappointed’ look his way. 

He took a deep breath and sprawled himself on the floor. The cool tile almost gave the illusion of lying against beskar, and it gave him a little more space to breathe. The floor didn’t have any emotions to throw at him. The floor was the kindest one in the house. At some point, the ka’ra let a wave of concern-question-fondness wash over him, and he breathed.

Jango laid there as long as he could, until he felt Vau approach and toe at him. It felt like he was laughing at him, even if it was layered with some concern. He reminded himself that throttling Vau wasn’t worth it.

“Mand’alor?,” he spoke Mando’a and Jango felt something in his chest unwind at the casual use of his native tongue. It had been too long since he’d been around other Mandalorians for any real length of time. “If you’re going to be sticking around, can you look over our tactics? Briik’s been saying that kids have been going missing out that way, and we’ve gathered some volunteers to check out the claims.”

Jango didn’t lift his head from the floor, but he did turn so he could look up at him. “Briik? You got word from a village nearly 50 klicks away? They not have the manpower themselves?”

“I think it was more of a fair warning than a plea for help, but…” he trailed off, shrugging.

“It’s kids.”

Vau nodded, “It’s kids.”

Jango could sense the fizzy feeling that he tried to pinpoint as some kind of nervousness. He sighed, “I don’t think I can use the fancy Jedi powers if that’s what you’re asking.”

“At least look over our plan.”

What a trap. Jango knew it was. He was going to get roped into something, somehow. Whatever, at least it meant he wouldn’t be babysitting Kryze.

Meanwhile, Obi-Wan was cursing his luck. He was not a fan of being captured, but it had happened enough times that he had some criteria to determine how bad the situation was going to be for him. His hands were in front of him, locked together. Really, the lack of chains in this situation was already wildly better than most of his previous experiences. Still, his head throbbed when he opened his eyes, so he probably had a concussion. He wasn’t sure how being in a different body would rank, but it was probably as jarring as the worst levels of Force suppression cuffs, as far as hampering his abilities. 

He groaned internally when he heard footsteps approaching. 

They were a nondescript smuggler type, and Obi-Wan felt himself tuning out the expected monologue about how much money he would net them (the only real difference this time was that they wanted to sell his armor. Or, Jango’s armor. He didn’t think that Jango would appreciate that), but the concussion seemed to be hampering his ability to really concentrate enough to care. 

No, all his concentration was going towards picking the locks of the cuffs he was in. They were standard magnetic, nothing fancy, no accessible keyhole. If he had the Force, he’d just separate the magnets to release himself. He’d just found the seam when he was backhanded by the irritated pirate, while they raged about… something. Probably about the fight or about how Obi-Wan needed to listen to his speech. His vision swam, doubled smuggler getting redder and redder in the face. Spittle registered as hitting his face, and Obi-Wan tried not to scrunch his face. Gross.

Right, the cuffs.

No Force to help. He had wayyy more muscle mass in this body than usual, so he might be able to break them instead? He twisted his wrists, trying to find the right leverage on the weak joint between the… his brain felt slippery. The binders.

There was a clattering that spiked through Obi-Wan’s head like a knife, startling him. The smuggler turned towards the door, obviously surprised as well. Obi-Wan bent to put a foot on one of his wrists. The other he pulled up towards his chest, hard.

Obi-Wan tipped dangerously, over-corrected, and fell. Well. He really should’ve expected the vertigo.

The scene might’ve been more amusing if he wasn’t struggling to hold back his vomit as he’d managed to tumble in a heap of limbs. 

Still, he was lucky, the cuffs were cheap, and he’d definitely felt a little give in them before he’d lost his footing. Not broken, but a little bent. The warping warmed his heart to see. See, Master Qui-Gon? He could get himself out of his own scrapes.

The clanging noises got louder, and Obi-Wan whimpered as they continued to lance his skull even as he wriggled, trying to bend the cuffs any more now that they’d been weakened. He’d nearly gotten out of them, too, when he was assaulted by the smell of burnt flesh and looked up just in time to see the smuggler fall over, dead.

He looked past him to the Mandalorian who’d made the shot and made a vaguely questioning noise.

They holstered their blaster and crossed their arms, and Obi-Wan thought maybe they were disappointed in his current state. They cocked their helmet at him before sighing and saying, a bit snidely, “I thought you’d learned to answer your comm by now, Mand'alor.”

It took time, pulling a village militia together into something workable against Death Watch. While Kryze sulked just out of his line of sight, Vau filled him in on their current plan: show up and hope Kyr’tsad had left a trail. There was a thrum of attention-moving-questions that made the whole meeting feel even more like an annoyance than usual, leaving him jittery. It wouldn’t go away, so he resigned himself to helping out, somehow.

He wasn’t in his own body, he didn’t know Kenobi’s strengths to know where he should be stationed in a squad. Vau just laughed and said he’d have to start from scratch, then. In response, Jango huffed and began working his way through every weapon type they had available. 

Maybe this body could use the kad’au on autopilot, but he wasn’t willing to bank on that alone if he was going to help. He hoped he’d get a chance to ask Kenobi sometime about why he’d clearly also trained with rifles, based on the way his body sunk into the stances naturally, unlike the ones with pistols or other types of melee. Either way, he volunteered himself for a sniper’s role in the upcoming engagement.

Vau had looked a little too pleased, and Kryze had looked scandalized. The others in the militia hadn’t even blinked at the skinny jetii joining their ranks, and Jango offered no explanations. By the third morning of him trying weapons in the public rinks, he’d been getting good-natured ruffles through his hair and fond calls of jet’ika, so he had to guess that Kenobi had a good enough reputation with the Mando’ade even before they’d swapped places. He told himself that the casual camaraderie contributed to their mission success and stored his feelings on the matter for later.

Briik had been through hell by the time they got there. 

It wasn’t a ghost-town, but it did have that charred and bloody look to it that only happened after a firefight. The injured that they encountered explained how they’d waited until the demagolka’e came back to steal more kids in the cover of night. They hadn’t come quietly. Two ad had died, but so had the whole squad of Death Watch. Both sides retreated to lick their wounds, but they suspected that they’d be back the next night. Vau gathered everyone, both who they brought and who was still fighting-fit from Briik, and laid out the plan. Once assignments had been given out, they settled in to wait and help the hurt and grieving. Jango closed his eyes and breathed as he listened to another sobbed tale that bombarded his senses. One of the verde had been kidnapping their own vod’ad.  

That had been the most heart-breaking part of the Civil War, in Jango’s opinion. As easy as it was to point fingers at one House or clan or another, loyalties didn’t always split cleanly within aliit. And Jango knew betrayal better than most. At the spike of anger, Jango felt an odd tugging sensation in his brain, like the ka’ra was trying to remind him to direct it where it counted. Still, even now, the treachery of Montross, someone who had at one point been like a ba’vodu to him, burned within him at a low simmer. Vod turning on vod was a disgrace, and just another reason that Kyr’tsad continued to be seen as dar’manda by the sector. He nodded to himself. One day, Jango would have his vengeance from Tor Vizsla, and with it would come justice for his fellow Mando’ade. 

Helping rescue the children of Briik in this way was only furthering that cause. And it was that purpose that steadied his hands as he shot through the neck of the first hostile verd that broke through the sparse brush that surrounded the village.

His bolt hit true, and with it the calm burst, plunging the field into battle. Vau and the village leader of Briik were directing the flow of their verde, trying to form a pincher so they’d cut off retreat this time. Jango watched from the roof of one of the houses, taking out any who tried to break away from the main group, one steady breath after another. Not a single shot missed, and Jango was starting to see the benefits of being ka’ra -touched. The winking out of the lights of life barely registered as he breathed. He could feel the flow of this battle, and it was well in their favor. It crested like a wave, and it felt like Jango was skimming over the surface of it, bold and fearless as he watched another enemy fall.

Then it was over, and the wave settled. Jango had never felt more centered. He couldn’t tell if it was better than the usual feeling of his blood singing after battle, but he didn’t mind it either way.

The squad-leader was still alive, if a little bloody. Jango had given him a clean shot through the kneecap, incapacitating but not life-threatening. And hopefully, cooperative enough to point them in the direction of the missing ade. Or, if not cooperative, stupid and hurt enough to let something slip.

As he climbed down from the roof, sniper stowed across his back, he saw Kryze dragging the dead back towards the village, to be identified and mourned. Only a few losses, but devastating in a small community like this one. Post-battle clean-up wasn’t unfamiliar to verde, but it was clear that Kryze had also done it before. Jango brushed aside the begrudging respect he felt at that. At least she wasn’t a hut’uun.

He made his way towards where they held the dar’manda against the ground, beskar’gam stripped away. Vau held them down while another verd shook with rage, gritting out, “–slinking around in the dark like some sort of snake. How could you do this to us, your community, your aliit?”

The aruetii spat at the ground in their direction, “You are the ones who are killing Mandalore! I was saving our children from the same fate. They’ll be sent to learn the way we’re meant to live and how to claim their birthright.”

Jango tuned out the rest of the Death Watch propaganda they regurgitated, he’d already heard it all too many times before, thoroughly distracted by the ping-ping-look here he was getting with that ka’ra sense over his left ear. He screwed his eyes shut and tried to listen outwards, but not so much that it stung.

He felt the traitor’s conviction, their sense of self-righteousness. He even empathized with the horror and grief of the family who had once called them their own. But most importantly, he honed in on the phrasing. Sent to learn, they’d said. He tugged on the gauntlet of the village alor, who leaned down, looking at him with confusion, “What is it, jet’ika?”

“Where is their ship? Or speeder? He’s got to have a quick transport somewhere close by, one big enough to hold the kids.” They visibly startled when he responded in fluent Mando’a, as every other verd had since the start of this little adventure. Jango was getting pretty good at ignoring it, but internally he rolled his eyes. Just because most people spoke what was more of a pigeon Mando’a mixed with Basic didn’t mean the actual jetii  couldn’t learn it, theoretically.

Still, the alor nodded and quickly sent out some scouts to try and secure whatever vehicle was around.

There was a large shuffle of movement and the revving of engines as they left, and the dar’manda took advantage, lunging out of Vau’s hold (and based on the pop-rip that went with the move, dislocated something in the process, at least) and grabbing towards the blaster at his captor’s thigh, swinging it out of its holster and firing blindly. Most of them were hitting nothing but sand and plaster, the sounds of it disappearing in all the shouting, but–the there-but-not ringing in his ears had him moving as he threw all his metaphorical Force-osik weight behind pushing the alor that had been walking towards their troops, the stagger forcing them and their beskar’gam two inches to the right. Instead of landing on a seam in their armor across the gut, the blaster bolt ricocheted back towards Jango.

He had never missed his own beskar more as he braced for impact, turning to minimize the angle he’d be hit at.

He was snatched into the air, avoiding the bolt completely. Whoever had grabbed him held him by the collar of his tunic, and he could feel them radiating amusement-fondness-concern behind him. They had a rumbling voice, speaking in a language that he’d never heard before in his life as they asked, “Tumi pauah Padawan naki katiak?”

Chapter Text

“Ke dircy’ni, mir’sheb,” Jango growled as he flailed in the surprisingly firm grip on his collar, and got a satisfying impact then grunt from his captor. When that didn’t work, he twisted violently, gnashing and managing to break the skin of the fleshy part of an arm that got too close to his teeth. He felt surprise and a glimmer of impressed-satisfaction as he was finally released. Jango quickly retreated behind the nearest body of beskar and bared his teeth. He hoped there was blood in them.

The man that had tried to snatch him looked more like a hermit or vagabond than anything else. If Jango had passed him in a spaceport, he would have kept one hand on his blaster, not that he didn’t always have one hand on his Westars these days. Still, the obvious sense of questions that they sent in the Manda made it clear who Jango was dealing with. 

Still glaring, Jango wiped his mouth and waved at the tense verde surrounding him with a grumbled, “ner jetii-buir,” that had several people stifling their chuckles as they stood down. The maslaniila jetii stooped a little to get his face level with Jango’s, putting a hand around his shoulders and bringing him slightly away from the Mandos, also waving off the soldiers as they stepped aside. Jango did not like being so close to the full-powered jetii, even if friendlies were still in reaching distance. 

(Jango was in the body of the jet’ika, and he was not–could not–would not–let another platoon of Mando’ade be slaughtered on his order. And he had no doubt this man could do so if he thought his student was in danger, no matter how rumpled and innocuous he looked at first glance. It didn’t stop his hands from shaking with another round of adrenaline.)

"“Aunah foh reash vrhu Dai’el eyco xai ochlru keelel. Tamah eyco tolruk imaijahel kat keel krii?”"

Jango still didn’t understand him, the language completely foreign, unlike anything he’d ever come across in all his travels. The words warped the Manda itself, still all concern-question-unease-urgent and it was smothering Jango in it, directed and all-consuming in a way far beyond Kryze’s sticky mistrust-disdain and his breaths became a little more ragged as he tried to focus past it.

The hand on his shoulder tightened and Jango felt the rifle across his back start to rattle. 

Haltingly, the jetii murmured in Mando’a, “Obi-Wan, me’vaar ti gar? Shukur…cabur gar,” he pressed his lips together, frustrated, “Mando’a tion’jor? Jate kovid gar?”

The choppiness of the words, all out of order, betrayed how much of a novice the man was, but hearing him try to sound out the words for Jango’s benefit was enough to knock him out of his mind’s descent into paranoia. How was he supposed to hide that he wasn’t this man’s kid when he didn’t even know his name? 

Jango fell back on his best weapons, evasion and playing dumb. He blinked wide eyes up at the jetii, “Vor entye, buir,” he said slowly for the man’s benefit, “Ka’ra gaanayli’ni.”

The man’s brow furrowed as he tried to translate that, “Ka’ra ganaylni? Ni ne’suvari.”

Jango’s lips thinned, “Ka’ra, Manda,” he said while trying to focus on sending a little push. He managed to ruffle the sleeve of his robes. It wasn’t a lot, but it seemed to be enough to click the vocabulary into place. 

He could have switched them into Basic from the beginning, but every advantage that kept the jetii on a backfoot was hard for him to give up. It wasn’t his fault that he was assuming that Jango couldn’t speak anything else. 

Of course, that was when Kryze showed up and ruined it. 

“Master Jinn!” Kryze positively beamed. It was like she was too bright to look at in the Manda.  

He avoided their eyes as he tensed. (Jango would eat his own blaster before he called another man ‘master.’)

“Duchess Kryze,” he bowed his head to her in greeting, “perhaps you could shed some light on my young apprentice’s state?”

She opened her mouth, ready to spill everything, but Jango barked at her, harshly, “Ne’johaa! N’olar,” he tilted his head at all the verde around them and her jaw clicked back shut, glaring but nodding in agreement. 

She sighed, rubbing at the space between her brows, “Of course, Master Jinn, but I agree with Ben, we should regroup before we debrief you.”

Jinn agreed genially and Jango snapped at Vau that they needed immediate extraction. The village alor had been directing the hunt for the ade once it’d been clear that the stranger hadn’t been a danger to the jet’ika, so the few stragglers that were milling too close to their conversation gave Jango solemn thanks for his assistance as Walon herded them towards their speeders. 

The worried hadn’t really dispersed in the ka’ra even if Jinn looked unflappable on the outside, so they spent the ride in silence.

Jango Fett was apparently the Mand’alor. That had not been in his mission briefing, and Obi-Wan was going to have words with someone about that when he got back. He blearily thought about all the lectures Satine had given him about how the title of Duchess was a purposeful mistranslation to ‘give her position credence with the Republic until peaceful elections had a chance to gain traction.’ About how, once she’d established a parliament, Mandalore would be much more stable because it wouldn’t have to rely on one being, the Mand’alor, for every aspect of planetary governance. 

He blinked up at the Mando who was hauling him back to Jango’s ship, who had absolutely massacred the smugglers in their successful rescue, and considered if they’d appreciate Satine’s idea to transition towards a less militaristic governing body.

Then he remembered how Jango had cursed ‘his whole bloodline and every dikut that came in contact with his jare’la shebs’ because he ‘couldn’t help but stick his ori’suumyc jetii nose into an’gyrbej that wasn’t his business’ when he’d commed him.

So maybe both leaders had some valid points. Obi-Wan would have to think it over once he could stand without listing dangerously.

He felt himself being turned, then focused on not gagging as he was dropped abruptly into a seat. Dusty gold armor filled his vision as the Mandalorian who’d aided him clapped his shoulder. Then they moved to the pilot seat and started up the ship. Obi-Wan closed his eyes and shuddered through their jump to hyperspace.

He only opened them again when his new pilot spoke, voice slightly graveled through a vocoder, “You gonna thank me for saving your sorry shebs again, or should I go ahead and eject you with the rest of the trash?”

Obi-Wan managed to give a sincere, “Vor’e,” but that seemed to make his rescuer even more suspicious.

“Never a debt, kid, you know that. What’s gotten into you? I haven’t heard you complain once, even though you’re looking practically green.”

Obi-Wan felt a slightly hysterical laugh bubble up. What’s gotten into him indeed. He’d already deduced that this must be the Kal Skirata that had lit up Jango’s comm prior to the pirates, but he didn’t know if that meant he could be trusted, despite the rescue.

But he didn’t know Jango Fett, and by the sound of it, he had far less than a percentile’s chance to convince anyone, including this being, that he wasn’t some sort of imposter. Well, at least he’d always been rather talented at selling a miidena. He put on his best dazed face. It wasn’t difficult, given the concussion. Skirata turned towards him and visibly stiffened, even before Obi-Wan slurred out, “Tion gar?”

When they took off their helmet, they’d looked downright thunderous.

Back in the relative safety of Vau’s home, Jango finally broke into Basic again. He gritted his teeth as he opened what was sure to be a long, long conversation with, “I swear to the Manda, it was Ben’s fault. He was the one poking around places he shouldn’t have been and somehow fucked with the fabric of reality.”

Kryze made an affronted noise, “How were we supposed to know that his injuries would trigger a reaction?” She huffed and turned back to Jinn, “And more importantly, Master Jinn, may I formally introduce Ser Jango Fett, Mand’alor of the True Mandalorians, one of the previous factions in our little civil war. Why he was the one who was dropped into Padawan Kenobi’s body, I couldn’t say.”

Jinn gave her a long look, and Jango got the odd sensation like a breeze fluttered through the ka’ra around them. Then, surprisingly, he nodded and turned back to him, “Well met, Jango Fett. I apologize for my apprentice’s missteps, he is still learning. Is he still present with you, or—“

“He’s in my body. We switched. I’m not even sure what she’s talking about, for me it was between one blink and the next and I was suddenly out in the wastelands, looking worse for wear.”

“…I see.”

Jango did not see, and he got the distinct impression that Jinn didn’t see any better than he did on this one. They glanced at Kryze, who squared her shoulders, “From what I can gather, Ben’s blood triggered something in the cave we were in. I couldn’t say anything more specific.”

Now Jango openly stared at her, “You let an aruetii spill their blood in an aarayaim. And what else did Adonai teach you, to bury people in their beskar’gam? You’re lucky the shrine didn’t do worse to us all.”

The duchess bristled, “Oh, and you happen to be perfectly knowledgeable about ancient practices and their intended consequences?”

Jango looked star-ward, “Ner oyacye mir’shab. Ni a’den sha’gar, buir.”

Kryze sniffed, “Exactly. Nothing about this situation could have been predicted. Similarly, there is nothing we can effectively do until Ben’s return.”

“On the contrary, Duchess, there is much we can do in the meantime,” Jango did not flinch when Jinn spoke, “First and foremost being acquainting our young Mand’alor here with the fundamentals of Force control. I hate to say, but your current ability is… lacking.”

Instinctively, Jango retorted, “Not the Mand’alor,” before the rest of it registered. Then he snorted, “You want to teach me jetii osik. Not interested, thanks.”

The older man grimaced, “Unfortunately, I am not giving you a choice in the matter, sir Fett. If you continue in this manner, you will cause irreparable damage to my Padawan’s mind in his absence, not to mention the risk to those around you. No, I will be training you.” The way he said it was unyielding, and Jango could admit that he had a point.

“Fine,” he grumbled, “but none of the religious nonsense. I don’t need to believe in your rules to swing a sword.”

Jinn raised an eyebrow, “We’ll see.”

Osik.

“Ner gai Kal Skirata, alor,” then they switched back to Basic, face pinched, “and I’m starting to wonder exactly how much you remember if you don’t recognize one of your oldest supporters.”

Oh, Obi-Wan was going to have to go full clean slate, wasn’t he? Who knew that Phindar would be fantastic training for such occasions. Hmm. Jango had seemed the blunt, rough around the edges type over the comm call, but that might have been just the high stress of the situation. Still, Obi-Wan could do brusk. “I don’t need supporters,” he tried for aggressive and got mildly frustrated. Good enough. “And I don’t need my memories to tell that I don’t want your help.” Anything to get the man off the ship so that Obi-Wan could be on his way to Mandalore.

Skirata sighed, “At least amnesia hasn’t changed your attitude. Show some respect for once, kid, it might get you somewhere. Unless you’d rather still be on that pirate ship?”

Obi-Wan tried not to be actually offended, at least on Jango’s behalf, after all, “I was handling it.”

“At the pace of a sarlacc, maybe.”

He huffed, “I was. Now, this little reunion has been fun and all, but I need to get going.”

That got him a surprised look, “What, you on a job or something? With amnesia?”

Which truths were going to get Obi-Wan out of this situation? He considered a moment, then, “No, I left someone behind, back home. I need to get to them, and the pirates weren’t exactly part of the plan.”

Skirata spent a long time staring at him, almost straight through him, and Obi-Wan couldn’t help how he shifted uncomfortably. Despite never wearing it before now, this body felt distinctly vulnerable outside of its armor, and he quietly cursed himself for being foolish enough to try and extract himself from it, as he wouldn’t be in this situation. At least the fog in his brain was beginning to clear for now. Finally, the Mandalorian said, “Home, huh? Well, we can pick up your little riduur along the way, then. But I’m not letting you fuck off by yourself again until Mij has seen you personally. That’s your baar’ur, by the way.”

Obi-Wan groaned internally. Seeing a medic was the last thing he wanted to do, but if it got him to the planet and the Duchess unscathed, he’d just suffer through it. It’s not like he actually had amnesia, anyway, and he had a sneaking suspicion that no medic could fix the whole ‘swapped consciousnesses' business. He wasn’t even confident that the temple healers could.

His thoughts were interrupted, “In the meantime, let ol’ Kal fill you in so you’re not completely lost when you see your men again.”

Well, at least seeing a roster of the True Mandalorians wouldn’t hurt. It might even help his actual mission, in the long run, to know critical intel about one of the factions against the Duchess. And Kal was an adept storyteller, in a gruff, dry sort of way. Hearing first hand accounts of Jaster Mereel was fascinating, and he felt himself quietly mourn the loss on Jango’s behalf. There were far too many names for him to adequately remember them all, but he did his best, just in case.

It wasn’t until Kal started choking around his words while talking about Galidraan that Obi-Wan truly realized how much trouble he was going to be in when he got to the real Jango.

Chapter Text

Jango had gotten to exactly one week of jetii training before he was ready to take out someone’s kneecaps. Preferably Jinn’s, bring the towering man down to his level for a while. They practiced every morning, earlier than the dawn, and Jango grumbled through the chill and the stretches. If the pushing and pulling and meditation hadn’t come as naturally as breathing, he probably would have resorted to violence earlier on, if only to get under the older jetti’s skin. But like all training, it had its moments. The first time he’d successfully connected to the Manda, he’d been swept up as he felt the spirit of every verde in the area shimmer like stars and the heart of the planet sing a mournful song. His own heart echoed and harmonized with it before he could even think. Then he’d opened his eyes to wet cheeks and Jinn’s too-knowing eyes and he hated the jetiise all over again for all of it and everything. The teacher took it in stride with a magnanimity that honestly terrified Jango. 

Where was this patience when his people had been massacred on his orders? Where were these kind, knowing looks when Jango had been stripped of his armor and sold? He could not reconcile it with the grim determination that had toppled Myles or the naked hostility from that same jetii before Jango snapped their neck. All he’d had after was Dooku’s haughty satisfaction as he’d handed him over to the corrupt governor, as if that was justice. In all these years he’d remembered that expression and accepted that he probably would have ordered his men to fire even if he hadn’t been fresh out of battling Vizsla and off-kilter, because that face had looked at him like he was a violent animal, not a man who had just lost everything. There would not have been more understanding before the battle, and it was one of Jango’s few comforts about the horror of that day. His men had fought honorably, and it was the jetiise who had been more ruthless. As Mando’ade, he begrudgingly respected that it was just the nature of battle. If you fought, there would be times where you would be beaten.

Confronted with Jinn and, in a more indirect way, Ben, it all tore away whatever comfort those sort of thoughts had given him because all he asked, on a loop through each Force lesson was, what if it hadn’t been that Dooku? Would this jetii have acted the same way?

When Jinn showed him open-handed katas that were the beginnings of lightsaber training, when Jango felt the way his muscles sung with ease and familiarity through them, when Jinn emphasized the strikes that would incapacitate rather than maim or kill, Jango burned with the answer. He had been 16 and hasty and foolish and the blood of his people would always taint his hands for it. Dooku had been a seasoned warrior who had been hungry for the challenge the Mando’ade would bring more than the patience and understanding that true justice would have needed. Jinn would have fought, yes, but there would have been mercy. 16-year-old Jango would have scoffed, would have spat at an enemy showing such weakness. Now, at 22, Jango still would, especially if the enemy was condescending enough. It wouldn’t change that Jinn would give it anyway.

It was the most Jango had ever let himself feel about Galidraan other than rage, and every single time Jinn walked him through putting all those feelings outside of his body and into the Force, Jango’s grief grew.

He was right. He’d never stop mourning.

The next time he’d meditated, he also did his remembrances, from his first family through every squad he lost. It was the first time that he’d been able to list every single name from Galidraan, the Manda poking at his memory when he came to squads he hadn’t known well, names that had faded to time. When he’d finished it was past midday. When he stood, wobbling, Jinn patted his shoulder and told him that Ben’s meditation record was currently 28 hours. Then he’d told him to run through the first set of katas again.

Jango thought that Jinn made jetii training seem awfully Mandalorian in its brutality. He didn’t think that it was being tailored for him that way, either, given the skill-level of all the jetiise he’d encountered.

…Maybe when he finally got here, Jango could convince Ben to spar with him, to test how much he learned.

Past training, Vau didn't give him any space to relax in the evenings, either. Vau, who had been taking the chance of having Jango around to get his opinion on every little thing that might be even close to Mand’alor work and stirring up debates with Satine just so that he could try to rope Jango in to policy talk and then telling the jetii inaccurate things about history just so that Jango would have to correct him in order to defend Jaster’s honor. Who would quote portions of the Codex ( “Kepartayli, Jango, tor joan gra’tun, bal…” ) and wait until Jango finished the line ( “Bal gra’tun joan skira, ‘lek.”), shoving in Jango’s face over and over this is what it is to be Mando’ade.

Ni kar'tayli, Jango wanted to scream, I know he’d be disappointed! 

For her part, Kryze gave him a pretty wide berth. Mostly, she seemed baffled by him and that he would not want the power of his title, in her own grating way.

“I just don’t understand why you disappeared,” she’d gritted her teeth as he’d ignored her, meditating to put up that barrier between the himself-light and her sticky feelings and shuffling off his own reaction to her questions. She’d given him lots of practice already. If Jinn didn’t look placid all the stars-damned time, Jango might even say that he’d been impressed with how quickly Jango was able to reinforce the mind-shielding. Not that Jango would take all the credit, the foundations that were already there and instinctive had been pure beskar. Jango had just added the spikes. Jinn had just quirked an eyebrow at him, unreadable even with the Manda, and said that Jango was stable enough not to cause an outburst or an incident.

After that, on the fifth day, Jinn had set Ben’s lightsaber down in front of him and told him that they couldn’t train with it unless the lightsaber agreed to it. Jango was always happy to learn about a new weapon, but he did not want to meditate with the semi-sentient laser sword.

Jinn nodded sagely, “Then we will not include any lightsaber training. The saber of my padawan is as stubborn as he is, and it would be a matter of safety for it to be uncooperative.”

Jango glared. Jinn blinked back slowly. 

Jango meditated with the sword.

Unlike any of the normal rocks they’d practiced with, when Jango felt outside himself and thought a poke in the lightsaber’s direction there was a reaction, an almost tooka-like-hissing sensation of warning-back off-feral that had Jango physically backing up from the damned thing. The jetii-bajur didn’t laugh, but he did raise his eyebrows like it had gone exactly like he thought it would. “Despite being in his body, you do not have the same presence in the Force as my padawan.”

Jango rolled his eyes. Got it, approach with caution. A warning would’ve been nice, but Jango was learning that Jinn never said anything that wasn’t frustrating. If he had literally any other options to get back into his own body, he probably would have tried to murder the man by now.

(He refused to admit that the Force osik was pretty transhukla. )

He moved carefully back into his favored cross-legged meditation form–he’d never figure out how Jinn was comfortable on his knees–and decided that if the blade was going to act like a feral striil, Jango would just treat it like one. 

He settled in to meditate, closing his eyes and focusing on his beskar armor he’d made his shields into. Lately, he’d been trying to figure out whether there could be a Manda version of the flamethrower in his kom’rk , and he didn’t want to ask Jinn because he’d probably disapprove anyway. The lightsaber sat just outside his awareness, but he knew better than to reach for it this time. That’d be an easy way to get a striil bite. Normally, he’d try feeding the animal, but what did a lightsaber eat? And what could he even give it?

Well… it was a weapon, and Jango knew weapons. His blasters weren’t weird sentient lasers, but they worked best when he knew them inside and out and took care of them. In return, their metal had worn to fit the shape of his grip and continued to aim true. This sword wasn’t going to let him get close enough to do maintenance, that was for sure. Instead, he opened his eyes and got up–Jinn didn’t move from his own stance–to gather up all the supplies he’d need and grab the rifle he’d claimed after the incident at Briik.

He sat back down next to the lightsaber and half-sunk back into meditation. He didn’t really need to concentrate to take apart and clean the sniper, but it was nice to multi-task anyway.

Jango couldn’t believe he was, what, trying to get a jetiikad to trust him? To prove himself somehow? It was probably right not to trust him anyway. But he really wanted to learn how to use one, if only so that he’d know the best way to counter one. That would be the difference between life and death the next time he met a jetii in battle, or even up against Tor and his little play at being Mand’alor with the Dhakad’au.

The hand holding the cleaning rag stilled as his anger flared, rattling the rifle parts around him. Jango did not plan to let Vizsla live long enough to draw the Darksaber. He did not deserve the honorable death that a formal duel would bring. What the dar’manda deserved was to be stripped of his armor and left to rot. He had ruined too many lives for his greed, and Jango would avenge his buire and his verde in blood. Jinn gave him a firm nudge in the Force of calm-be here, and Jango took a deep breath.

He knew how to bide his time, now. Slavery had not been without its lessons, and patience for the best moment to strike had been the harshest. 

The metal stopped rattling, and Jango went back to cleaning and reassembling, the soothing motions sending a pang of longing through him for his own beskar’gam. He hoped Ben would take the time to clean it, to care for it properly. Dusela besbe’trayc, kyrayc verd, and Jango wanted to have a body to get back to. And, well. It was his armor. He’d already lost it once. He didn’t think he’d survive losing it again.

As his hands reassembled the sniper, he fondly remembered painting his first set with Jaster, after his verd’goten, almost a decade before. He’d been so proud, and his buir had teared up when he’d added the red in his honor. After he’d recovered the armor, he’d had to strip it, the governor’s sloppy disrespect burning into his soul. These days, he kept it a matte silver in his all-consuming grief. He’d thought to accent it in the vengeful gold, or even black for justice but…

He’d been naasade for so long, and he didn’t think he was ready to be anything more than a ghost, yet.

When he put the rifle back down, he felt a brush along his Manda’gam that was not from the jetii across the room, cautious but more curious-cool-interest. He brushed back, trying to send not a threat-narudar. This time when he held the kad’au, it hummed in his hands, not completely happy with him, but willing to work. Jinn had a strange glint in his eye when Jango was able to turn it on, but he said nothing.

The second week of training was all violence and it suited Jango better that way. They meditated less and ran more drills. 

When Jango was able to spar for a full minute, Jinn stopped the round and nodded, “That will be enough to keep you stable, I think. Keep meditating and training on your own and you will not prove a hindrance to my padawan when he returns.” Then he bowed and began to gather some supplies.

Jango narrowed his eyes, “You’re leaving.”

Jinn tilted his head, agreeing, “I must finish my portion of the mission, in Sundari.”

He didn’t know what to say to that. Shouldn’t he be waiting to help Ben? It had already been a mess when they separated to begin with. Jango radiated his mild disapproval, but the jetii didn’t react. Instead, he said, “May the Force be with you, Jango Fett. When you see my padawan, please remind him that it was his mission to protect the Duchess Kryze, not fix the whole planet.”

Then he was gone, the absolute shabuir. Maybe Jango was biased since he was in his body, but he hoped that Ben was not as… aggravating as his buir-baj’ur had been. If only so that his body wouldn’t be in bad shape by the time he got back to it. Ka’ra knows that Ben had been half-starved and injured when Jango had dropped into his. But, Jango’s had armor so that was an advantage. He tried not to do the math on how long it took to fly to Manda’yaim. He tried not to think of all the reasons he could get delayed. He still caught himself watching the sky.

Kal had been incredibly patient with him over the course of their journey, continuing to tell Obi-Wan about the various tales of the Haat’Mando’ade while teaching him anything that came up, like taking care of beskar’gam and making tiingilar, and, when Obi-Wan was confident enough that he could sound Jango-like, increasing his fluency in Mando’a. He wondered if that would be an asset in the future once he got back to the Temple. Maybe once he was knighted they’d let him run more missions in this sector and teach language classes for it, that way he wouldn’t lose his proficiency. He tried not to think about what came after this too much since he didn’t see an easy end in sight anytime soon. “Ben, Kenobi,” he whispered to himself like so many times before, “daieno bika.”

The words didn’t have the accompanying swirl in the Force, usually bolstering and bracing at once, and Obi-Wan felt himself despair a little more for the lack of it. The phantom limb of the Force could not help him endure, nor meditate, nor warn him of threats. He couldn’t get a true reading on his pilot nor sense when he was nearby. On top of that, the body he was in was hypervigilant in a jumpy kind of way that, if he was himself, usually meant that Qui-Gon was going to threaten him with mind healers. Obi-Wan had scoffed internally. As if Qui-Gon had ever gone to one, so why should he deem it necessary for his Padawan? Meditation worked fine for him for processing the events of his life.

But he couldn’t meditate in this body. The rustles of fabric or the sound of boots on metal left him tense. His mood felt like a pendulum, and he could not manage to reign it in. Once, while trying to “reteach Jango” how to cook, Kal had playfully snapped a towel at him and the next thing either of them knew was the crack of Obi-Wan’s knuckles across the older Mandalorian’s nose. Obi-Wan didn’t even hear that much past the rushing blood in his ears and his own ragged breathing. He didn’t know what threats Jango’s body was remembering, as Mandalorian he must have been through many battles, but with each flinch this brain dug out his worst moments. (He couldn’t meditate, and there were only so many times he could take seeing every death on his hands and other Padawans hissing “imkai’an” in their wake–) 

The only comfort was the weight of Jango’s armor, grounding him firmly in the now with the press of it. Because the reality was this: Obi-Wan Kenobi was in the body of Mand’alor Jango Fett, pretending to have amnesia to one of the man’s closest allies, and they were landing on Concord Dawn.

So close to Mandalore, yet so cursedly far from getting back to his own body and his own mission, and he could not correct it without  blowing his cover. As he stepped out into the light of the docking bay, he heard a rather resounding clang of metal that seemed to be from his welcome committee. There weren’t more than a squad of them there, but it alluded to more behind the scenes, too. How much had the Haat’Mando’ade recovered in Jango’s absence? Enough to counter the Death Watch? The New Mandalorians? Obi-Wan didn’t know, and suddenly that scared him as he froze on the ramp down. But, like he’d expected it to happen, Kal just clapped him on the shoulder and urged him forward, “Oya, Mand’alor. K’urci gar verde.”

One of them stepped forward and pulled Obi-Wan into a crushing embrace and introduced themselves as Silas, the only other survivor of Galidraan. More notably, he felt his shoulders untense the moment the other Mando pulled him into a rough mirshmure’cya. Kal had not inspired such a reaction, not for the full flight back to the sector, so Obi-Wan was inclined to believe in Silas’s loyalty to Jango. He even felt a bit guilty at his continued deception. Before they’d landed, Kal had mentioned that he’d commed the compound and briefed everyone about “Jango’s” lack of memories so that he wouldn’t have to explain over and over again. So they’d done introductions, and he’d gotten the tour, then he’d been shoved into the medbay with enough gusto to be concerning.

The baar’ur, Mij, was… stoic. After giving his name he silently checked all of Obi-Wan’s vitals. It wasn’t pleasant, but he stripped down to his kute and tried to be on his best behavior; he was borrowing this body after all.

“Out.” Obi-Wan jumped when the medic finally spoke, pointing at the hovering Kal and Silas. Once they were gone, Mij sighed, “I’m no psychologist, but I’ve seen plenty of battle-shaken verde and memory loss, kid,” he tapped at his vambrace, “And based on your readings, I’m gonna say this: you don’t have to be their Jango if you don’t want to be. You don’t even have to call yourself Jango, if you don’t want to. You’re a completely separate identity from Jango Fett, from what I can tell, so you might never have access to his memories.”

Obi-Wan couldn’t say anything, just blinked at the man. Mij waited for him to process. Finally, he choked out, “You can tell that just from some brain scans?”

The Mando’s helmet tilted in question, “You’re taking this better than I expected. But yes, brain waves are kind of like fingerprints. I don’t have to know a lot about neurology to look at yours next to Jango’s old ones and see that they aren’t the same,” he turned back to typing on his vambrace, “If you were Jango but with a couple of memory gaps or some short-term loss, that wouldn’t happen. It’s interesting what manifests. In this case, you’re a fully developed identity who’s got your own set of memories that Jango, if he’s still in your brain somewhere, wouldn’t be able to access either. You’ve even got unique physiology, like this allergy to some sort of seaweed that Jango didn’t have…” The medic trailed off, obviously focused on something on his HUD.

Obi-Wan was very grateful that Mij was being kind. The other Haat’ade had such… expectations that Obi-Wan wasn’t sure that even the real Jango could meet them. Still, he didn’t want to disappoint them all. He also had been rather firmly trained to never lie to a trustworthy medical professional. He would never be able to look Bant in the eyes again if he ruined Jango’s health in his absence because he didn’t know what sort of traits transferred over, like that allergy.

He resigned himself to having to explain his own point of view, but didn’t know where to begin or how to interrupt the medic’s tapping. Somewhere neutral, he supposed.

“...hoi broth,” he said, and it seemed to ring a bit after the quiet.

Mij paused, “Me’ven.”

He rallied himself, forcibly relaxing his shoulders and lightly swinging his legs, “The allergy you mentioned, it’s called hoi broth. Unfortunately, I’m rather well acquainted with it, but I’m not certain what my current reaction would be to it.”

While he spoke, Mij straightened, turning his full attention to him. “You lied about having amnesia, then.”

Obi-Wan shrugged, “Well, I certainly don’t have Jango’s memories, and I didn’t anticipate your medical expertise to stretch to the mind with such proficiency. I’ll have to remember that, next time I claim memory loss. Either way, it seemed prudent at the time and far easier to explain.”

If Obi-Wan could see his face, he got the impression that Mij would be staring at him.

He shifted a little, “...my name is Obi-Wan Kenobi, if you’d prefer to think of me as someone other than Jango.”

Mij’s shoulders hitched, and Obi-Wan realized he was laughing, the speakers on his helmet turned off. When he switched them back on he said, still catching his breath, “If I hadn’t already seen your scans, you would’ve just convinced me anyway. Even when he was playing politics, Jango would never talk like that,” he reached out to clasp arms briefly, “Well met, Obi-Wan Kenobi. If you don’t mind me asking, for medical reasons, how long have you been ‘in charge,’ so to speak, of the body?”

Obi-Wan sighed, “I know you likely won’t believe me–”

“Try me,” Mij interrupted.

“–I will attempt some honesty, then,” he shook his head, missing his own hair and the movement of his padawan braid, “I am not any alter identity from within Jango, as you’ve concluded, but rather, Jango and I have exchanged bodies. Currently, he is me, somewhere back on Mandalore, waiting for me to arrive so that we can find some way to swap back. If he hasn’t moved, he’d likely still be past the outskirts of Keldabe, in one of the villages.” He carefully left out any… inflammatory information about himself and his circumstances, just in case.

“...I’ll give it to you, Obi-Wan, that was not what I was expecting.”

“Welcome to the confusion that is my life, Mij.”

That got another chuckle, “Osik, verd. But you’ve talked to him?”

Obi-Wan nodded.

Mij extended his arm, pulling up the comm, “Not that I don’t believe you, but could you call him now? I just want to verify.”

Obi-Wan stepped up, putting in the code he’d diligently jotted down from their first message, giving an airy, “That’s fair enough, I’m barely sure that I believe it myself.”

The comm rang. The Mando from the village, Vau, answered with a gruff, “Ben. You’re late.”

Obi-Wan sighed, “I do apologize, there was a small hiccup in my travel plans,” he shifted so that Mij was in the frame, “In other news, I’ve met some rather helpful people on Concord Dawn.”

Vau nodded at Mij. Mij nodded back. Obi-Wan didn’t naturally assume that all Mandalorians knew each other, but it was difficult not to in this case. He raised an eyebrow at them, “And I will skip the introductions. Where’s Jango?”

Vau crossed his arms, “You’re late.”

Oh. Oh no. Obi-Wan pinched the bridge of his nose, “…where did they go?”

For days, Kryze would not let him forget that Ben was late, dripping her worry behind her anytime she wasn’t arguing with Walon about the Evaar’ade. Without Jinn there to buffer his mornings, he got roped into more and more of their “discussions.” That mostly meant he sat silently through them, ignoring all their attempts to pull him in and practicing his dexterity with his new powers as he lifted and spun the knives he and Walon would use for cu’bikad. He could pick up three, now, and he thought that was pretty good.

“–without the necessary infrastructure! What are political differences in the face of that?” Jango hadn’t even been following her point, but she gestured broadly at him, so he started listening, just in case.

Vau kept poking at the little duchess, “Galacticization is all well and good, then? You know that the Republic takes their pound of flesh, double from Mando’ade. Val emuuri mhi aikiyc. How many beroya would come home if they could be verde? The Republic were the ones to drive us from home in the Dral’Han, and hodasal n’ami mircin. Why would I trust arutiise and dar’mandase that openly say that they want our enemies to infiltrate?”

Kryze threw up her hands, “Haatyc or'arue jate'shya ori'sol aru'ike nuhaatyc. And, a trade agreement doesn’t give up our sovereignty! Being isolationist has only hurt us, and if the traditionalists don’t see that then they should at least see our dwindling population. Trade invites immigration, and war does the opposite. Conquering like Death Watch wants would only spread our few resources to their breaking point, even if I would stand by and let terrorists into power.”

Jango quietly sighed at that, suddenly reminded of long council meetings at Jaster’s elbow, Adonai Kryze saying the same things, Montross goading him for sounding Evaar’ade.  

But Vau seemed to pounce on the sound, “Something to add, ‘alor?”

Jango pressed his lips into a thin line and shook his head.

Kryze rolled her eyes, “My father said that Mereel would keep the Haat’ade insular until they suffocated. From what I’ve heard, you stayed that course to its end, Fett. Surely you can see that it’s time for change?”

The fire that he had banked enough to be around Jinn suddenly roared back to life, the daggers he held up slamming back into the ground as he heard himself snarl, “Aruetii depukrakta, gar akaa’nari te Ka’ra,” he heard Vau take a sharp breath in beside him, but he couldn’t stop, “Tion lise dar’manda suvari be Manda? Be Manda’yaim?” He thought of his people, dead on snowy fields and what Duchess Kryze would think of them, would say to them. He let the fire grow, “Shi taloya ep’agol be ash’ade bal jehaati kaysh ne kyramla. Kyr’tsad ner skir’amur, a’gar draar oyayc.”

Vau looked at him grimly, grabbing Jango’s shoulder like he thought he’d lunge at the other. Kryze looked at him with a mix of scorn and fear. Good, both had forgotten exactly who Jango Fett was, why, out of all the Haat’ade on Galidraan, he was still alive.

He threw off Vau’s hand and stormed out of the house, even as everything in him screamed to knock both of them in the teeth: Vau for his heavy-handed manipulation, Kryze for her arrogance. This body did not have armor, he would be far too vulnerable if he started a physical fight in there, and he hated how he could feel the heat in his face, sure he was completely red. Kryze had followed after him, yelling things he couldn’t hear over the blood rushing in his ears and the wind howling past him. He was sure they were insults, anyway.

He didn’t have a direction planned when he left, not that he’d gotten far, still within sight of the house, but when he calmed down enough to orient himself, he saw that he’d been going back towards the aarayaim. He stopped. Why had the jet’ika been going this direction in the first place? It was in the opposite direction from Keldabe, towards the worst of the wastelands at the equator. If he was trying to get back to his jetii-buir in Sundari, he should have tried to find passage in the capital. Or at least had a speeder.

Kryze caught up to him, still angry but not shouting anymore, “–short-sighted and stupid! Are you even listening to me? Come back and talk like a civilized person! Urgh, how am I supposed to unite this stupid sector if I can’t even speak to any of the other faction leaders without violence breaking out!”

Jango whirled on her, noting derisively that she had tears gathering at the corners of her eyes, and said, angry but firm, “To the rest of the galaxy you may seem like a breath of fresh air, Satine Kryze, but to Mando’ade you are an extremist. You won’t get anywhere with the warriors of our people until you see that. Get your head out of your own ass and listen to what the clan heads will tell you instead of thinking that everything that makes us a people is backwards just because they aren’t Core World manners.”

The tears poured down her cheeks, and Jango laughed internally. If she had a buy’ce, it wouldn’t matter if she was an angry-crier. Still, she had enough mandokar to get in his face, pointing, “Why should I take advice from a failed Mand’alor who couldn’t even unite us when you were in charge? I plan to actually build something that lasts, not tear this place down even more.”

The laughter bubbled up out of him, cruel, but he felt the giddiness of a fight too, glad that the tension could finally snap without any “peacemakers” like the jetii around.

“You laugh at me,” she snarled, “because you have no defense.”

“I laugh at you because you are an’gyrbejii at best and di’kut at worst. Your assumptions will be your death, and I will stand back and laugh.”

“You are bitter that Mandalore has moved on without you!”

He tilted his head, “Am I? All I see are two striile fighting over a rotting carcass.”

“And what does that make you?" she crossed her arms, "A vulture that will pick at the bones? What about your people?”

“Weren’t they supposed to be our people, Kryze? Or do you only care about the ones that agree with you?” he snarked.

“Oh look in a mirror, Fett.”

“All I’d see if I did would be the half-starved face of the Republic dog that your people called in.”

“Don’t talk about him like that! He’s–”

He cut her off, “Not here, is what he is. You can’t trust outsiders to do the job you should be doing yourself, Kryze, and you hate it, don’t you?” Jango taunted, “That Jinn went back to Sundari and didn’t take you with him. Left you here with me while he stabilized your own government for you.  How weak."

She screamed, “Shut up!” and smacked him across the face with a satisfying crack, looking  a little wild, like she couldn't believe she'd sunk so low.

Jango grinned, all teeth and too sharp, “So much for that vow of pacifism, Duchess Kryze.” She breathed heavily, glaring down at him and full of the same fire as him and practically burning in the Manda.

Finally.

“Vau!” He called towards his old head of intelligence, “Ke slana’t Sundari!”

Chapter Text

Going back to Sundari wasn’t something Jango Fett could just… determine on a whim. Especially after all that hypocrisy about not getting involved in politics any longer. ‘He wasn’t Mand’alor,’ he constantly reminded. Even to Satine, he wasn’t particularly convincing.

It wasn’t even that she wanted him as a leader, it was about the gall he had to sit there and judge her while simultaneously pretending that he didn’t care at all. 

She especially hated that, when he did say something, it was with the charisma of a leader, obviously natural in a way that she had to painstakingly cultivate these last few years to even approach an imitation of. She hated him for walking away from it in the same moment she envied his ability to simply give up on his responsibility. 

But Death Watch would want her dead regardless of her capability to fulfill her duty to her people. At least giving it her all would cause them trouble in the process.

Obi-Wan had always been so careful about covering their tracks, but every time new soldiers bore down on them her suspicions grew. No one tried to kill them outright in the villages, often considered neutral territory to any travelers, but she could feel the eyes on them. She wondered why Obi-Wan hadn’t mentioned it. 

She felt the knot of fear in her heart throb at the idea of venturing out again. Death Watch wasn’t tracking them, she’d realized.

People were calling them in. Mandalorians in the marketplaces they stopped at, in the spaceports they tried to travel with, all loyal to Tor Vizsla, the megalomaniac, and eager to see her dead.

She watched, suspicious, as Vau pressed something into Fett's hand and told him to 'find the others' while the younger man scoffed. She stayed in the rec room, far from Fett, when Vau went to the marketplace for them, picking up just the basics. 'Enough to get them to a spaceport,' he’d said. 

She didn’t have the heart to tell either of them that they’d tried that. She and Obi-Wan had tried valiantly to get passage off of Mandalore. They’d tried to buy tickets. They’d tried to sneak aboard cargo freighters.

They’d been met with blasters at every point. Now, they had no plan except to survive long enough for Master Jinn to call them back to Sundari. With Fett here instead of Obi-Wan, her Ben, she’d thought that Jinn would immediately take her back with him, bomb threats be damned.

She thought wrong, and she couldn’t help but be furious about it. If Fett had been even slightly more interested in power, she’d be long dead. So if he wanted to deliver her to Sundari instead, she would go along with it, and they would leave at first light.

The shouting woke her well before then.

Fett was crouched against the wall, carefully peering out the window.

“What’s happening?” she whispered, even as dread pooled in her gut. He just made a cutting motion across his throat, a signal for quiet.

Vau’s voice crackled with the microphone of his helmet, rising over other, less distinct calls in Mando’a, “Don’t be a pack of striil, Maliik. They’re barely kids.”

Another voice replied, “They’re outsiders and invaders, Walon. Your defense of them is un-Mandalorian.”

They were about to be found out. Again. 

That thing inside of her that ached for a Mandalore she could recognize cracked a little further.

A face blocked her vision. Not Ben, she reminded herself. Ben smiled gently, and Jango Fett almost never smiled at all. She didn’t think the man could even be gentle, obvious as he grabbed her arm, grip too firm, hauling her away towards the back of the house as she got her feet under her.

He threw open the window in the kitchen, “Vau said he’d play distraction, but we need to go. Now.”

She didn’t doubt it and pulled herself through it, landing as light as she could with the urgency they faced. Fett slung the pack of supplies they’d gathered earlier after her that she barely managed to catch, then followed, as silent as Ben had ever been. Distantly, her mind wondered if that was a trait from the Force or if Fett had just been trained. She heard shouting behind her again and dreaded when the soldiers would appear. How long would they last before more were called in?

He pointed out towards the village wall. She always hated scaling those, with the way rivets dug into her hands. He jumped and caught the edge of it, pulling himself up with ease, then extended a hand down towards her, ready to haul her up, too.

A part of her still didn’t understand why he was here. Why he was helping her. He could’ve run off the minute they’d met Master Jinn and left her to fend for herself. She didn’t understand anything about him or his strange meditations that always seemed more restless than Ben’s or his quiet determination when he’d used a lightsaber that had been all too much like Ben or his anger at her and Walon Vau in equal measure despite one being his ally. She didn’t understand him, and part of her hated him for it.

She took his hand.

Mij hung over his shoulder as Obi-Wan typed in the code that Vau relayed was to a burner comm he’d given Jango.

It rang in the heavy silence before it connected and the holo appeared. Jango was clearly running, a long-range blaster rifle strapped to his back as he dragged someone, probably Satine if Obi-Wan had to guess, behind him. His own voice cried out in eerily accented Mando’a, “Ke’bana, Walon, Ka’ra, tran be ibi’tuur atin.” He heard the sound of blaster bolts making impact around them, “Gar sirbu ibic r’ara’novo?”

Even after talking to Kal on the flight there, Obi-Wan honestly only understood some of the more common words, so he wasn’t quite sure what Jango was yelling about. But, he had a feeling that it was probably about the Death Watch. Every place they’d made contact with the local populations it seemed to bring the fanatics out of the woodwork. Most of the other Mandalorians just turned a blind eye, too used to ignoring it to keep the peace in their compounds.

Obi-Wan didn’t want to break Jango’s concentration and get him hurt in the process, but he watched his body narrowly dodge a blaster bolt and felt a fissure of envy. Jango had the Force to protect him, now. Obi-Wan had to hope that would be enough.

That was when Jango snarled, a sound and expression he’d never seen on his own face, and shoved the comm at Satine, lunging out of the frame. Her face was all grim lines as she greeted him, “Ben. I’m glad to see you’re well,” he heard his own voice cursing and the snap of a readied rifle, “Jango is convinced that fleeing Death Watch is a futile effort when I,” she raised a hand in air-quotes, “‘should be taking care of my own damn government.’ I fear that I agree with him, at least in this instance,” she ducked, suddenly, and the comm was yanked back from her.

“Ben,” Jango snapped in Obi-Wan’s most irritated tone, “you better have one hell of a reason for not coming straight to us.”

“It’s not as if I was waylaid by pirates on purpose, Jango, really.”

He crouched behind cover, setting the comm down then yanking Satine around beside him and into the holo frame as she looked affronted. He slung the rifle back to ready from his shoulder and asked, clearly still annoyed, “And are pirates the reason I see Mij Gilamar hovering over you, or are you too busy making a mess out of my life to fucking switch back?”

He rolled his eyes as Jango fired, “I hardly think that you have room to judge my handling of the situation when you are currently making a mockery of my mission directives.”

He snorted as he ducked behind cover again, “Yeah, because your mission directives were osik and the Republic should keep its nose out of Mando business.”

Obi-Wan huffed, “We were requested to be there! And even then, our intel grossly misrepresented the political climate of the sector. Otherwise, the Council would’ve never let me get remotely close to another warzone.” 

Jango ignored him and started firing again. Obi-Wan heard the sound of bolts hitting their marks, the return fire lessening with each one. “The moment we’re back to normal, Kenobi, I am teaching you actual shooting posture. This would be child’s play if I could land a shabla shot. The way you stand pulls the stock too much, you ever notice that?”

“Is that really relevant at the moment? More importantly, what am I supposed to do about the Haat’ade , Jango?”

The sound of blasters stopped entirely as Jango picked back up the comm, giving Obi-Wan his full attention, “The what? Did that shabuir Skirata catch you, too?” 

“In my defense, I was concussed–”

“You’ve got some luck, jet’ika, I’d managed to dodge him for months and you manage, what, two days?”

“...I am not certain of the timeline,” Jango chuckled incredulously at that, “but that does not magically make it my fault that I was unaware of potential restrictions, now does it?”

Jango started to snark back, but Satine groaned in the background, “We understand, boys, you are both very good at being trouble, but for the love of the gods, focus, please!” Obi-Wan and Jango grumbled apologies as she continued, “Ben, you cannot reveal our predicament until I have been properly installed, otherwise I would lose all credibility with my people in collaborating with Jango Fett.”

“And I wish you well in that endeavor, Duchess,” Obi-Wan sighed, “But how am I meant to act like Jango Fett to all his followers? Currently, I’ve told them I have amnesia, but I doubt it will hold them for long.”

Jango laughed at him, “If I thought it would work I would’ve tried that ages ago. No, you are too much jetii to pass as Mando’ad . If you can learn to think like a Mandalorian then maybe you can pretend, but your best bet is to flee. That’s what I was doing anyway, so they would expect it.”

He was nodding when Mij finally pitched in, crossing his arms, “I did not expect our old Mand’alor to encourage his stand-in to act like a hut’uun.”

Obi-Wan watched him visibly flinch then glare at the baar’ur. “And what would you have me do, him do, Gilamar, rebuild the ori’raamikade from scratch with no funds and no training and no support? Rally the clan heads? Ba'slan shev'la is not dishonor here.”

“And how would you know what his status is? All we need is your face, Fett. That will be enough to flush out Kyr’tsad compounds. If you’d just reached out right away we might have–”

Jango cut him off, “Save your lectures and your regrets for someone who cares. Kenobi, get to Sundari so I can get on with my life away from this insanity,” and he hung up without another word.

Obi-Wan sighed and shook his head.

Jango resisted the urge to crush the comm in his hands. Next to him, the duchess crossed her arms, “I’m starting to get the impression that you are always this dramatic.”

He just glared at her and wrenched himself to his feet. Death Watch had been chasing them consistently once they’d caught wind that they’d been at Vau’s place. It was all the older Mando could do to keep them out of his house. At least they’d already packed up some rations to go to Sundari, so it was a quick escape, even if they’d had to leave Vau behind.

The utreekove had chased them with a speeder, at least. Jango had been picking them off one by one for hours, and now he could take the vehicle instead of sacrificing his still-tender feet to the hard soil of the wastelands. Silently, he and Satine stripped the dead of their beskar and loaded it into the back of the transport. They’d have to find a goran to deliver it to at some point, but the closest one would be the one in Keldabe, and Jango really didn’t want to turn around. He did pull off a pair of boots from one of the verde that looked like they might fit and tossed the tattered ones with the rest of the armor. They were heavier, and Jango grimaced as he realized that he’d have a harder time moving in them. This body just didn’t have enough bulk for beskar’gam.  

As he was pulling them on, the duchess got into the driver’s seat, and she got a stubborn set to her face when he approached. He crossed his arms, “Do you even know how to get there?”

She rolled her eyes and didn’t move. Jango stared, his fingers automatically tapping in annoyance. She very obviously grit her teeth and stared back.

Her hostility seeped through his mental armor like water getting into his shoes, and he took a deep breath, trying to bat it away from him. The way that the life had winked out of the verde earlier had already been startling enough without adding her baggage. Jango hadn’t expected it to give him an almost physical sensation when his bolts landed, and it had thrown off his aim. Now he knew what to expect though, so he could reinforce against it. Just like he had gotten used to doing anytime Satine looked at him for too long.

When she still wouldn’t move, Jango shrugged and shoved his way into the seat anyway, using bony elbows and sharp hips to do the work he’d usually rely on muscle for. He resolutely ignored the way Kryze protested loudly, and he expertly blocked her return jabs until he’d forced her into the next seat over where she huffed in defeat.

It wasn’t until he had started the speeder that he realized that he probably could’ve just pushed her with the Force. Next time.

The ride was silent as he turned them towards Sundari, mulling over what clan lands covered the length. Vau’s aliitsad and Briik were all in Aloriitsad Vizsla territory, as far as Jango remembered. Who knew what clan lands they were in, those shifting sands were always someone else’s problem when Jango had been Mand’alor.

Which once again begged the question, why had the jet’ika taken Kryze there?

It was straight into the belly of the beast. It would’ve been far safer to retreat to traditional Kryze territories, like Kalevala or Draboon, and wait out the unrest. He glanced at Kryze. Was this her play, rather than Ben’s? Jango didn’t know, he’d been too far from politics since his fall to say what angle she could possibly have.

He was rusty, and he had a feeling that the duchess wouldn’t be interested in sharing her plans with ‘an opposing faction leader’ as she thought of him.

The wastelands bled into grasslands, a good indicator that they were closer to Kryze-friendly territory. Their clans were always concerned with pollution, when the sector had been stable enough to worry about it, and Jango remembered approving at least one major soil remediation project on Manda’yaim proper. Those proposals had bled together at the time, distractions from his latest campaign against Death Watch. 

That had probably been part of the problem. Jango had never had the patience to worry over every little detail the way Jaster had.

Kryze finally seemed to tire of glaring at him from her spot in the passenger seat and closed her eyes.

Well, at least she trusted him enough not to kill her, at this point. He didn’t know whether or not to be offended by that. She gave up her guard too easily.

He told her so, “Gar aranov osikla.”

She sniffed derisively, “Nukad’la beskad al’mirjahaal.”

“Shi'meh beskad ru’pirimmu. Me’vaar beskad be Evaar’ade?” he rolled his eyes.

“Evarr’ade draar ru’beri.”

Jango laughed, “Right, because you just sell them to everyone else and call it virtue.”

Back to glaring, “If we had established trade routes in the Republic, weapons and warships wouldn’t have to be our greatest export.”

“And what, switch production to civilian models? In direct competition to Corellian models? You’re out of your mind.”

“If we could specialize and corner a different market–”

“Look around, duchess,” he gestured broadly, “there aren’t any more markets to be cornered. You’ll just cripple people’s livelihoods, for what, your feelings?”

She fully sat up, pointing a finger at him, “It’s about short-term losses for long-term gain! Weapons are a stagnated industry at this point, and we need to stay ahead of the curve.”

Jango felt his too-thin lips press together in frustration. He’d just wanted her to learn to dodge better, not sink into some stupid debate on foreign policy. He shook his head, “You can’t duck and roll correctly, Kryze. You’re going to get injured before we make it to Sundari, and you’re going to give yourself a concussion by the next assassination attempt.”

She said nothing, closing her eyes again and slumping back into her seat. “I know more than you think,” she muttered.

Jango was very, very aware that Satine Kryze was being a surly teenager. It did not make it easier.

He let her sulk. He wasn’t her ori’vod, and even if he was it wouldn’t be his job to manage her because she was an adult.

Jango chased away memories of teaching ade the first steps of aranov as the speeder streaked over the plains.

Despite how he agreed to keep his secret for stability’s sake, having an ally in Mij wasn’t particularly useful, ultimately. In fact, it might have put him at a disadvantage in the long run, because now his gaze felt heavy and assessing when Kal and Silas were finally allowed back in and told half a diagnosis: that “Jango” would not recover his lost memories. Obi-Wan himself could not… Tumi tamahru kar lukawaytho nepa Jango nak eiyhunchair ol nak padawanir eyco pai tamhru ehnap karel ru tumi imfaziiru daiel kar ru–ru–

He breathed, grateful for the helmet covering his expression. 

Why? He asked himself, Xai sahrhiiru Sundari’ux eyco?

He resisted the urge to drop his head in his hands, if only so that Silas wouldn’t be concerned. 

Obi-Wan could not go to Sundari, not as Jango Fett of the True Mandalorians. That would be an act of aggression that the small and still-recovering people under his command could not afford, nor would it win him Satine’s favor.

Which meant that his best bet was to stay put and hope that Jango could make his way to him instead, once the mission was complete. He’d have to call him again, next time he was finally alone. The Force would guide him, surely. 

Daieno bika krii daiun? 

Obi-Wan did not have time for a yhua kat xari in the middle of being unexpectedly redeployed as a General-tepetux.  

Because that was what the Haat’ade needed him to be, wasn’t it? To be Mand’alor , a rallying point that wasn’t Death Watch or New Mandalorian and the Commander in Chief of all their warriors. To pull people away from both, too.

Kal had talked about that, some, before they made it to Concord Dawn: that while the numbers of the Haat’ade ori’ramikade were always relatively small, and he had never been in them, the Mand’alor had the backing of the majority of the clan heads across the sector. That was why things that had once been tense, but relatively stable for Mandalorians, had crumbled after Galidraan.

Jango and any potential successor had been gone in an instant, and the power vacuum had swallowed up any neutrality left.

Jango Fett was nak ania kat kai to these people, and Obi-Wan felt sick with it.

Silas knocked into his shoulder, “Don’t worry, ‘Alor, we’ll just have to make new memories instead.”

Obi-Wan smiled weakly and bumped his shoulder back, trying for easy camaraderie, “I guess we’ll have to, then, just because you said so.”

Mij shook his head, “Other than the amnesia, he’s in good health, so you can go ahead check his training level and get him cleared for duty. Now get out, and you,” he pointed at Obi-Wan, “come back in a week. I want an update, even if nothing’s changed.”

With a nod they were shooed out of the medic’s domain. 

Kal stalked ahead of him, leading them back towards the ship. Obi-Wan was honestly confused by that. Would he just be living out of the ship? Should he be meeting others?

They walked (closer to a march) in silence until Silas closed the ramp behind them and slumped in a chair in the main living area. Obi-Wan stood, settling into some sort of natural parade rest. Kal had kept going towards the armory and soon re-emerged with a single-edged blade, the gentle curve of it glinting in the artificial light. Silently he handed it to Obi-Wan.

Lightsabers were incredibly unbalanced weapons, with no weight to their blade at all, so none of his grace translated as he tested the distribution of the sword. The beskad, if he was correct. It didn’t seem like Jango was a natural talent with the weapon, but holding and swinging caused no strain, and that was comforting enough.

Silas was giving him an odd enough look that he felt another pang of loss as he wished he could simply sense what the man was feeling instead of speculating. Kal, on the other hand, was clearly assessing.

As Obi-Wan stilled, the older man spoke, “You were always a good enough of a shot that I never doubted whether you could take out Vizsla before he forced you to cross blades,” he sighed, “Now, I am less sure. I want you to refresh both.”

Internally, Obi-Wan groaned. This man clearly had plans for Jango, whether or not he was a willing participant. Truthfully, he’d been in less stressful hostage situations. He considered his options: going to Sundari like Jango wanted and certainly causing an outbreak of violence, or staying here and training so that a third faction could re-enter the fray, also certainly resulting in an outbreak of violence.

Mandalorians. It really would be violence either way, wouldn’t it?

Still, he’d rather delay it as long as he could, and if he stretched the length of his “training,” Obi-Wan could stall for quite a while. At least enough to come up with a solid plan.

He grinned. Yes, training with a new sword form would not exactly be a burden. Already, he was considering how he might incorporate future techniques with his current expertise.

He hefted the blade again. “When do we start?”

Chapter Text

Obi-Wan thought that Kal was a little… tonollun. There was an intensity to his eye that left Obi-Wan feeling more unmoored with every drill. He’d carefully show Obi-Wan the steps, demonstrating them one-by-one, then give a brief puff of satisfaction when Jango’s body fell into them without faltering. Obi-Wan didn’t let himself feel the same; they hadn’t even added any of the advanced combinations that incorporated the verticality of the jetpack or kom’rk utilities. He had no idea how he would be able to keep up with those yet, at least until he got a real chance to sit down and see what sort of tricks Jango kept up his beskar sleeves. At first glance, the easiest to see was the whipcord. So yes, Kal had advised him not to add in any of that for now.

Both of them could tell that Jango was not a swordsman, and Obi-Wan tried not to scowl in frustration at it. Jango’s body liked to move with the sharp jabs of precision, a soldier used to snapping to attention and a quickshot with a blaster. Those snaps were prominent in the movement from the first stance to the second, and again in his feints. He did not move with Dai or fazmii’yth like Obi-Wan had always been taught. Moving through another repetition, his heart ached for the soft hands of gentle correction that guided him through Shii-Cho as a padib. Kal was far less patient, giving little feedback beyond a firm “Tu’gyc” or “Ori’iviinyc.” It wasn’t particularly cruel, but it was a far cry from Qui-Gon’s usual method of stopping him when he made an error and having him reflect until he could pinpoint what he’d done wrong. Not here.

He misplaced a step, wondering after his Jaieh.

“Tu’gyc,” he heard.

Obi-Wan ran it again.

Across the landing pad, Silas quietly shooed away curious Mandos. Obi-Wan let himself feel the warmth of gratitude for it, as Kal’s eyes were more than enough for his self-consciousness without additional strangers around. The bes’kad in his hand was heavy, and he kept trying to narrow his body further than the weight of his armor allowed. It truly was only Jango’s muscle memory that kept him from falling out completely. He could feel his arm starting to tire, making his movements sloppy. 

Obi-Wan huffed and pulled himself back into the first position of the set.

“Gev.”

He lowered his arms slowly, refusing to let them fall like their puppet strings were snipped.

Kal crossed his arms, “Gar arasuum’ika maan jorbe par gar aar’ika. Meh’gar udesii, kando be’kad ven’nyni. K’yrdi ukor gar kad, a’bal ke’pirimmu shaadat.”

It took Obi-Wan an unfortunately long time to guess what Kal had said, the whole time the other man looking at him expectantly. He got the word kad, gev, and aar’ika through the other small common words he was starting to know a bit more instinctively. He cursed his lack of fluency in Mando’a again as he replied in Basic, “What do arasuum’ika and shaadat mean?”

Kal blinked and sighed, like he did every time Obi-Wan reminded him that “Jango” had “forgotten” most of his Mando’a. 

Instead of just answering with their definitions in Basic, he took the beskad from him and did the first part of the drill at normal speed. As he restarted, he said, “Watch carefully. How much strain do you see on my downward swing?”

He moved, much more smoothly than Obi-Wan had managed in Jango’s body, he recognized with a little envy. 

There was the downswing, and he tried to see what Kal was trying to show him. A few more swings with Kal saying, “See how with this one I’m flexing my shoulder, putting muscle behind it? That’s slowing down your movement.”

He swung again and was noticeably faster, more fluid, “Here, all I’m doing is controlling the motion of the kad, not adding anymore power.”

Obi-Wan nodded, trying to slot the information into his understanding with something that felt more familiar than nev Mando’ade could provide. He thought over his new words, shaadat, arasuum'ika, trying to assign them meaning. He thought about Kal’s swings.

Finally, something clicked.

In Ataru, flips and jumps were critical to building momentum with the body, and bodyweight became power behind the strikes. In Djem-So, it came from (often Dai-fueled) muscle strength instead. 

Kal was saying that the kad was doing Ataru, not Djem So.

Obi-Wan could do that.

Some of his realization must have shone in his face because Kal didn’t explain further. Instead, he stepped back with a small but pleased smile and said, “Tu’gyc.”

This time, Obi-Wan felt the fazmii’yth.

The silence in the speeder was oppressive. Satine wondered if it was because Jango was using the Force to do it somehow or if he was just… like that. Judging based on the fact that Ben had never made her feel so suffocated wasn’t particularly telling because, even if he could use the Force like that, Ben wouldn’t want to do so.

In the silence, she reflected. Satine had been nearly twelve when Jango Fett had disappeared. Her father had offered the New Mandalorian movement the support of aloriitsad Kryze only a few years before, but had not openly renounced the Mand’alor. He never would, not even to his death. He’d only denounced Death Watch, and most did, in those days. 

She missed how much simpler everything felt back then. 

She’d felt less alone.

Satine wondered if Fett knew the chaos he’d caused, if that was why he hadn’t come back.

Her mind drifted lightly over the memory of Bo-Katan’s tears as she said goodbye, like a caress of an old photo. She let her thoughts glance off of the image of her mother in her buy’ce, screaming at her father about Satine’s verd’goten. Those, she kept behind museum glass.

What she’d said to Jango earlier had been true. If Mandalore didn’t diversify their exports, their sector was going to be starving before too long because the only large orders of weapons these days came from Hutt controlled space. And if there was one thing her father taught her, it was that getting in bed with the Hutt Empire was a good way to end up dead, deposed, and replaced by someone who would embezzle their people into slavery. She knew that they could not keep weapons dealing. Her father had been making in-roads, leveraging Mandal Motors towards more Republic-sympathetic deals, but it was so slow. If they could just expand industries, the Hutts wouldn’t be an issue.

But seeing the face Jango made, talking about competitive markets and job loss, she realized that she needed to do more research. Not that she could, out here on the run, but she had just assumed that she would have her council with her to hash out details like that, like her father had. It hadn’t even occurred to her that Fett might care enough about Mandalore’s economy to make such arguments.

Not much had occurred to her about what being planetary leader would look like since the bombings. Much of her mind was taken up with where to go next, how to retake the seat her father left for her without angering the remaining traditionalists of her House. Not long-term policy. The things she’d said to Vau and Fett were plans she’d imagined prior to, well, everything. In them, she’d imagined it several years in the future, her father still alive and retired but always there to advise her. They’d have set up those alliances in the Republic. They would have slowly expanded the economy. 

Those dreams were now gone in the same flames that took her last remaining family, and she had not filled the space where their corpses remained, yet. She hadn’t even had a chance to bury them, but the bitter words of two different traditionalists had her staring them in the face.

They were unrecognizable. It would take time to reform them. Stability. Her legitimacy as the head of aloriitsad Kryze was already hanging by a thread, and, though she was loath to admit it, a Jedi acting as some kind of regent was only hurting the issue.

She pictured Sundari, the capital she had come to call home in recent years, sitting atop the mountain with its gleaming dome, the smell of warm spices drifting from the markets. 

If it were Ben next to her, she would be filling the silence with stories of each stall that she visited regularly. He’d be indulgent, with only a question every now and then about the different people she encountered.

The peace of that thought lasted until the next town.

Wordlessly, they sputtered to a stop outside of the market space. Jango nodded at her and made a beeline for the cheapest food supplies they could afford while Satine did her best to avoid drawing attention to herself. So, she stuck close to the speeder, digging through the armor that they’d gathered from Death Watch to see if there was anything useful. 

A few vibroknives and an old blaster pistol were the only fruits of her search that she felt comfortable enough to take, strapping on and tightening the smallest set of holsters she could find in the pile. Grimly, she unloaded the bolts in the pistol, replacing them with stun shots. It took three to down a Mando’ad where a normal bolt took one, but she knew the pistol type had a burst setting that she could set to make up the difference.

She was tweaking the calibration when Jango returned, motioning her into the speeder with a harsh, “K'olaro!” before he swung himself into the driver’s seat, glancing over his shoulder. 

She didn’t bother to ask what he was in a hurry for or what he was running from. Jetpacks were hard to misinterpret, and this wasn’t the first market she’d fled.

In the last couple of weeks on the run with Ben, she’d used a pistol a few times, when stun bolts were available. They usually weren’t. Now, she lined up the shot like she was at the range, turning to the first verd in her sights with a deep exhale, getting rid of the tension in her shoulders as the wind whipped through her hair. Pulled the trigger.

Three bolts flew in rapid succession, a little lower than she’d wanted but still all hits. She’d have to self-correct for now.

A little higher. Breathe out. 

The first verd went down. Return fire started.

She ducked back behind the seat as Jango continued to drive, dodging the bolts that came towards him with an uneasy expression.

“Tion'solet?” she yelled over the wind.

“Ehn!”

She nodded and checked her ammo. If she managed to land every hit it still wouldn’t be enough.

Glancing up over her cover, she saw one of the remaining pursuers lining up their kom’rk. Whatever came out of it wouldn’t be good. She kept low and tried to keep steady as Jango started to weave evasively.

Another few shots and that one was down, too, their whipcord streaking past the speeder.

Satine’s heart was somehow pounding in her ears and caught in her throat. Too close.

Jango sputtered curses as he drove, then abruptly yanked her hand to catch the driver’s stick as he pulled his rifle out of the back seat. 

He was faster than she had been as she anxiously held the speeder steady, and it took only two more shots to end the whole encounter. She closed her eyes. Fatal shots.

A voice within her sneered, Look at yourself, Satine Kryze. You are a warrior like any other Mando’ade. Tion’jor’nayci mandokar?

It sounded like her mother.

Silently, he took back the controls, correcting their course towards Sundari.

It was another long stretch before she was startled out of her adrenaline crash by a terse, “Nice shooting.”

She blinked. “Thanks. You, too.”

Jango Fett disappeared when she was twelve years old, she reflected.

No one had mentioned that he was a total kov'sheb.

Obi-Wan did fairly well with the blade. 

He did not do as well with the blaster. 

Jango was obviously very skilled with the pistols he kept, but Obi-Wan couldn’t bring himself to have the same lethality. 

The targets smoked ahead of him, but not with clean shots to the head or heart. He couldn’t stop aiming for the shoulders, the hip, the knees. Jango’s body aimed true, but it was Obi-Wan who couldn’t internalize the idea of a kill, even now. 

Frankly, he didn’t want to, either. 

To his left, Kal gave him a long look, and Obi-Wan again hated the way he couldn’t reach out with the Force to check if a situation had turned dangerous. When would Obi-Wan’s inability be declared a total loss? He didn’t know, but sometimes when silence between them stretched a little too long, he felt an easy flash of fear. It was difficult to release. 

Then the man took off his helmet, so Obi-Wan did the same, relieved. 

Kal gave a long look to his own buy’ce before he looked back up and said, “Jaster wasn’t a perfect man or a perfect leader. Neither were you. But you were different. Fresh-faced and hopeful in a way that drew people in because you believed. Jaster was a good alor because he had the haa'it but you had urmankar. If you’d had more time, I know you could’ve made Jaster’s haa'it reality.”

Obi-Wan swallowed and closed his eyes as he said, hoarsely, “I’m not him, Kal. I don’t think I ever can be.”

“I know.”

“The Haat’ade will be able to tell right away. They’ll lose faith in the cause.”

“If they didn’t lose it after Galidraan, they won’t now.”

“Not everyone is as stubborn as you.”

From his right, Silas snorted, “And thank the Ka’ra for that. But Jango, you were the only person I knew that was more stubborn than Kal, and memories or not, that hasn’t changed, or you would’ve run us through and taken off the moment we put a kad in your hand. The only thing that’s new is the self-doubt. Before, Jaster’d trained that right out of you.”

Obi-Wan tried not to dwell on the deep sense of deception he felt at that. “Little late to train it out of me again,” he shrugged. 

Silas shrugged back, “So you’ve changed. If anybody’s got a problem with that, we’ll tell them that it’s better than arasuum.”

Kal visibly grit his teeth and Silas threw him a glance that said something like, 'here we go.'

The old Mando’s tone was the same as when he was running Obi-Wan through drills, gruff but firm as he said, “You know better than to throw words like that around, Silas. We’d be falling right into the same trap as the Kyr’tsad and Evaar’ade, and there’s no going back from that.”

Silas crossed his arms and looked away, “You said the same thing about alii'nar and kote, Kal. Maybe we should just stop speaking Mando’a at all, really give the Evaar’ade what they want.”

Obi-Wan watched them go back and forth, wondering if he should step in, mediate somehow like he’d always been trained to do.

“We can’t become extremists, Silas, we’ve already got two other tsade who have that market cornered.”

“It isn’t extreme to invoke the old gods, Kal, you just let the Core tell you how ‘barbaric’ they are.”

He must’ve made some motion, because their attention suddenly snapped to him, like they expected him to say something. He raised his eyebrows in question. 

Silas huffed and rubbed his forehead, “Right, the memory loss.” he turned back to Kal, ”But no, before you say it, I’m not saying we reorganize the Yust be'Ruug. They died with the Crusades and they should stay dead, no matter what Death Watch’s propaganda says. But if we can’t rely on Jango alone to rally anymore, we’ll need something!”

“Not this, Silas. Kyr’tsad have already sullied the old ways enough without our help.”

“You know that’s not the way they see it. Except for maybe Tor. He’s definitely doing it on purpose.”

“The point, you’re missing the point.”

“Am I? I’m just saying, if we’re going for such a moral high ground in this war, we probably have to make a grab for some morals.”

“Jango kept up the separation, even as Mand’alor.”

Silas glanced at Obi-Wan again, “Times have changed. Now Sundari and Concordia both renounce the Yust'Gorone be'Keldabe. Mereel used to be their aloriitsad. Just because Ordo supports them now…”

“Doesn’t make them safe.”

“Not up against Vizsla openly backing Kyr’tsad these days, and they know it. Rau’s already sent intel on who’s planning to defect.”

Their argument continued, but Obi-Wan tuned it out. Honestly, they were talking about so many things that he didn’t have any sort of reference for, he felt entirely lost. If there was some sort of widespread modern version of the religions Satine mentioned before the Cave Incident, why hadn’t she mentioned it before? Why hadn’t anyone? He thought back over the mission briefing from what felt like an eternity ago. It was sparse, especially in comparison to what he knew now.

His brief time as Jango had revealed so much that wasn’t discussed around arutiise, so much that could’ve helped him in his duty as a Jedi. He’d never seen Death Watch propaganda because it was spread over the HUD channels. He’d never met an armorer because they were somehow protected. He’d never heard of an organized Mandalorian religion, but it made sense, like a power cell locking into place, an energy source for this war. 

Could he have stopped the bombings in Sundari if he’d known? Hid Satine better?

No, that way led to madness.

Obi-Wan rubbed his eyes. “I don’t understand why religious iconography would bear any weight on the movement. Isn’t being Mandalorian a creed? A ‘Way’? That’s not really a religion in the traditional sense.”

The two exchanged a look across him. 

Kal closed his eyes, “Jaster was the one to tell you all the old stories, as your buir. Your Vhett’buire had told you a few, but…” he sighed again, “Right. We’re the ones here and now.” 

Obi-Wan swallowed down his instinctual daieno bika of agreement and nodded.

Kal’s tone shifted, almost echoing with an air of ritualism. It reminded Obi-Wan of Master Windu in nights where he’d recite the Zahlah Revanel or the Code of the Dai in full, where the very air seemed to still. 

“The stories have been passed down through the ages, tome'tayl bah'beskar. I know that you would not know all the words, so I will do my best to translate, but some things can’t be. Stop me if you need.”

Obi-Wan nodded solemnly. 

Kal began, “Arasuum, Stagnation, is the enemy of Mandalore, and it always has been. Our people crave change, cin vehtin . That is how so many could join us in the old days, embrace the culture, despite the harshness of training. We were always changing, and that was a promise for something more.

When Arasuum came, Mand’alor the First met its eyes and said, ‘I am alive, hutuun. You have no claim on us til death.’

Stagnation laughed, ‘If you hunt for change, you will never claim peace,’

The Mand’alor snarled, ‘Peace is a lie that you use to blind the outsiders.’ And he went to war, driving back the leeches of Coruscant that the Taung had left behind.

In revenge, Arasuum cursed the Mando’ade, saying, ‘Be without peace then, striilise. Your people will never rest, in this life or the next. Your boots will march forever.’

He answered, ‘If I march, I march with my vod’e, and that is all I ever asked.’ Then the Mand’alor gave a battle cry and slew the being. 

This is the Jor'Gehat'ik. All before were warriors who were laid to rest, defending their eternal homestead. 

After the First, none found peace in death, so we embraced Kote, and Shereshoy, and accepted that all marches might be long. 

Do you understand, ad, why the Mand’alor spat at Stagnation?”

Beside him, Silas answered, almost rotely, “By the Manda, we stay alive.”

“So stay alive. K’oyaci”

Obi-Wan felt surprisingly wet in the eyes. He swore, for just a moment, he’d felt a glimpse of the Dai threading between them and every other Mando’ade. 

Obi-Wan didn’t understand though, because all he ever fought for was peace. Maijah. That was the Jedi way. He looked down at his armored hands, so much firmer than his own. Earlier he’d seen them without the beskar , and it was fairly jarring, how much thicker the skin was when he touched anything, like he didn’t have the same sensitivity or dexterity. But that was fine, he didn’t need that lightness of touch while armored. 

No, what had been most startling were the thick scar tissue circling his wrists. How had he not noticed them earlier?

(He knew why. Everything was so overwhelming, and all those little details took time to notice. He was noticing now.)

A hand clapped his shoulder, and Obi-Wan looked up to see Silas leaning into his space again, trying to comfort. 

“I know, you thought it was all acyk me'suume when we were kids, too,” he said, closing his eyes, “But after Galidraan… it was somehow better, to think that even though it was…” His breath caught. “It wasn’t pointless. It wasn’t dishonorable. We were fighting for something, for change.” Silas ducked his head, “Nu kyr'adyc, shi taab'echaaj'la. Sometimes, when everything falls apart, those stupid, overdone stories from when we were little are what come back to us,” he sighed, leaning on Obi-Wan’s shoulder fully while Kal looked away with a tired look. 

And maybe this wasn’t his body or his life, but Obi-Wan would never turn away someone who needed his help. Quietly, he whispered a phrase he heard from Satine as she wept when she thought he’d been asleep, “Ni su'cuyi, gar kyr'adyc, ni partayli, gar darasuum…”

Silas heaved a shuddering breath and began a litany of names, starting with ‘Myles.’ Obi-Wan didn’t recognize any of them, but when the list was done, there was a long pause before Silas looked back up at him, voice hoarse, “Even if you aren’t the Jango I know, I’ll always be grateful that…I don’t have to say your name anymore.”

Obi-Wan leaned his shoulder into the other harder.

It wasn’t home, but it was…some sort of belonging.

Jango was changing out the fuel charges on the speeder when the comm rang. He checked that Kryze was still sound asleep in her seat, the moons high overhead, then answered with a quiet, “What?”

“Hello, Jango, dear,” Kenobi answered almost tonelessly, “Happy to find you out of live fire.”

He’d never get used to hearing his own voice talk like that. Still, he rolled his eyes, “Maybe if you’d made yourself less noticeable, I’d be able to get within walking distance of a Mando’ad without getting a Kyr’tsadii squad called in on me.”

“My information has been fairly public after the bombings, Jango, it couldn’t be helped,” he sighed.

Jango changed the subject, “Are you calling because you’re on your way to Sundari?”

An even longer sigh, then, “No, unfortunately I don’t believe that will be an option.” He visibly flopped back into Jango’s bunk, still in full armor. “All three of us are just too… conspicuous to meet up anywhere. I’ve been trying to figure it out from every possible angle, and,” his breath hitched a little and he took off his helmet, “I don’t see an easy way out of this one. I don’t even know what we did to end up like this, much less how to correct it.”

He huffed, “What you did, you mean. I didn’t do anything.”

Ben sent him a scathing look, “I’m beginning to sense a pattern in that regard, yes.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, nothing. I’m sure your people are aware of how proactive you are.”

Jango glared, “Did you have a reason for calling? Or was it just to share your shitty Jedi judgement?”

“Just the judgement, I’m afraid. Unless you have some heretofore withheld information about the Haat’adethat I might find useful?” he groaned, “And don’t say to disappear, I’m under constant watch.”

Jango gave him a skeptical look. Really? The Jedi couldn’t slip his Mando guards?

Another eyeroll. “You’re truly no help at all.”

“I’m still alive,” he shrugged. 

Kenobi gave him an unreadable look, “That you certainly are.”

He should’ve just hung up earlier. 

In fact, he moved to end the call when on the other end Ben’s voice became…small. He paused. 

“Stars, Jango. They’re so desperate for you to be all of their hope. It’s certainly more than one man can shoulder.”

There was a knot in his throat when he hung up. 

It stayed there as he drove the long open stretch to Sundari. 

It was not a short journey, but it also wasn’t the longest, two days in total, give or take. He glanced at Kryze. For him, those days were sleepless. But he’d rather suffer a little longer than trust her to drive. 

The empty time, broken only by the wind, gave him plenty of space to reflect. 

The way Ben talked, the people who had him were more than just a handful of stragglers clinging to the dregs of the past. 

It was a question he’d never truly allowed himself to ask beyond the few he ran into personally. 

Who? Who was left?

Who still dared to declare themselves of Aloriitsad Mereel? Because despite the moniker, Jango knew that there weren’t any Haat Mando’ade ori’ramikade left to keep fighting, not really. There was no one to protect the others. Why had they not fled to Aloriitsad Ordo or Kast?

Surely Tor’s tyranny couldn’t reach those strongholds. 

Jango didn’t know. He hadn’t checked, in his spice rage and subsequent quest for vengeance. 

Now, a part of him was afraid to. 

When the mountain of Sundari came into view, he still didn’t know why he cared.

Chapter Text

Walon Vau looked practically hostile when he stepped off the shuttle onto Concord Dawn. Obi-Wan hadn’t expected him to come, but perhaps he should have, after that last call with him. The full black beskar’gam was stark in the daylight, and it cut an imposing figure. He clasped arms with Skirata briefly, knocked Silas in the shoulder in a friendly way, then crossed his arms and looked at the Jedi.

“You and I need to talk,” he said, stern, then turning a little towards the others, “Alone.”

Silas stiffened and Kal shook his head, “He’s not got any memories to interrogate him over, Vau.”

“I’m not asking permission.”

The two briefly stared at each other, then Vau gripped Obi-Wan’s arm and marched them off of the landing pad. Obi-Wan got a pinging sound that he’d learned meant someone wanted to connect to his internal comms on his helmet. Buy’ce. He let them through.

“Your ship, kid. I take it that you haven’t let those two know about the situation?”

Obi-Wan winced at the man’s tone and started walking towards his own docking location, “It didn’t seem prudent, no.”

“Good. They wouldn’t be able to stomach a jet’ika, even with Jango’s face.”

“It’s not as if I have the Force right now to be a proper threat,” Obi-Wan grumbled, opening the ship and closing the door behind them.

“Figured. So only Mij knows?” Vau confirmed.

Obi-Wan nodded, “I didn’t want him to operate under the assumption that Jango has some sort of disorder that could cause issues in the future.”

They sat in silence for a moment. Obi-Wan had been doing his best to stall for time with his training, but he wasn’t even sure what goal the time was going towards.

Vau heaved a sigh, bringing his hands together and resting his head against them, the sound grating in the speakers. Then he said, determined, “Ben, I have no right to ask anything of you. Skirata may be fine with his mir’geroya, but you are in the worst kind of ramor. There was a reason that I helped Jango escape Manda’yaim rather than push him to take the mantle again.”

Buy’ce unreadable, Obi-Wan tried to parse tone of voice and body language. Tense, he said, “Why do I feel as if there is a ‘but’ to this?”

“Because there is,” Vau acknowledged thoughtfully, “You are not Jango. You have not been ru’dinui vhekaj b’alom or even learned the Resol’nare properly. But, there has been no justice in this sector since Jango’s fall. Mhi kaliki bat aal’ika be’hut’uune. I don’t think Kryze’s death would change that.” 

“Then what do you want?”

He was quiet, thinking through his answer, then, “There are only two ways to end a war: tomadur ra shukalar. Everything else is temporary arasuum at best.”

Obi-Wan leaned back, considering the other man’s words. “By that measure, Death Watch is far closer to victory than any other party,” he said grimly.

“Without Jango, it is an inevitability, no matter what you do in Sundari. The Evaar’ade don’t have the will to claim what their power costs.”

“And Death Watch won’t be satisfied staying in their borders.” Obi-Wan meant it as a question, but it came out flat, resigned. He had heard the insults of many of his assailants over the weeks. He already knew the answer.

“I don’t ask you to rule the sector,” Vau nodded.

“No, you ask that I exterminate a political faction. Ruthlessly, and in cold blood.”

“The jetiise have made that bargain with Mandalorian lives before.”

The words made Obi-Wan nauseous. He wished he knew paiyhuaru karak jaiehir. “I cannot find it within myself to be so merciless.”

“It will not be a secret that the Haat’ade are alive and behind Jango. They will choose.”

“And I simply cut down those who won’t comply?”

“It is an easy way to let snakes in,” Vau gritted his teeth, “You risk too much betrayal.”

The Jedi heard an echo of his own thoughts, silently judgmental as he listened to Satine defend her pacifist government, how she would remove weapons from the sector, late into the night, “At keel paiwidenji eiyhunak kat keelel?” 

Was that all it would always come down to? He protected Satine with his own life, and the more he knew her, the more he wanted Mandalore to have what she promised: a life and a world that was better than governance through physical might alone. Where the weak could be heard and considered instead of forced to be strong or be dead in the streets. Tariiyth being the greatest strength of all. He knew further violence wouldn’t, or truly shouldn’t, be what brought that world into being. 

He also knew that Death Watch wouldn’t stop, would never stop. Even if he killed them all, someone angry would simply take up their mantle, under the same name or not. How does one combat an ideology? And the kind of violence Death Watch craved was its own religion, that was clear.

Satine wanted people to change their minds. Jango had given up his own influence, clearly felt that the change would require too high a cost. But what of Obi-Wan, suddenly a new player in the game?

With the weight of this choice in front of him, Walon Vau asking him to tip the scales in the name of justice, to protect the common Mando’ad where Satine and Jango would not, Obi-Wan felt very ashamed of how quickly he had judged them both. It was terrifying, and there was no Force to guide him here. Just his own thoughts and convictions.

He remembered the Young. Their desperation. He had not been perfect in his own choices there, even with the Force guiding him. But he also didn’t regret it, despite everything.

“I won’t involve any civilians,” he warned.

Vau snorted, “There are no civilian Mando’ade.”

“I refuse to burn homes to the ground in the name of justice.”

“They brainwash ade, kid. Mercy shouldn’t be an option for the demagolke.”

“Lethal force is a last resort,” he said, firm.

That made the Mando pause and give Obi-Wan a long, assessing look. Obi-Wan wished he knew what the other man saw.

Finally, he conceded, “You aren’t Kryze, and I’m not asking for tal’aikiyc.”

“I’m in over my head here, Vau.”

The man leaned over and clapped his shoulder, “You always will be. Now let’s go find out what op Skirata has been itching for you to run.”

Obi-Wan didn’t find that comforting.

Qui-Gon Jinn met them outside Sundari’s dome, frowning slightly. “It isn’t safe for you here,” he said, brushing Jango with a feeling of warning-concern-question.

“Not like it’s safe out there either,” he deadpanned, batting away the other man in the ka’ra.

He hid his hands in his robe. “Whoever betrayed the Duke will strike again the moment your return is known.”

Jango set his jaw, “So hide us, then.”

The jetii’s expression didn’t change, but Jango felt a flash of resignation that meant he wouldn’t have to turn the speeder around.

“No,” Kryze said from the passenger seat, “If I do not claim my seat now then my father’s death will have been for nothing.”

Jinn gave her one of his long, scanning looks, then said, “Very well. But know that once you’re officially instated, our mission parameters as Jedi will have officially come to an end. We won’t be able to protect you if there is another attack.”

Jango narrowed his eyes at the older man. What exactly was the jetiise mission, then?

“My people are tired of fighting,” Satine said, “as am I. Hiding will only prolong the instability. I must trust my guards, or I will never be able to do my duty.”

Jango felt her words echo somewhere in his own heart, despite the shields he’d been carefully maintaining. Kaysh r’am’gana an’ca’nara par tal’laarari be’gra’tua, al’akaan’duhar ratiin ven’olaro.

He shook the thought away. It had been years since he truly saw a battlefield, so battle fatigue was impossible.

Still, both of them were right in their own way. Jinn because it was dangerous and they wouldn’t be able to trust the Duke’s old administration because who knew what betrayals led to his death? And Kryze, who knew that running would only cement a poor reputation with the Mando’ade. Some things with their culture couldn’t be unlearned, and the contempt for cowards was always strong. She needed to at least look busy making forward progress.

Jango hummed thoughtfully, a noise that slipped out of him like it was ingrained. It caught him off guard and drew the eyes of the others.

“Something to add, padawan?”

He made a face at the title, but let it go in case they were overheard by the guards. He turned to Kryze instead, “You should call for an alii’aliit and get them to install you. It’d be more official.”

Jinn lightly broadcast his confusion and Jango had to hold back a snort. Did the jetii think that becoming Mand’alor was just a fancy dan’parjai? There was a reason they had been the Haat’ade. Both he and Jas’buir before him had been confirmed by the alii’aliit, something that Kyr’tsad could never claim. The fact that Kryze had functionally, even with good intentions, ruled the planet without their say was probably part of the problem.

And still even then, the title of Jur’alor that Jaster had granted Adonai so long ago couldn’t be passed to his daughter legitimately because he was dead and there was no Mand’alor to give it again. But an alii’aliit might be able to do it in the meantime. 

Kryze cringed at his suggestion, “I am… unsure as to how to contact the relevant parties.”

He gave her an incredulous look.

“It’s not as if I had access to my father’s comm before he was bombed!” she defended.

Jango looked to Jinn, who inclined his head, “The Force will provide, I’m sure.”

“...Sure,” he rolled his eyes, sarcastic, “And once you find their comm details, you can just stop by to visit.”

Something hummed in the base of his neck when he said that, and Jinn’s eyes took on a bright gleam.

“A wonderful suggestion,” the jetii said.

Kryze blinked, uncertain, “Wouldn’t it be easier over holo?”

Jango just groaned.

It was to be a rescue mission into one of the training camps. 

In his brief time on Mandalore and in his own body, he had heard little about the camps past hearing a parent threatening to send their screaming child to one. It had not given the impression of a good thing, given the way the screaming had continued.

When he asked about it, Satine had gone on a tangent about how Manda’lase had no public education system because that fell under Clan jurisdiction. By the time she was giving figures on the variable literacy rates reinforcing traditionalist ideologies, he had been so drawn in to the complexities of the problem that he’d forgotten his original inquiry.

He suffered for that now, unfortunately.

But the objective was simple: Find the children that had been kidnapped, identify them based on their reports, send that child back to their families. According to Vau, anyone who couldn’t go back to someone would get adopted by the Haat’ade. It occurred to Obi-Wan that there was very little oversight around such practices, but he withheld judgement, given the fact that the Jedi also adopted many children with minimal outside intervention.

Finding them had been easy, as the camps were not hidden or secret. The majority of them were on Concordia. Vau had apparently had a recent run-in with some would-be kidnappers, so he had easily gotten that intel.

Identifying those that were truly kidnapped was harder. Some had been sent willingly and happily, after all.

Obi-Wan had the impression that this kind of mission was Kal Skirata was subtly trying to convince him of the worthiness of the Haat’ade’s cause, except that the man’s technique, while arguably effective, was about as subtle as yowling tooka.

Case in point was the angry group of younglings in front of him clearly reluctant to be rescued despite their families waiting for their safe return.

They showed no real signs of mistreatment other than the whole kidnapping aspect, as well. It seemed to be a theme for his mission to Mandalore, that one could never judge the situation by a cursory glance. 

Below the surface lurked the real horrors, as he listened to the children brag about the glory of their education. Their bajur.

He, admittedly, was still a novice at Mando’a, and the children refused to speak or respond to any Basic, but what he did understand left him feeling mildly ill. 

He didn’t know how much of that was Fett’s body reacting, but either way his mind was in agreement. Rhetoric was spit back at him at every turn and question, hateful words of how the Haat’ade and Evaar’ade were dar’manda and arutiise and deserved death for the… takisit? One child used the word shabu’droten (whatever it meant) with such vitriol that Obi-Wan had to suppress a flinch. 

Some of them clearly thought that the rescue was a trick of some kind and were doubling-down in order to assure their loyalty and pass the test. 

Silas made a sad noise across their helmet comms, away from the young ears. “Ade are the future,” he said mournfully, “But what kind of future would they have?”

One full of hatred and suffering, Obi-Wan silently acknowledged. Force ability wasn’t a requirement to being a slave to the Dark side, by any means.

Subduing the teachers had been necessary, but Obi-Wan had insisted on leaving them alive so that they could answer for their crimes. This had not been a popular opinion with his squad, three other Haat’ade besides Silas called Tay’haai, Bralor, and Ward.

“They’d follow orders and smile while they die,” Tay’haai muttered at Silas’s comment, “Safe from doing anything really dangerous, like thinking.”

“Armies do love their brok’laar,” Ward agreed almost cheerfully, “Verde’re so much easier to manage than commandos, logistically speaking.”

“Logistically,” Bralor drawled, “you’re the brok’laar for this squad, Ward.”

Obi-Wan tuned out the bickering and tried to figure out how to get the children to cooperate quickly, before any of the teachers awoke and called for reinforcements. 

Maijah, he thought, Chahkah nak ja’eni zera?

He clapped his hands together and everyone fell silent, looking at him. It was truly unnerving and he would never underestimate a crechemaster’s wisdom ever again.

“Here is how this is going to go,” he said firmly, Jango’s voice resonating in a way his own rarely did, “This facility will be destroyed, so unless you all are partial to dying rather painfully, it would be best if you all came with us.”

There were one or two stubbornly set jaws at that, but most simply shifted around, uncertain.

Obi-Wan sighed. Where being reasonable failed, how could he spur these younglings to action?

Ah, yes, they were being trained as a military. So, less creche master, more Skirata.

“Ke’shush!” he called like Kal did in training. The children all snapped to a uniform posture.

The sight made him queasy.

“Ke’shaadla,” he ordered, pointing towards the exit. 

They moved out.

“Still got it, ‘alor,” Silas teased.

Bralor put an arm across their chest with a sharp clang, what he knew now was a salute, and took point, guiding the kids to the ship.

Only Silas had known Jango personally, before all this. They still had such expectations.

With another sigh, Obi-Wan followed.

She did not magically have a list of the comm codes of the many alii'trate necessary to call for an alii’aliit. Such an event took time to organize and, frankly, many of the alii'trate likely wished for her death.

Still, like with everything else in this cursed war, she had to try.

They made their way back to the palace, Master Jinn reporting what suspicious activities he’d found amongst the staff (a number of affairs, a few with ties to people with Vizsla loyalty, but no immediate threats), and Satine was able to finally, finally, be alone in her rooms. She had not truly been so in weeks. But she still did not allow herself the luxury of tears, not even in the rooms that were as empty as she felt.

She must record her first formal address to her people. Her responsibility.

Her father was not here to accompany her. To advise her.

That empty space filled with anger, as it often did. Her buir had left her behind, willingly or not. Now both her buire. 

All she was left with were a washed-up Haat’ad and a short-sighted Jedi and a staff that could betray her at any moment.

She clenched her jaw and changed into something suitable.

Recording the holo to broadcast was tiring, but at least it continued to give her time away from both Master Jinn and Jango Fett. Oh, they hovered to ensure that she remained protected, but she did not have to see either of their expressions while she made her speech. That was a blessing.

“Mando’ade,” she addressed the camera, “I am a child who mourns the loss of a parent. My buir was taken from me far too soon. Many of you have also had loved ones stolen from you by this war, as it has dragged on for the last decade. When will it end? There have been no winners, and the losses only grow. We are all children of Mandalore, surely there must be someone who can end this? 

I once thought that Duke Kryze, my buir, would be the one to unite us all once again. Now, I turn to you, as my fellow Mandalorians and ask: who can lead us? Each of us must decide, and we must decide soon if we wish to live to see the end of this conflict. 

We, as a people, must band together once more. We must look beyond our differences and our grievances to hold the proper alii’aliit if we are to move forward into a brighter future. 

I look forward to that day, where our children may play and laugh in the streets once again and all of them be called simply Mando’ade. All one people, whether they are House Kryze or Kast or are of no clan at all, thriving and supporting one another as we once did. 

If you too long for that day, let’s combine our forces and our voices in the alii’aliit and ensure that each clan’s voice is heard. 

And with this final plea, I ask the Gorane of Keldabe to strike the bes’kaab and call us together once more. Oya, Mandalore!”

She had stumbled over a word or two.

She would record her message as many times as it would take, if it could guarantee just one more heart turned. 

With a deep breath and a nod, she started again. 

Kal, who had always worn a sense of urgency in his steps when it came to Jango’s status as Mand’alor, seemed harried after Satine’s broadcast. He had given Obi-Wan an abridged explanation about the Meeting of the Clans, but it unfortunately offered little insight into what that meant for the Haat’ade or why the thought of it had him putting his head in his hands when he thought Obi-Wan couldn’t see.

He called Jango, deep in the night cycle when he was finally unaccompanied.

It was clear he had woken Jango when he answered with a mumbled, “What now?”

Obi-Wan would never admit that seeing how he looked while sleep-mussed was both infinitely amusing and utterly embarrassing in the same breath.

“I am, unfortunately, confused about the alii’aliit.”

“What is there to be confused about?” Jango groggily snapped, “it’s a big meeting where the clans across the sector vote on the bigger things. Just because it’s not as complicated as the Republic Senate doesn’t make it confusing.”

“Not that,” Obi-Wan rolled his eyes, “Obviously. No, I’m only surprised that the Mandalorians have not done this sooner. Was there some circumstance that prevented it before with Duke Kryze?”

Jango was quiet for a long moment, becoming alert with his face shuttering behind a flat expression that seemed foreign on the face he wore. 

When he finally spoke, his voice was somehow even more clipped, “It is one of the Mand’alor’s duties to oversee alii’aliite. It assures cooperation.”

Obi-Wan waited to see if the reticent man would add any further clarification, but it was in vain. 

However, he also wasn’t so thick that he couldn’t comprehend the implication. Fett had been Mand’alor. There had not been another after him to fill such a role. 

“...Will I need to make an appearance?”

Jango’s expression grew stormy, but he held his silence.

Was his face always so easily read, or was it the familiarity combined with Jango’s more emotive nature? Obi-Wan had to brush the self-conscious thought aside.

He let out a sigh, “At least tell me why she called it? I’m clearly missing some necessary context.”

Across the holo, the man shifted but was still reluctant to speak.

Obi-Wan looked to the ceiling, the plain durasteel of the ship, and prayed to the Force for strength to endure stubborn Mandalorians. “Gedet’ye, Jango,” he offered, gaze still firmly upwards, “I’m not equipped to handle this, especially not blind.”

Another silence, broken only by Fett cracking his knuckles, a nervous habit that had Obi-Wan flexing his own hands and wincing. 

Then, finally, a long sigh, as Jango deflated and said, “It’s tradition to wait for ten years before declaring anyone dead if they are considered aka’ba’slanyc. It’s not a law, but enough Mando’ade have been thought dead just to show back up again years later that it’s just as much caution as courtesy.” He bowed his head, “It’s never happened to the Mand’alor before, though. That’s probably what has the Haat’ade agitated. If you don’t show up, I’m declared dead, but it’s earlier than they’d probably want to announce my return.”

“Especially given the current state of things,” Obi-Wan muttered. Stars, he could feel a headache building behind his eyes.

“So let them declare me dead,” Jango crossed his arms, “Kryze isn’t perfect, but she’s systems better than Kyr’tsad.”

“That’s a rather low bar.”

“The real problem is she won’t let them declare her Mand’alor. She’s against the title itself,” he said, resigned, “She won’t be able to cement her power base just as Jur’alor, the more conservative clans won’t recognize her without it, but she wants the title of Mand’alor to die with me.”

“And if she doesn’t claim it, Vizsla certainly will, deepening the divide in the long term.”

“Even if she did, she wouldn’t win a challenge for it. Stalling as Jur’alor would be better than losing outright at the start.”

They both mulled over the problem.

“Is there truly no other option? No other leaders?”

Jango shook his head, “Not with the right skillset. All of Tor’s ori’ramikade were the undisciplined who hated the Codex for limiting their so-called freedom. They lack the honor and knowledge to be good leaders. Kryze does, but doesn’t have the training.”

“And none from the Haat’ade?”

His eyes grew distant for a moment before he visibly snapped back into himself. Obi-Wan wondered what the Force told him, then Jango shook his head, “None alive that I know. And if there are any I don’t, then they’re too young.”

“How old were you when you took the mantle?”

Jango’s lips thinned, “Too young, but at least I wasn’t that shabuir, Montross.”

“Oh?” Obi-Wan prodded, “That sounds like quite the story.”

The other man’s eyes flickered to him, a level of iciness creeping into them that darkened his whole face. “Maybe someday, jetii.”

And Obi-Wan knew a dismissal when he heard one. He nodded, “Thank you for your assistance, Fett. I’ll leave you to your rest. May the Force be with you.”

“Ret.”

Sleep eluded Obi-Wan for the remainder of the cycle.