#mandobi-verse

[colehasapen]

(ONE SHOT) cabur STAR WARS

Jango doesn't know how long he’s been caged.

It could have been days, it could have been months - hells, it could have been years. Jango can’t tell with his mind fogged by spice and agony. His body aches, and Jango is pretty sure his hands have permanently curled into claws from the never ending physical labour, and his back has been flayed by the beatings. He’s spent his days since - since Galidraan - wallowing in a drug-filled haze of never-ending monotony interspersed with violent whippings, and any moment the drugs fade enough for Jango to think, to remember, he almost chokes on his own burning hatred when it claws its way back up to the surface.

It makes him want the haze of drugs. He welcomes it, because it drowns out the grief, the guilt, the memories, and his overwhelming hatred of everything and everyone - including himself.

He’s a failure, a coward - if he had been a better Mand’alor, his people wouldn’t have died, or he would have done them the honour of dying with them. He’s no longer Mando’ad. He has no armour, it had been stolen from him and was probably being used as some shiny trophy for that aruetyc shabuir of a Governor. He has no defense, it’s been taken from him by the collar around his neck and the brand burned into his chest - he’s a slave now, and slaves can’t defend themselves. His tribe is gone, slaughtered on Galidraan and dismembered by those skanah jetiise , their bodies probably left to rot with no one to complete their final rites and thus no way to join the manda. He has no reason to speak the language, because slaves aren’t permitted to speak, and he’d have no one to share it with anyways. And as for his leader?

Well, Jango had failed spectacularly as Mand’alor. He had gotten his people - Jaster’s people - killed, his failure had destroyed the Haat Mando’ade. He had destroyed Jaster’s legacy.

He had failed his people, he had failed himself, and he had failed his Buir. He should have died that day with his parents, he should have burned with their farmhouse. Maybe if he had, Jaster would have saved Arla as soon as he heard her screaming if he hadn’t been weighed down by Jango - he has no doubt Jaster could have pulled her out of the flames if he hadn’t been honour-bound to protect Jango.

None of this would have happened if Jango had died then. But he hadn’t, and now everything and had known and loved was gone - and it was his fault.

Jango doesn’t bother looking up from his huddle in the corner of his too-small cage when he hears the masters walking down the rows. He barely acknowledges their voices. Instead, he stays where he is, considering whether or not to let the fog drag him under again.

A yelp has him jerking.

It was the pained cry of a child - an ad - and it has Jango beating back the numbness of the spice and lifting his head.

The large Twi’lek overseer had stopped in front of Jango’s cage, his meaty hand curled solidly around a chain leading to the collar around the small, pale throat of a Human or Near-Human child with fluffy ginger hair and glazed blue eyes.

“You sure about that, Tol?” The Zeltron at the overseer’s side asks, red eyes lingering on Jango’s huddled form. “Y’know what they say about Mandos-”

The Twi’lek snorts, moving to unclasp the gate to Jango’s cage. “Good thing we ain’t got no Mandos here then. Only slaves . This one was good and broken before we got it.” The overseer sneers, and with a jerk of the Twi’lek’s hand, the scared ad stumbles toward him.

Jango twitches as those cruel fingers lock around the child’s delicate neck, and the adiik flinches. He must not be as far under the thrall of the spice if he could still react like that, and Jango twitches again against the desire to throw himself forward to defend the tiny adiik.

“Be good now, slave.” The overseer coos mockingly, unhooking the chain from the explosive rigged to the small child’s neck. “We paid some good creds for you - I’d hate to be the one telling Lord du Crion that we had to blow you up.”

The child stares back, fire sparking in those foggy eyes, then they make a pained noise when the overseer gives them a violent shake. The adiik’s head ducks submissively as the Twi’lek sneers at them.

“There’s a good lad.” The Zeltron says in a parody of motherly concern, voice sickly sweet as she toys with the ends of the ad ’s red hair. “That brother of yours wanted us to keep you in one piece until you learned your lesson.”

“He’s not my brother -” The adiik’s retort is cut off by a cry of pain that has Jango gritting his teeth in fury, carefully uncoiling himself from the tight ball he had been curled into before. The kid hits the floor of his cage with a bone-jarring thud, and Jango rolls stiffly to his knees as the slave masters laugh.

“That’s your final warning, slave.” The Twi’lek sneers, looking down his nose at the two slaves as he shuts the cage once more. “You talk back to me again and I’ll whip you ‘til you bleed.”

Jango glowers at the two slavers thunderously from under his shaggy hair as the march away, and the ad barely stirs from his sprawl. He grits his teeth, holding his tongue until the overseers are out of sight, before he’s shuffling forwards, towards the limp child that had unexpectedly become his companion.

“Me’vaar ti gar?” He calls softly to the adiik, who flinches, scrambling clumsily onto his hands and knees to stare up at Jango with a wide-eyed glare. He’s scared, Jango can tell immediately, but there’s still a fire burning inside of him that almost has Jango smiling.

He’s definitely Mandokarla , and just looking at him makes Jango ache for home. If they weren’t in this cage - if they were back on Manda’yaim - Jango has no doubt that someone would be snatching this adiik up and adopting him into their aliit . It makes him think of Myles, of the last thing his cyare had said to him before they had rushed into battle - about how he wanted to raise warriors with him - and Ka’ra does it hurt. He tries not to think about the way Myles’ body had been split in half. They would have said their vows after Galidraan had this been a kinder galaxy.

Carefully, Jango sits back on his heels, lifting his hands to show the kid that he means no harm. He probably looks frightening to the already scared adiik , with his unwashed hair and ungroomed beard - not to mention the thick layer of dirt, spice, and blood that covered his face. “Udesii, ad’ika.” He soothes, and the little Lothcat just bares his teeth at him, as threatening as a kitten - and the thought almost makes Jango snort.

Well, if there was any way to calm a feral kitten.

He glances around, then carefully choreography his movements as he pulls his half-eaten gruel towards them, then pushes it at the adiik. “Haili cetare, verd’ika.” He offers, and the kid eyes him suspiciously for a long moment before he reaches forward to tug the bowl closer. The kid hesitates, eyes darting from the bowl, to Jango, then skittering around the cage, and Jango raises his eyebrows in a silent question.

“Is -” The adiik’s voice is rough from spice-inhalation, but Jango can just pick up the refined High Core accent he spoke with - not surprising if was was apparently the brother of a Lord, and doesn’t that knowledge piss Jango off further.

What kind of dar’vod hut’uun sell their own vod’ika into slavery?

The ad flinches, ducking his head, and Jango curses himself, carefully schooling his face into the political mask Jaster had drilled into his thick head.

“Udesii.” Jango says again, and the child steadily relaxes again. “Copaani gaan?” He probes, a little teasingly and hoping to put the kid more at ease.

The adiik bites his lip, looking up at Jango from under dark lashes. “Are there utensils?” He asks in a rush, before he blushes and ducks his head shyly.

Utensils - Jango snorts. The kid really was some fancy Core lordling.

“Nayc, ad’ika.” He shakes his head, and the kid deflates, looking at the bowl in his dirty hands in dismay. The adiik hesitates a moment longer, before sighing quietly and beginning to use his fingers to scoop the unappetizing mush into his mouth. Jango only watches fondly for a moment, studying the kid; he had obviously been well-fed and well-cared for before his dar’vod had sold him. He’s lanky in the way kids get on the cusp of puberty, and his hair is a rare red-gold that actually makes Jango glad that the adiik had been sold to a spice rig instead of to someone with a taste for the exotic. He might even have some biological resistance to toxins, from the way the adiik grows sharper and more alert with every moment that passes.

He wonders if anyone would be missing this kid.

Well, they should have kept a better eye on him, obviously.

“Tion’ad hukaat’kama, adiik?” Jango asks, watching the kid lick the bowl clean, and big doe eyes blink back at him, confused. “Tion gar gai?”

The adiik blinks again, carefully rubbing his mouth with the filthy sleeve of his stained tunic as his brows furrow. “I’m sorry -” he says slowly, “- do you speak Basic? I don’t understand you.”

Jango blinks right back, a little taken aback - it had been so long since he had spoken to anyone . He hadn’t even realized that his mouth was forming the vowels of his mother tongue. “I -” Basic feels odd on his tongue, but the kid brightens, so Jango will put up with it until he can teach him Mando’a, “- yeah. I speak Basic.”

The kid beams at him and - haar’chak - he has dimples. He would have definitely been adopted in a heartbeat.

“Was wondering your name.” Jango grunts, and the verd’ika ’s smile turns shy.

“I’m Obi-Wan.” The kid introduces himself with a little bow that wouldn’t be out of place in a High Core court. “And yourself?” He asks, eyes curious.

“Jango.” He offers gruffly, “Jango Fett.”

Obi-Wan beams at him again, and - kriff, how could anyone sell this kid into slavery. He was too trusting, too innocent - this life would ruin him. “It’s nice to meet you, Master Fett!”

Jango jerks, scowls, and the kid flinches faintly, looking alarmed and confused, so Jango lets out an explosive sigh and forces himself to relax. “Not your master, Ob’ika.” Jango mutters, gesturing for the kid to come closer. Space gets cold, and the adiik would no doubt be feeling it soon. “Just Jango.”

“Okay.” Obi-Wan agrees quietly, shuffling over to the man’s side, and Jango slowly loops an arm around the ad ’s thin shoulders and pulling him even closer, tucking him against his ribs. “How long have you been here, Jango?” The kid asks, curling his fingers into Jango’s ruined kute, and Jango just shrugs awkwardly. There’s a small sniffle in response, as it fully begins to sink in that his dar’vod really had sold him into slavery no doubt.

Jango tightens his hold on the adiik, and in that moment he swears to himself, to the manda, that he’d get out. He’d get them both out.

#cole writes #fanfiction #star wars #whumptober 2020 #no.4 running out of time #caged #jango fett #obi wan kenobi #slavery #mandobi-verse

[colehasapen]

(ONE SHOT) be'sol STAR WARS

(belated) Whumptober no.25 - I Think I'll Just Collapse Right Here, Thanks

Comfortember no.4 - Anxiety

Jango’s not even a year out of slavery when he finally tracks down Tor Vizsla. The chakaaryc hut’uun hadn’t made much of an attempt to hide himself or his forces at first, not until Jango had started picking his way through his terrorist cells with the clear intention of going after Vizsla himself. Vizsla was a coward, he always had been, so when he had heard that Jango had resurfaced from his enslavement and was coming after him, he had turned and fled, sending commandos and assassins after Jango to hopefully kill him before he tracked him down. Vizsla had been trying to stay one step ahead of him, but Jango has contacts and a long reach, and plenty of stubborn determination.

He has a single-minded focus on Vizsla, to enact justice for the slaughter of his people and see Vizsla pay for his part in the treachery. Obi-Wan’s been a great help to Jango’s mission; his ad is smart, and charming, and very unassuming. The adiik is able to swindle information out of a target without the sentient being any wiser, and slip away without gaining suspicion, because who would suspect a tiny slip of a child with fluffy hair and big eyes? He’s a quick study, and soaks up any lesson Jango offers him, and he quickly surpasses Jango’s own slicing skills. Obi-Wan is eager to help, happy to please, and even if he had moral arguments against what Jango was doing, he followed behind him loyally.

The Jetiise didn’t know what they had thrown away, but Jango isn’t about to alert them of it. He won’t be losing anyone else - not to the Jetiise and not to Kyr’tsad . Obi-Wan is his now, and Jango won’t be giving him up until his ad is strong enough to face whatever the world throws at him.

They track Vizsla to Tatooine, to a small port where he and some of his commandos were celebrating a successful bounty. Anger and hatred burns in his stomach at the sight of the ship that had been docked. It tastes like bile in his mouth as he stares at the crude paint job and the emblem of Death Watch emblazoned on the hull. It’s Jaster’s Legacy ; the AIAT/i that Jango had owned, and Jaster before him as well. It’s the ship Jango had called home since he was eight years old and freshly orphaned; he had grown up on it when he and Jas’buir weren’t staying at the Haat’ade compound in Keldabe. To see it defiled by the very people behind the death of his Buire and aliit makes Jango’s fury ignite like a supernova.

The Kyr’stad hutuun’le don’t know what hits them. Jango plows through Vizsla’s badly trained guards like a rampaging kyrat dragon, Obi-Wan watching his back like a shriek-hawk and shooting the stragglers that slip through Jango’s guard in places that would keep them down but not kill them. His hatred burns like fire in his veins, but every fallen Kyr’tsad commando still doesn’t lessen the heat or the ringing in his ears. Jaster’s Legacy still accepts Jango’s codes, likely the result of arrogance, and it stops any alarms from going off and alerting anyone to his presence as Jango tears through the drunken aruetiise .

He finds Vizsla in what had once been Jaster’s room. Jango hadn’t been able to bring himself to claim it after Jaster’s death, so it had stayed the way Jaster had left it up until Galidraan. Vizsla had poisoned the room with his presence; all of his Buir ’s datapads and charts were gone, replaced instead with even more of Vizsla’s crest. There are two naked Humans on the bed, and half armoured Vizsla lounging between them. All three of them freeze when Jango bursts in, westars drawn, but Vizsla is still a trained ramikad, despite being a traitorous coward without any kind of honour, and he’s rolling to his feet almost immediately, throwing his bed partners aside to lunge for the hilt of the dha’kad laying on the shelf nearest to him.

Seconds after Vizsla’s fingers touch the Darksaber, however, the hilt is pulled away by an invisible hand, flying past Jango to slam into Ob’ika’s outstretched palm.

Smart kid, using the Force to take Vizsla’s greatest weapon from him, and effectively drawing everything to a stand-still.

Vizsla’s pale eyes dart between Jango and the boy who had disarmed him, calculating. “Jango Fett.” The chakaar says slowly, and Jango’s fingers tighten around his blasters. “I see you’re still alive. How disappointing .”

Under his helmet, Jango bares his teeth, “Try harder next time, hut’uun .”

Vizsla chuckles, but his eyes shimmer with rage at the insult, “I’ll be sure of it.” He sneers, “I see you’ve taken after Mereel and picked up a mongrel yourself.’

“You don’t get to talk about my Buir .” Jango tells him with a snarl, “And if you touch my ad , I’ll separate you from your hands.”

“You wouldn’t challenge an unarmed man.” Vizsla says with a slimy chuckle that has anger trickling down his spine, and Jango bites off the snippy retort he wants to make about what he’d do with Vizsla’s arms and how unarmed he could make him. “Mereel must have taught you about the laws of challenge.”

Jango growls, “What would you know about proper challenges! You’re a hut’uun who can’t win a battle without cowardly tricks!”

Vizsla bares his teeth, pale eyes dark with sick amusement and hatred, “Then challenge me, boy .” He mocks, “Challenge me, and let the Manda decide the outcome.”

Snarling, Jango sheaths his blasters, “Meet me on the field, Tor be Vizsla, and face me like a Mando’ad or be named dar’Manda .”

“I’d need my baskar’gam first.” Vizsla says blandly, and Jango glowers at him.

“Then get to it.”

“ Buir .” Beside him, Obi-Wan speaks up, but Jango doesn’t risk taking his eyes off of Vizsla as the man methodically, and slowly, puts on his beskar’gam . “I have a bad feeling about this.”

“It’s fine, Ob’ika.” Jango assures him through clenched teeth, “I won’t lose.”

“That’s not-”

“What of my Darksaber?” Vizsla interrupts, tilting his head, but even with his buy’ce on, Jango knows the man is watching Obi-Wan with disturbing intensity.

Jango bristles, stepping in front of the boy and setting his shoulders in a silent threat, “What about it?” He barks, “You were disarmed - you lost the right to wield it.”

“ Jango- ” Obi-Wan’s voice shakes nervously.

Something in Vizsla’s body language changes, and it’s enough of a warning that has Jango going for his blasters again. He doesn’t get the chance to unsheath them, instead something rams into his side with enough force to throw Jango towards the wall. He hits the metal hard enough to rattle him in his armour and make his ears ring.

Disorientated, Jango almost misses the haunting sound of the Darksaber activating, followed by the noise of a small explosion and ringing screams. Jango stumbles to his feet, HUD glitching, and he has to pull his buy’ce off  to see what is happening, westars in hand.

Vizsla is gone, his bed partners huddled in the corner, cowering with fear, and Obi-Wan is picking himself up off the floor. The Darksaber is in his small hands, black blade humming, and there’s singed marks on his flight suit. Wide blue eyes meet Jango’s gaze, and the boy looks close to tears, blood on his temple and scrapes littering his freckled cheeks.

“You let him go?” Jango’s voice trembles when he speaks, rage crawling up his throat. He had been so close. So close to getting vengeance for his Buire and aliit . He could have won, he would have killed Vizsla, and he could still catch him if he hurried -

Obi-Wan sways, face chalky, and any thought of revenge melts away as the dha’kad deactivates and the teenager crumbles. Jango darts forward, feeling anxiety rise in place of his anger, catching his ad’ika before he hits the floor. Were there injuries he couldn’t see? Obi-Wan hadn’t had any beskar between him and the explosion. Shaking hands trace across the boy’s thin body, looking for injuries or blood, but the only wound he can see is the cut on his temple - though that doesn’t discount internal bleeding.

Could his ad be dying in his arms? He can’t help but remember holding Jaster in this exact same way, watching the life leave his eyes - would he have to see that happen to Obi-Wan too?

A pale hand reaches up, catching Jango’s chest plate, and the boy clings to him. “I’m sorry.” His ad’ika says shakily, voice slicing through the bubbling panic at the possibility of losing another person he loves, and Jango stares down at the pale face. “I didn’t want to lose you.” Obi-Wan sniffles, wide eyes haunted, “If you had fought him here, you would have died. He was never going to fight fair - his knife is poisoned.”

“Are you hurt anywhere?” Jango asks, instead of pressing him on the statement, and Obi-Wan shakes his head, curling up against Jango’s chest and tucking his nose into his shoulder, letting out a shaky breath. In response, Jango lets out a low huff, hugging him tighter, guilt heavy on his lungs.

He had dragged Obi-Wan into his hunt for revenge, he had put his kid in danger without even thinking about it. He should be named dar’buir for such an act. Jaster would be disappointed in him. Myles would have spaced him himself and taken on Obi-Wan as only his own, and Jango would have deserved it.

Obi-Wan deserved better than what Jango was giving him.

“I’m sorry, Ob’ika.” Jango murmurs, horrified with himself. Obi-Wan’s thirteen, technically of-age, but he’s still Jango’s responsibility, and Jango could have gotten him killed. He had put revenge over his ad’ika , when Obi-Wan should have been his priority. “ Ni ceta .”

“Nayc, Buir.” Obi-Wan responds, “There’s always next time.”

Jango lets out a shaky breath, cradling the boy like the precious gift he is. “No. No, I won’t drag you into this anymore, ad’ika .”

“I want to help.”

“I know you do, Ob’ika.” Jango assures, brushing a hand through shaggy copper hair. “But he’s not the priority - he never should have been my priority.” He presses his nose to the top of the boy’s head, and just breathes, trying to push away the lingering buzz of anxiety under his skin. “ Ni ceta, ad’ika .”

“I got the ‘saber.” Obi-Wan says quietly, and Jango snorts.

“You did.” He says with a slight laugh, pride taking the place of his anger. Vizsla would be wanting it back, but Jango would make sure he didn’t get close to his son. “Good job, verd’ika .”

After a long moment of just holding his ad , Jango sighs, lifting his head to the two naked Humans still cowering in the corner. They hadn’t moved, and were instead staring at the two Mandalorians with wide eyes. He doubted they were warriors, they didn’t hold themselves as such, “Sorry for interrupting your evening.” He says blandly, “Jango Fett, he/him, and this is my son, Obi-Wan.”

The paler Human shifts, putting themself in front of the darker, despite their smaller size. “Shmi, Master Fett. Shmi Skywalker.” Skywalker hesitates in the face of the suddenly sour expression on Jango’s face, but he gestures for them to continue. “She/her.” She murmurs, clasping her hands in front of her chest, brown eyes darting to the other Human with her. “This is Caasi Chanchani, she/her.” She bows her head, seemingly unbothered by her state of undress, while Chanchani keeps her eyes averted.

It only takes Jango moments to recognize their body language, and somehow his respect for Vizsla, which had already been nonexistent, drops even lower.

They’re slaves.

“Your pucks?” Once, Jaster’s Legacy had been stocked with everything he’d need to remove their chips - a lot of the verde were among the Freed, Myles included - but that had been before Kyr’tsad had taken possession of the ship. He couldn’t be sure of the state of anything now, but if he had the puck, he and Obi-Wan could try to disrupt the signal until they could get the women the medical attention they’d need to get the chips removed.

Both women flinch, shuffling, before Chanchani steps forward, head bowed and shoulders curled inwards, the emitter for the bombs planted in their bodies held in shaking hands. Smart, Jango could recognize them easily as Mandokarla. They must have stolen the puck from Vizsla while he had been distracted by their bodies, he’s almost disappointed he’d interrupted them, if only to see if they would have slit his throat.

Jango grins, slow and satisfied, gently lifting the device from the woman’s hands. “I mean you now harm.” He assures them, turning the puck over to study it. It’s an older model, and would be easy to disengage. “Is this the only one?”

Chanchani nods, but it’s Skywalker who speaks again.

“We were rented from Master Gardulla, Master Fett.” Skywalker says quietly, “She would have the master emitter.”

“You don’t need to call me Master.” He tells them, then turns to Obi-Wan, meeting blue eyes as the boy lifts his head, showing him the device. “What do you think, ad? Can you deactivate it?”

Obi-Wan grins boyishly while the two women gasp in shock, “‘ Lek Buir .”

Neither of them held any love for slavers.

#cole writes #whumptober 2020 #comfortember 2020 #no.25 #no.4 #star wars #fanfiction #obi wan kenobi #jango fett #Mandobi-verse

[colehasapen]

(ONE SHOT) cin vhetin STAR WARS

Their new protectors seem… off to Qui-Gon.

The Senate had assigned the Jedi Master and his young Padawan to a diplomatic mission in the Mandalore system, to guard and advise the young Heiress to the Duchy during the turbulent times of the Civil War. They were supposed to be helping her guide her people into a new era of peace and prosperity, but it seemed the people claiming a hereditary connection to the planet hadn’t wanted to give up their barbarous and bloody ways for a perceived outsider. Death Watch, a terrorist branch of the Mandalorian traditionalists had launched a vicious attack on the capital, bombing the Sundari palace and killing Duke Kryze, and supposedly his youngest daughter as well. Qui-Gon had been forced to take Duchess Satine on the run, never settling in one place for long, while waiting for the Kryze forces to chase off the terrorists in the capital. They had been running for almost four months when they had been found.

The abandoned farmhouse on Concord Dawn had originally seemed like the perfect place to hide out the Death Watch for a few days; no one would have expected the Duchess to have hidden away in a half-burnt ruin of an overgrown farmstead. They hadn’t expected two Mandalorians in armour to come across the three of them, and at the time, Qui-Gon had hoped that a fight would mean that Bruck could release some of his temper into the Force, and that his teenaged Padawan would stop getting into arguments with their charge.

But they hadn’t been Death Watch. No, the Mythosaur skulls painted on their pauldrons was the symbol of the self-identified True Mandalorians - a political party that was supposed to be dead. The massacre of Galidraan under false pretenses was one of the Jedi’s greatest mistakes, they had trusted the Senate’s information and it had led them astray. The leaders of the movement had been killed nearly four years ago, by a party that Qui-Gon’s own Master had led. The Jedi who had gone to Galidraan never recovered, be it from their injuries or from the mental strain, and many of them, including Qui-Gon’s own Padawan-sister, had chosen to walk away from the Order, their trust in themselves and the Senate gone.

He had been worried that the Mandalorians would try to take a piece of flesh out of them in vengeance for their fallen comrades. Mandalorians were known for holding long grudges, and the True Mandalorian loyalists had been quiet for a lot longer than was necessarily comfortable, putting all the Jedi near the Mandalorian sector on edge - it wouldn’t have been too bad if the Clans had sworn themselves to the New Mandalorians, but they didn’t, and it worried Qui-Gon that they had instead bowed to the Death Watch. They had all expected an attack, and when the two Mandalorians walked into the farmhouse they had been hiding in, Qui-Gon had braced himself, but nothing had happened. Instead, the smaller of the two, armour painted dark red with small details in white, had offered them a lift. Even with the helmet on, his youth was obvious, and it must have been the reason why Duchess Satine had agreed.

Qui-Gon, his Padawan, and the young Duchess had been brought to their ship, and Satine had been reunited with her younger sister, who had been clinging to a third Mandalorian, a woman with black and gold armour, like she was the only thing between young Bo-Katan and violence. According to the woman, Death Watch had made a habit of stealing children young to indoctrinate them, and there had been something in her muffled Force signature that had soured Qui-Gon’s stomach. None of the three Mandalorians had given their names, but the man, identifiable by his grey and blue armour, had promised them safety and a ride, even if he hadn’t seemed pleased with the fact. The youngest of the three seemed to make an effort to make them feel welcomed, even if he seemed more at ease with the Duchess than he did the two Jedi, and Duchess Satine had begun to try to sway him to the ways of the New Mandalorians. He’d listen politely, and agree with some of her points, but he’d also argue others, turning basic conversations into debates that would get heated and lead to Satine storming off from their talk in a huff - but she’d always go back for more, never turning down an opportunity for a verbal spar.

Something about the boy seemed almost familiar, in an eerie, haunting way. He never removed his helmet, but something about him drew Qui-Gon towards him. Perhaps he was an undiscovered Force Sensitive? There was no law outside of Republic space that said that parents had to register an infant’s midi-chlorian count, so there was no way for the Jedi Order to find all of them. Qui-Gon himself had once trained as a Finder, so that could be what he was sensing. The Force moved around the youngster as if he were a favoured child, a bundle of Light and love that lit up whenever he was around the older Mandalorians - his father and aunt, if Qui-Gon’s translations were correct. He was a mystery but not one he would have to wonder about for much longer.

They had been dragged into another fight with Death Watch, having been off the ship to refuel and resupply when they had been cornered. It had been fierce and bloody, and the male Mandalorian had torn through the Death Watch warriors, his sister at his side and his son picking off others with his sniper from up on the ridge where he and Bruck had stayed behind to guard the two Kryzes. Qui-Gon had moved to join the other two adults on the field, when the youngest Mandalorian’s shots had stopped, and the screaming had begun. If the adult Mandalorians were fierce before, they were bloodthirsty afterwards.

The Death Watch soldiers didn’t stand a chance, and within moments, the armoured sentients had been loping back up the ridges to find the younger half of their party facing off against another group of Mandalorians. Bruck had his orange ‘saber lit, and the youngest Mandalorian was at his side, his sniper abandoned in favour of one of his pistols, one arm hanging uselessly at his side. Even young Bo-Katan had a hold on a weapon, and both boys had put themselves between the Duchess and her sister, and the assassins after them. The gray Mandalorian took out the last group on his own. He had shot them without hesitation to get to his son, before ushering them all back to the ship, all-but carrying the protesting youngster in his arms. The female Mandalorian had hurried to the cockpit to take off, and was looking for the medkit, and the rest of them were left in the cargo hold.

And then the helmets had come off.

Qui-Gon can’t look away from the teenager that had been revealed. He’s looking at a ghost - older than the Initiate he had known. His round face had slimmed, but there’s still a layer of baby fat on those freckled cheeks. His ginger hair is longer, down to his chin in sleek waves, but his eyes are still blue.

“Obi-Wan Kenobi.” Qui-Gon murmurs, carefully releasing his shock and unease into the Force, and those blue-grey eyes shift towards the Jedi Master. The youngling is ashen with pain, the unmasked Mandalorian leaning over his doubtlessly broken arm and gently stripping it of armour, and he’s wincing every so often, though he’s carefully releasing the worst of his pain into the Force.

Qui-Gon had seen his face in his dreams for years. He had seen the petulant boy he had been when they had parted ways on the Monument, the way he had stubbornly refused to accept the path the Force was leading on. He had been clingy and argumentative; not cut out of the life of a Jedi. He had hoped the life of a farmer would help the child commune with the Living Force, and teach him how to release his arrogance. Instead, Xanatos had mistaken the boy for Qui-Gon’s Padawan, unaware that his former Master had been instead looking toward young Bruck Chun - who had been so much like Xanatos had been when he was a child, who Qui-Gon hoped to save from the same fate as his second Padawan - and had sold him to the slavers in an attempt to hurt Qui-Gon. The atmosphere in the Temple had seemed heavier after Xanatos’ mocking holo had reached them, and Master Yoda himself had led the search party trying to find the missing youngling. Qui-Gon had even joined a few groups scouring the Galaxy, his quietly stunned Padawan at his side, but there had been nothing to find; Obi-Wan Kenobi was gone.

Apparently not as gone as believed though, because Kenobi sits in front of him, stripped of the top half of his Mandalorian armour, one arm a mottled mess of swelling coloured purple and green. He had been right in front of Qui-Gon’s eyes for the last three weeks, but he hadn’t revealed himself.

Kenobi stared back at him, expression carefully neutral, and grey eyes distant. “Master Jinn,” He replies slowly, head tilting and shoulders hunching slightly, “My name is Ben now. Ben Fett be Mereel.”

Beside Qui-Gon, Satine sucks in a sharp breath, and Bruck goes carefully still, both of their alarm flaring in the Force. “Fett.” She says smoothly, but her fear is obvious in her Force signature.

The man kneeling beside the Temple’s lost Initiate straightens, turns, and stares the three of them down with dark, angry eyes. Next to Qui-Gon, Bruck flinches back -

“Buir.” Kenobi chides, voice thready with pain, but carrying enough steel to make the muscle in Fett’s jaw jump, and Kenobi gives the Mandalorian a pointed look. “Arla is on her way back with the kit.” Fett glowers at them a moment longer, before he bares his teeth - an obvious threat - and turns back to the teenager on the crate. Kenobi’s blue eyes drift back to the two Jedi, and his head tilts again, “Do you need medical attention Padawan Chun? That bolt that got past your guard must have been painful.”

Qui-Gon stiffens, turning his head to study his Padawan, who shuffles guiltily with a faint wince of pain that twists the old burn scar covering the left side of his face. He’d need to run the boy through more training katas to ensure it wouldn’t happen again.

“I’m fine.” Bruck says quickly, ducking his head - a far cry from the arrogant child he had been, and Qui-Gon is proud of how he was growing.

“Doubt it, Jet’ika.” The female Mandalorian had returned, her own helmet removed, revealing a handsome woman with a strong resemblance to Fett, though her brown hair had been bleached a sunny blonde. She has a medkit in hand, and is studying Qui-Gon’s Padawan with unimpressed brown eyes. “Take a seat. I’ll look at you once I’ve got Ben’ika’s arm under control.” She sneers at Qui-Gon, before her eyes flick away dismissively. “Kat’ika, Lady Kryze - either of you need bacta?”

“No, sir!” The eleven year old chirps, and Duchess Satine soundlessly shakes her head, pale eyes still locked on Fett’s back.

“You’re Jango Fett.” Satine says blankly, and - oh. That would explain the aggression. The disgraced and supposed-to-be-dead Mand’alor had been right under their noses this entire time, likely biding his time until he could remove the Duchess from her throne and seize power for himself.

“Nayc - I’m Arla.” The older woman says cheerfully, but there’s something sharp in her eyes - a dare to them to reveal Fett’s identity, and thus recognize him as a challenger for the Throne of Mandalore, no matter how illegitimate. “Grumpy over there is my vod’ika, and of course, there’s my vod’ad, Ben.” She gives Bruck a pointed look, gesturing at the crate where Kenobi is sitting. “Sit, Jet’ika.”

Qui-Gon sighs, “Go ahead, Padawan. You’ll just slow us down otherwise.”

Bruck flinches guiltily, “Yes, Master.” He murmurs, ducking around him and limping over to the crate where he sits down beside his childhood rival, expression suitably apologetic.

“Initiate Kenobi.” Qui-Gon turns his attention to the other teenager, folding his hands in his sleeves and studying the boy with quiet disappointment that has him twitching closer to the Mandalorians. To have caused so much worry, to run around with Mandalorians instead of doing his duty - “A word.”

Fett growls, spinning around to plant himself between the run-away Initiate and the Jedi Master. He bares his teeth, fury swirling around him and writhing like a Dark shadow. Qui-Gon eyes him serenely, calculating. The man, if he had been Force sensitive, would have already Fallen to the Darkside. He’d have to remove his influence from Kenobi, to ensure he hadn’t tainted the boy.

“My son isn’t going anywhere with you, Jetii.” Fett snarls, “You and your pet Duchess are only here because he wanted to help; you want to talk to him? You do it while I’m there or not at all.” The disgraced Mand’alor glowers, dark eyes burning with hatred, and over Fett’s shoulder, Kenobi watches silently.

His eyes are still blue, but they aren’t warm anymore. There was none of the bright hope and adoration of a Jedi Initiate, there was nothing familiar about them beyond the colour. Instead, they’re cold - frigid and distant with distrust, and similar enough to Xanatos’ gaze in the last years of his Padawanship that it had Qui-Gon itching to palm his lightsaber.

He’d have to report this to the Council.

#cole writes #fanfiction #star wars #obi wan kenobi #qui gon jinn #jango fett #arla fett #satine kryze #bo-katan kryze #bruck chun #Whumptober 2020 #no.12 i think i've broken something #mandobi-verse

[colehasapen]

(ONE SHOT) hettyc STAR WARS

When Bruck closes his eyes, he dreams of fire. Of smoke invading his lungs until he can’t breath, of it burning in his eyes until he can’t see past the cloud of acidic grey that surrounds him. He sees the red flames every time he tries to sleep, feels the burning heat on his skin and hears the Temple groaning around him. The Force is screaming, wailing in distress, and Bruck regrets listening to his father, he hates himself for following his orders to befriend Lord Xanatos for the good of their House.

He never could have known that this was what Xanatos had been planning; he had thought the older man had simply missed the Temple when he had asked all those questions. He had thought that he had wanted to be his friend - Bruck had too few friends nowadays. None of his creche mates wanted to be around him, not after Kenobi disappeared, and Xanatos had become a sympathetic ear. His clan siblings blame him for Obi-Wan having been sent away, and Bruck doesn’t hold it against them. If he hadn’t taunted him, hadn’t lied, then Obi-Wan wouldn’t have been sent away. He wouldn’t have been stolen. Even Aalto avoids him, unwilling to go against the tide, and Xanatos was the only one who listened.

But Xanatos had betrayed him.

Bant’s limp body is heavier in his dreams than she had been in real life, but he continues to drag her, because her life depends on it. The flames get hotter, the smoke thicker, and he hears laughter, dark and sadistically amused, in the darkness around him. It echoes in the smoke, vibrates in his bones, and while it had been nearly three years since the attack on the Temple, the fear is still fresh.

As always, Bruck wakes up the moment Xanatos pushes him into the fire. He doesn’t scream, not anymore, because Master Qui-Gon needs his sleep, so instead Bruck stays in his small bunk, wraps his blanket around his shaking shoulders, and tries to center himself.

Xanatos isn’t here. He isn’t at the Temple; he’s on Jaster’s Legacy, surrounded by Mandalorians. It should scare him - Mandalorians used to hunt Jedi for sport, and had been one of their oldest enemies - but instead it makes him feel safer. He’s seen the way the Fetts treat the younger Kryze and… Ben. He’s seen the way they act around Bruck compared to how they do around his Master, they’re even warm enough to Duchess Satine, who has been nothing but patronizing and arrogant, and who is legally an adult, but only barely.

Mandalorians are widely known as powerful warriors, but they’re also known for their love of children. Bruck is fifteen, still a child in the eyes of the law, so he’s confident that the Mandalorians won’t attack him; the Council had counted on it when they picked Bruck and his Master for the mission. He’s young enough to be a child in the eyes of the Mandalorians, but skilled enough to hold his own in battle if it needed to come to it.

The Fetts weren’t like Xanatos. They wouldn’t hurt him to get at Master Qui-Gon, no matter how much they hated the Jedi Master.

“Quiet your thoughts, Padawan.” His Master says gruffly from his own cot, and Bruck winces guiltily - he hadn’t meant to wake up the older Jedi with his stewing. “Release your emotions into the Force and focus on the here and now.”

“Yes Master.” Bruck murmurs, “Sorry, Master.”

But he can’t get Xanatos’ voice out of his head, mocking him as he holds his face against the flames, telling him about all the terrible things he did to Obi-Wan and what he’d do to Bruck. He doesn’t want Master Qui-Gon to see the memory again, not after everything he had put him through with his nightmares when their bond had still been new, he doesn’t want his Master to have to deal with that pain again. He needs to get control of himself. Master Qui-Gon needs his sleep, and Bruck needs to get a hold on his emotions so that he can prove that he’ll be a good Jedi.

Master Qui-Gon grumbles something under his breath, rolling over to put his back to where Bruck sits. “If you can’t get back to sleep, perhaps you should go meditate, and work to strengthen your connection to the Living Force.” He orders, and Bruck bows his head, unable to face his Master’s disappointment again.

“Yes Master.” He gathers his tunics quickly, pauses as he considers the new tears in the fabric, then grabs his sewing kit as well. He may be on the run, and his tunics may be falling apart, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t try to look his best. Besides, it had always been easier to concentrate when he could do things with his hands.

He ducks out of the room he shares with his Master as the older man’s breath evens out again, and he hurries down the hall as quietly as he could, intent on heading towards the rec room. The ship is quiet in it’s night cycle, and the halls are empty. Jaster’s Legacy is a ship designed to hold more people than just seven, it leaves the ship feeling abandoned, and Bruck had read enough on the history of the True Mandalorians to know why.

The Jedi had been a part of a massacre. They had been the weapons turned on a group of innocent people and used to kill them. To add insult to injury, the Senate wouldn’t allow for any reparations to be payed to their victims, claiming the Civil War as the cause without acknowledging that be sending the Jedi on an ill-researched mission that would end in a battle that murdered the majority of the most popular Mandalorian political party, they had made the fighting worse . Bruck had done his research. He’d looked into the modern history of Mandalore and written a report for his Master to read, as was expected of a Padawan, but Bruck suspects his Master hadn’t even looked at it, considering the way he had been acting. But Master Qui-Gon was enamoured with the Mandalore Kryze wants to build, and didn’t want to hear of any other possible choice.

If it were up to Bruck, the True Mandalorians would be in charge; he had enjoyed the historical and political articles the Reformer, Mand’alor Jaster Mereel, had written, and logically he could believe that Fett shared the same ideals as his adoptive father. But it’s not, and Bruck needs to follow orders. The Senate wants Satine Kryze on the Throne, so that’s what Bruck has to do.

He steps into the rec room, and falters. Ben Fett is kneeling on a small cushion, meditating , and stripped down to a too-large sleep shirt that slips down his shoulder, revealing a twisted scar over his shoulder blade. Bruck knows immediately what it is, and it makes him feel sick.

A brand.

Bruck stutters, and the youngest Fett twitches, head lifting.

“Good evening, Padawan Chun.” The redhead greets politely, peering at the Padawan over his shoulder, and Bruck shifts awkwardly, feeling guilty for staring.

Ben is odd. Bruck may have grown up with Obi-Wan Kenobi, but Ben Fett is completely different from the boy he had known. Ben is calmer, quieter, and a lot more dangerous, and Bruck doesn’t know how to act around him. Bruck himself is no longer the boy he had been either, and for the last three years he had thought his childhood rival was dead.

“Sorry.” He mutters quickly, “I can go somewhere else.”

“No, it’s fine.” Fett says easily, shifting out of his meditation pose to stretch out his legs, and he adjusts the sleeve of his old shirt to slide it back over the twisted, melted skin on his back. “You can stay.” He offers Bruck a slightly awkward smile that has the other teenager blushing, “I don’t mind.”

Bruck shifts again, considering the offer, before he moves into the rec room, moving towards the couch. “Thanks.” The moment he’s sitting, he starts pulling out the needle and thread he needs to patch up the tears in his tunic. They sit in silence for a long moment, Bruck tending to his clothes and Ben methodically taking apart his sniper rifle, before Bruck speaks again. “I’m sorry.” Ben’s hands pause on the barrel of his blaster, glancing up at Bruck from under his shaggy bangs, and the pale-haired boy swallows nervously.

He had imagined apologizing to his former creche mate for years, since the moment he and the rest of their clan had been told that their clan-brother was gone. Bant and Reeft had cried for months, Garen had stopped paying attention in piloting classes, Aalto had stopped talking for nearly a year, and Bruck? Bruck had imagined finding Obi-Wan, of going and saving him, of being the hero and showing everyone how good a Jedi he was. He had gotten everything he had ever wanted; he had been chosen as a Padawan, he was the best in every class, but as more time passed, it started to feel rotten.

He had gotten everything, but Obi-Wan had only suffered.

“Whatever for?”

“I’m sorry.” Bruck says again, voice wobbling, and he ducks his head in shame. “I was horrible to you -” he thinks back to the brand that had been burned into Ben’s shoulder, and feels like the worst sort of being, “- it’s my fault you were taken.”

“No, it’s not.” Ben states firmly, voice a lot closer than it had been before, and the cushion next to him dips as the young Mandalorian sits beside him. “It was no one’s fault but Xanatos’, and my own.”

Bruck scoffs, “That’s ridiculous.”

Ben shrugs, “I’m the one who slipped away from the farm, and Xanatos was the one who sold me.”

“And it’s my fault you were there!” Bruck says sharply, closing his eyes against the burning tears, and his hands clench in the fabric of his tunic. “I was the one who lied! I was the one who treated you horribly and taunted you so that I could get you in trouble.”

“But I was the one who rose to the attack.” Ben states simply, “Anger isn’t the way of the Jedi, but I just kept getting angry - I would have made a terrible Jedi.”

Bruck bristles, “You would have been an amazing Jedi.” Ben just chuckles, and Bruck twitches faintly when a light hand rests on his arm. “I’m sorry that I ever told you otherwise.”

“I don’t blame you, Bruck.” Ben tells him gently, “Maybe I did, once, but not anymore.” Bruck hiccups. “I forgive you. I forgave you years ago.” The hand moves to press against his burned cheek, and Bruck opens his eyes to stare at the other boy in shock.

Ben smiles at him, and Bruck’s heart flutters in his chest, cheeks warming. It had been a long time since this had happened, but Bruck is older now, more mature, and he’s learned how to deal with confusing emotions in ways that don't lead to him lashing out.

“We were little kids, Bruck - what happened wasn’t your fault.”

Overwhelmed and close to tears, Bruck leans forward and presses their lips together.

#star wars #fanfiction #cole writes #whumptober 2020 #no.14 is something burning? #bruck chun #obi wan kenobi #qui gon jinn #Mandobi-verse

[colehasapen]

(ONE SHOT) ner aliit STAR WARS

(belated) Whumptober no.29 - I Think I Need A Doctor

Comfortember no.8 - Lashing Out

Jango had never imagined getting his sister back. He had thought, for over a decade, that his ori’vod was dead, that she had died all those years ago with their buire when Kyr’tsad had burned their family’s farm. He had spent years with Arla’s name at the top of his Remembrances, unknowing that she was alive and that Kyr’tsad had her in their grasp. He had left his ori’vod to be tortured and twisted until she was a chained pet to be released whenever Vizsla wanted someone dead.

Vizsla had probably taken some sort of sick enjoyment out of sending his own sister after him, most likely looking to get the Darksaber back but was not willing to face Jango or his Foundling in combat himself. So he had sent Jango’s own family to kill them and bring the dha’kad to him instead of doing anything himself, and Arla had tried. They had been docked and resupplying, and she must have snuck on board while they had been busy - likely the blood she shared with Jango had let her slip past the security.

Manda, Jango had nearly killed her. He hadn’t known it at the time, all he had seen was a Kyr’tsad ramikad pinning Ben and ready to slit his throat, and Jango had thrown himself forward to defend his son. It had been Ben - Ben who had never let go of the morals he had been raised with, despite declaring his quest for cin vhetin upon earning his beskar’gam and passing his verd’goten - who had stopped Jango from killing his attacker. It was Ben, the boy who refused to kill unless absolutely necessary, even with all the evils in the Galaxy and everything he had been through, who had pulled Jango off of the limp Kyr’tsadii and removed the woman’s helmet.

Jango had nearly lost what little remained of his cool in that moment, stiffening in shock and horror. Arla was almost identical to their mother, though Jango could see himself in her jaw and nose and the shape of her eyes, and her colouring had been their father’s. He remembers that, as a teenager, Arla had idolized their retired ori’ramikad mother, and had wanted to be just like her, to the point she had dyed her brown hair blonde and spent an hour every morning straightening her curls. When he had been eight he had found it annoying to be locked out of the bathroom while his di’kutla ori’vod did di’kutla things, but after the farm had burned, he had guarded even the most annoying memories of his family jealousy. Now though, there’s not a hint of blonde in Arla’s thick curls, and where her skin had once been golden-brown, it was now pale and ashen and covered in scars from torture and cruelty that he had gotten a peek of while Shmi had been tending to her injuries.

Jango had been able to experience love and family after their Buire had been murdered, but Arla had only known pain and torment.

He had spent the last few days sitting beside his sister’s bacta tank, watching her float limply in the thick liquid and reacquainting himself with her face. It had made him painfully aware of the fact that he couldn’t remember her voice, that he could barely remember her. She’s in her thirties now, and she was so very different from the fourteen year old girl preparing for her verd’goten that he could remember. All the baby fat was gone from her face, and there’s a scar across the bridge of her nose that Jango couldn’t remember being there - so many thick, ropey scars stretched across any part of her body that he could see. He hadn’t seen her since he was eight - he’s twenty-three now, and he likes to think that he looks like his father, but finding Arla has made him painfully aware of the fact that he can barely remember them anymore.

What kind of ad and vod is he that he can’t remember his familys’ faces? Would Arla hate him for moving on, for finding a new aliit while she had been tortured?

Arla had been pulled out of bacta just that morning, and it had been painful for Jango to cuff his sister to the medical cot, but he didn’t really have much of a choice. He has two non-combatants on the ship, and a son that Arla had already once tried to kill. As much as Jango hates it, his sister is a prisoner and an assassin, and he has no idea what Death Watch had done to her over the years, or what kind of state her mind is in.

Even so, knowing all of that didn’t mean it hadn’t torn something in him when his sister had immediately tried to throw herself at him, intent to harm, the moment she had opened her eyes. Arla had snarled, twisting against the restraints, teeth bared in fury, and a firm Shmi had ordered Jango out of the room as she’d given his sister a sedative. So Jango had left, trusting Shmi to look after herself and Arla.

“Traitor!” Arla had screamed at him, and the words had struck deep.

He finds himself feeling lost, staring at the wall, and wondering what he could possibly do to fix this. He hadn’t thought his hatred of Kyr’tsad could grow any hotter and yet here he is, with a sister he had believed dead for most of his life, twisted and broken and turned into an assassin for the very people who had murdered their Buire and who he hated more than anything, even the Jetiise. Kyr’tsad had taken everything from him; his parents, his Buir, his aliit, his sister, his honour. He could reach out to the others; he knows that there are Haat’ade still out there, people who had followed Jaster, who had followed Jango, and people who would come the moment he called. Roz had given him a list of contacts of Mando’ade who were still loyal to the Mand’alor. There were people with the right sort of training who could help him help Arla. He hadn’t considered calling them before - he’s unworthy of their loyalty, but for his aliit , he’d be willing to do anything.

Jango lets out a heavy breath, turning on his heel to march towards his room - Jaster’s old room - in search of the comm codes, thoughts dark. His people didn’t deserve Jango dragging them back into his problems, but Arla also doesn’t deserve what happened to her and needs help. He doesn’t trust a hospital to protect her from Kyr’tsad should they come for her, but he does trust the True Mandalorians.

The disgraced Mand’alor pauses in front of his door, tightening his hand around his buy’ce and tapping his fingers against the visor. He sighs slowly, closing his eyes and muttering a quick prayer to the Manda for courage and to the Ka’ra for luck, before gathering himself and typing in the code to the door and stepping into his room. He strides over to the storage chest at the base of his bunk, opening it to rifle through the belongings until he finds the datapad Roz had handed him back when he and Ben had first gone to her for work after escaping the spice freighter.

He staring at one name on the list, an open expression of pain on his face - there’s so few of them, compared to what they had once been, and that’s on him. Mij Gilamar - he remembers the man. Or more accurately he remembers his riduur; Tani Gilamar had been on Galidraan, she had been one of his ramikade. Mij had been a dedicated baar’ur, and while he had married a Mando’ad, he had never worn beskar’gam, preferring to heal rather than fight, but Jango had seen him spar with Tani enough to know that he could.

Mij would be his best choice to help Arla, but would he want to do anything for Jango after he had gotten his riduur killed.

He looks up when the door hisses open, letting Ben peer into his room. His son cut an impressive figure in Jango’s old beskar’gam, the one that he wore after passing his own verdgotten but painted dark red and white, and his buy’ce tucked under his arm - he looks like a true Mando’ad, and Jango wonders if this is what Jaster felt every time he saw him in his armour. He watches Jango with worried eyes.

“Are you alright, Buir?” The teenager asks, stepping into Jango’s room and letting the door slide shut behind him. “Shmi told me our guest woke up.” Blue eyes study him intently, and Jango’s shoulders slump at the reminder, Arla’s words rattling in his head. “I can sense that you’re upset.” Ben lowers himself to his knees next to him with the unnatural grace of a Jedi, head tilting. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Jango huffs out a laugh, “You do know I’m supposed to be the buir, right, Ben’ika?”

His ad ’s eyes sparkle, and Jango can already feel the weight of his past easing with the boy’s small smile. “So you are.” Ben says cheerfully, “I’m afraid I hadn’t noticed.”

“Brat.” Jango murmurs fondly, flicking the fourteen year old across the forehead. Still, Ben had passed his verd’goten and was considered an adult by Old Mandalorian law, even if he is still young and inexperienced and still needed guidance. Jas’buir had allowed Jango to lead his own squad at fourteen, and Mandalorians knew better than anyone that ade were just as competent as those who were fully grown. He sighs again, “Arla needs special care right now.” Jango tells Ben, who listens attentively. “Things we can’t get her without help.”

Ben’s head tilts again, eyes narrowing thoughtfully, “Like a mind healer?”

Jango taps Mij’s name on the list, “Baar’ur Gilamar is a doctor, and a very good one. All Mandalorian doctors are trained in mirjahaal for wounded verde.”

“One cannot heal physically if they don’t also heal spiritually.” Ben states knowingly, and Jango ruffles his hair.

“Learn that from your fancy Core Temple, did you, ad’ika?”

Ben grins crookedly, “We were all expected to attend minor healing classes.” He shrugs, “I wasn’t very good at it.” Then his blue eyes grow sharp in the way that makes Jango feel like the boy was looking into his soul. “Arla will be fine, Buir.” Ben states, “We’ll help her; she’s aliit.”

Aliit, it’s a nice thought.

#cole writes #whumptober 2020 #comfortember 2020 #fanfiction #star wars #jango fett #obi-wan kenobi #arla fett #shmi skywalker #mandobi-verse

[colehasapen]

(ONE SHOT) kir'manir STAR WARS

He had gotten them out.

They were free.

Pirates had attacked the spice rig, and Jango had taken his chance when he saw it, gathering Ob’ika to his side the moment the ship had started to shake. He had taken the pick he had been using to crack stone open and turned it on the nearest slaver. Jango had made sure to keep his tiny adiik behind him as he brought the improvised weapon down on the overseer’s head over and over and over again until it was nothing more than a mess of fractured bone and gore. Obi-Wan was just a child - freshly thirteen by the boy’s own estimate, but still an adiik until he either triumphed in his verd’goten and earned his beskar’gam, or turned eighteen by Human Core-standards - and he didn’t didn’t need to see the damages Jango’s rage had wrought. He had kept his ad’ika behind his back as they’d made their way through the transport, picking off slavers and pirates alike as they hurried down the halls, weapons in hand. He’d found the keys for the cuffs on the fourth guard he’d killed, and he’d watched with pride as Ob’ika had grimly helped him pat down any bodies they came across, coming up with credits and weapons and the small pouches of spice they’d need to use to wean themselves off the drugs in their systems.

They’d come across a dead Jawa pirate that had been killed by a shot through the head, and he’d stripped the being of it’s belongings, long robes included, to offer to the adiik as protection. It would offer him more warmth than the shredded, bloodstained tunic he had already been wearing, and would fit him better than anything they’d get off of the taller beings. His adiik was only a little taller than a full-grown Jawa after all, and the sizes of the weapons would fit better in his hands. It would do, at least until Jango could get him a kute that would fit him.

They had gotten off the transport, had stolen the Master’s own ship out from under him while the overseers were attempting to fight the pirates off. They were finally free.

The shuttle had been fully stocked, thankfully, and Jango had made sure to clean and dress all of Ob’ika’s wounds before he had carried the sleeping child to the large bed in the main quarters, clean for the first time since before Jango had claimed him, and looking so small and delicate as he slept. He had stitched every lash on his tiny back closed, generously applied bacta to the wounds and hoping they wouldn’t scar, and then he had sat back and watched over his ad’ika as he slept peacefully.

He had wondered, watching as the little boy breathed, if Obi-Wan had a family to return to, beyond the brother that had sold him. Obi-Wan hadn’t brought it up, not over the months they had spent together as Jango taught him Mando’a and told him stories of happier times. He had seemed hesitant to mention anything from his past, like he couldn’t bear to think about it, and Jango couldn’t help but wonder if, with their freedom won, Obi-Wan would want to go home.

Jango didn’t want to give the adiik back, he didn’t want to be alone again. But if Obi-Wan asked it of him, he’d fly their stolen ship into the heart of the Core and deliver him safely into the arms of his family. Jango already loved the child as if he were his own ad’ika, it didn’t matter if he wasn’t old enough to be the boy’s buir or that their respective ages put them closer to being vod’e, but if Ob’ika didn’t want to stay with him, he’d let him go. He’d find the adiik’s family, or find him a new home if Obi-Wan didn’t want him, because that’s what Jas’buir would have done for him.

Jango hadn’t slept that night cycle, and he couldn’t bring up those thoughts afterwards. He had gone about cleaning himself up instead. He had shaved for the first time since that last morning on Galidraan, in camp and with Myles cheerfully draped over his shoulders, ever the disgustingly happy morning person. It had been the last time he had touched his venriduur’s skin, the last time he had kissed his lips and seen his face, because they had gone on patrol afterwards and returned to find the Jetiise murdering their aliit. Jango had forced himself away from those thoughts. He had let Obi-Wan trim his hair for him when the ad’ika had wanted to feel useful, and Jango had ended up with a choppy look straight out of his childhood - he’d even let his ad’ika pull it back in a nerftail with a gold ribbon they had found lying around.

It was a fitting colour, though he doubted Obi-Wan knew - their lessons hadn't covered what colours meant to a Mando’ad yet.

Now, once again clad in beskar’gam, and feeling like himself again for the first time since he had been stripped of his honour and purpose, Jango marches towards the clearing that had once been used as a Haat’ade camp, a quiet Obi-Wan clinging to his back and a burning mansion left behind them. He feels whole now, having been reunited with his armour, and maybe he should have thanked the aruetyc shabuir Governor for stripping his beskar’gam of it’s paint before he had shot him between the eyes. It would save him the trouble of having to find the specialized solvent himself.

But he hadn’t, of course, because the shabuir would have needed to comb through the Haat’ade belongings for the kind of solvent that was needed to strip beskar'gam of the specially made Mando paints.

“You killed him.” Obi-Wan says quietly, resting a freckled cheek against Jango’s pauldron, and his voice sounds wet. He’s not accusing, or scared, but instead he sounds confused.

“I did.” He acknowledges, because it was what Jas’buir would have done. Jaster had always been honest with him, and it was the least Jango could do to be the same with Obi-Wan.

Obi-Wan sighs, warm breath fanning across the sliver of skin that was showing between the neck of his kute and his buy’ce. “He wasn’t armed.” The kid murmurs, “He wasn’t a threat.”

“Not yet.” Jango replies roughly, swallowing around the lump in his throat. He hadn’t thought the Governor was a threat either, and his people had suffered for it. “But men like that don’t need to be armed to be dangerous.” He tells the adiik, “They have connections, and power they abuse.” Jango sighs angrily, pushing away the images of all the verde who died because Jango chose the wrong contract.

“But does that mean he deserved to die?” Ob’ika asks, and - Ka’ra, Jango doesn’t think he had ever been that innocent.

His innocence had died with his Buire and Arla, and he had learned quickly what lengths he was willing to go to for vengeance and aliit. It was a shock that Obi-Wan’s hadn’t been beaten out of him, but his ad’ika had already proved that his innocence wasn’t a weakness - he had killed to get them off that rig too. He had shot one of the overseers through the eye to protect Jango.

“He would have never paid for his crimes otherwise, kid.” Jango states bluntly. “There’s no justice in the galaxy, not unless we make it.”

“That’s not right!” Obi-Wan says shrilly, jerking in his arms. “That’s not justice - that’s vengeance! The Jedi-”

Anger flares in Jango’s gut, burning and all-consuming. “The Jedi killed my people!” He snaps, and Obi-Wan flinches. Vibrating with the amount of fury in his bones, Jango lets the kid slide off of him, and he turns to face him. His body is tightly wound with restraint, and clenched fists shaking at his side. “They saw Mando’ade and decided that we deserved to die for some perceived crime. They slaughtered them, and when I was the last one left they gave me to the Governor and had me sold into slavery!”

Obi-Wan curls away from him, eyes wide and teary, and he whimpers. The sound makes Jango flinch. He steps back, tries to reign his rage in, and the weight of it sends him crashing to his knees.

Jango chokes on a breath, pulls off his buy’ce, and lets out a harsh sob as he curls around it, hugging the beskar like he had once hugged Jaster, looking for comfort it couldn’t give him. “Is that right?” He gasps, tears and salty as they pour down his cheeks in over a year’s worth of grief and anguish.

Small, wrapped hands reach forward hesitantly, before they press against Jango’s cheeks and pull his attention away from the dirt his people died on. Obi-Wan is crying too, silent tears dripping down freckled cheeks, and he looks horrified. “The - the Jedi killed them?” He asks, and Jango nods.

“‘Lek.”

The kid lets out a shuddering breath that turns into a hiccup, and Jango reaches forwards, carefully telegraphing his movements to give the adiik plenty of time to move away if he wants to. Obi-Wan doesn’t, and Jango curls his hand around the back of his verd’ika’s neck, pressing his thumb to his pulse to ground himself. “I’m sorry, Jango.” Obi-Wan whispers, blinking quickly, tears caught on his lashes, and Jango makes a nonsensical noise of denial, but the frantic shake of the adiik’s head quiets the Mando. “I-I’m not a Jedi - I wasn’t good enough to be one.”

Jango jolts, as if struck, and he stares at the little redhead in shock. “You’re-” He can’t bring himself to say it. He’s angry, for a moment, that Obi-Wan had kept such a thing from him, but he knows how much Force Sensitive children go on the slave market - it had probably been safer that Obi-Wan hadn’t said anything.

“Not anymore.” Obi-Wan sniffles, “They sent me away.”

“They sent you away.” Jango echoes, a different kind of anger blooming in his stomach. They had sent him away, they hadn’t protected him, and Obi-Wan had been sold into a life no one deserved.

“Anyone can choose to leave the Order,” Obi-Wan explains quietly, “We’re taught that as we grow. The life of a Jedi isn’t for everyone - we’re supposed to dedicate ourselves to bringing peace and balance to the galaxy, and it’s not the life everyone wants for themselves. There’s no shame in leaving, everyone gets a choice.” Ob’ika shivers slightly. “I didn’t.” He admits, and Jango draws him closer, into his lap. His own problems seem unimportant now, in the face of the adiik opening up and trusting him. “They said I was too angry to be a good Jedi - that I liked fighting too much. They tell us that if a Jedi needs to fight, then they’ve already lost, because we should always find the peaceful solution. I was just going to Fall, so it wasn’t worth training me.” Obi-Wan hiccups. “They didn’t give me a choice - they just sent me away.” And with those words, his ad’ika crumbles into tears, sobbing with lost opportunities and the choices that were stolen from him, and all Jango can do is hold him closer.

“Do you have anywhere you can go, ad’ika?” Jango asks quietly as the tears slow, and the thin arms around his chest tighten. “Any family you could go to?”

Obi-Wan sniffles again, “Kenobi means child of no-one in Joni.” He says, and it enrages Jango to hear such a statement said so flippantly. “And Obi-Wan means cursed child - I think the answer is obvious.”

“Shabuire dar’buire.” Jango says passionately, and Ob’ika snorts wetly, pressing his runny nose against Jango’s neck. The Mando’ad takes a slow, determined breath. “You could stay with me, if you’d like. I don’t have much, not anymore, but I’d look after you.”

Obi-Wan stills, and he pulls away just enough to stare up at Jango with shock, something hopeful dawning in blue-grey eyes. “You-” his voice shakes, “-you want me?”

“Ni kyr’tayl gai sa’ad, Obi-Wan be Fett be Mereel.” Jango says fiercely, and Obi-Wan blinks. “I know your name as my child, Obi-Wan of Fett or Mereel.” He repeats in Basic, and his ad’ika sucks in a shuddering breath, eyes widening in awe. He slides his hand up to cradle Obi-Wan’s head, and he pulls him closer to give him a gentle kov’nyn. “If that’s what you’d like.” Jango tacks on hesitantly, and he watches as a wide, heart-breakingly sweet smile grows on the adiik’s small face.

“Gedet’ye.” He warbles, wrapping his arms around Jango’s neck, leaning into the kov’nyn, his eyes fluttering shut.

Jango does the same, breathing in another person’s runi and sharing his own for the first time in over a year. “Olarom, ad’ika.”

“Olarom, Buir.”

(In which Cole forgot to post something, like a fool)

#cole writes #fanfiction #star wars #obi wan kenobi #jango fett #whumptober 2020 #no.11 psych 101 #mandobi-verse