Chapter Text
Chapter 2: Stories
~31 BBY, Kamino, Tipoca City
“Ah, here you are, Master Jango,” the honeyed voice of Tuan We greeted Jango Fett as he entered the rotund chamber. A small smile played at her thin lips; hands clasped calmly at her front as she towered above him.
He nodded in greeting, scanning the bright-white interior of the room – he was searching for it, his purpose for being summoned to the meeting. He glanced at Tuan We with a quizzically raised brow; her expression remained serene.
“We are pleased to inform you that we completed your request for one unmodified clone. The screening test results show zero abnormalities that would warrant reconditioning.” Her tone was as bright as the core of Tipoca City.
Jango blinked at Tuan We’s light indifference at the notion of “reconditioning” a newborn… or whatever one would call a human conceived and grown in a gestational tube in a cloning laboratory.
He exhaled sharply. “When can I see it?”
A steady thudding drummed up in his chest. He had not expected this, whatever it was he was suddenly feeling.
Tuan We gestured gracefully towards the portal with one arm as a Kaminoan nursemaid entered, a tiny white bundle cradled in her long arms. Jango stepped forward, meeting the nursemaid halfway across the room. The nursemaid offered the bundle, lowering it to Jango’s level with her long arms. A round face with light olive skin and pink cheeks clashed with the sterile white swaddling, as did a crown of miniscule dark curls adorning the boy’s head. His tiny eye lids were sealed into peaceful slits, feathery lashes long and dark, with his pink lips parted into a relaxed ring.
Jango felt the hammering in his chest gradually subside as he nestled the tiny child in his arms.
“He’s just received his first sustenance. He did well. He should be settled for some time before he awakens,” the nursemaid was placid, yet Jango detected a hint of pride in her tone.
“So, Tuan We said the tests are good… do you need to run any more on it— him?” Jango inquired, eager to leave the austere chamber and the territorial cloners.
“He’s clear for release, but there will be additional tests in the coming days and weeks. We can continue to rear the child until the time of your choosing, should that be your preference, Master Jango,” The nursemaid offered.
“No,” Jango didn’t hesitate. “That won’t be necessary.”
He felt the small weight of the baby press into him, warming his forearms. It was life – a life he would mold into Jaster’s legacy.
“Of course,” the nursemaid bowed her head slightly, voice tranquil. “Myself and my staff will make sure you have everything you need.”
“And we will provide the very best caretakers when your work summons you away from Kamino,” Taun We added.
The little one stirred gently in Jango’s arms, a small fist emerging from the edge of the swaddled cloth below his chin. Jango gently shifted the tiny body to support the child with his left arm. His right hand freed, he extended a finger to meet the child’s miniscule hand. An unexpectedly strong grip enveloped Jango’s calloused skin, and he found himself smiling at his progeny.
“We’ll deliver nourishment and other goods within the hour,” Tuan We nodded at the nursemaid. They took one final bow before ambling elegantly towards the exit.
Jango wasn’t supposed to survive that day on Concord Dawn – not if Jaster hadn’t intervened. This little life was here, in his arms, gripping his finger like a Rancor’s claw clenched its prey, because Jaster had chosen to adopt him, a rudderless orphan, amid a Mandalorian civil war.
He felt the corners of his mouth twitch upward as the child’s grip intensified around his finger.
“Boba,” he whispered hoarsely. “I’ll call you Boba. After Jaster’s father.”
More than a legacy, Jango knew – he, too, had a son.
***
Fett’s hand gripped the paint canister as his finger continued to apply pressure to the trigger, his arm oscillating across the armor to ensure a thorough and even coat as the dark green pigment absorbed the shiny patches of beskar.
The chest piece now fully green, Fett took a second to appreciate the coating. He had decided against removing the old layer below, noting how the outlines from the old scuffs and chips were still visible under the fresh coat. Despite knowing the presence of the old strata would make the new layer more prone to chipping, he had his reasons for its preservation.
It was convenient to forgo the proper removal of the old pigment and battle scars, as the process of sanding and stripping the paint could take hours – an amenity he did not have. But more than that, it was part and parcel of the armor’s history, including his unfortunate encounter with the Sarlacc. Just like his face, his armor would carry those ravages, a subtle reminder of what he had endured – for beneath the new strata, the record of his survival would remain.
He continued his ritual, wiping the remaining armor pieces free of gritty sand and dirt. The Mandalorian armor. Jango had told him on more than one occasion that only true Mandalorians were worthy of the honor of wearing beskar. But there hadn’t been enough time with Jango for Boba to have fully grasped what his father had meant by that. Mandalorian culture remained as foreign to him as normalcy was to an orphan. And as far as Boba Fett knew, the Mandalore of his time was very different from the one Jango had known…
***
~25 BBY, Kamino, Tipoca City
Boba was awaiting his father’s return. He laid in his bunk with nothing but the heavy drum of rain beating against his dark bedroom viewport to distract him from wondering about the cause of Jango’s delay. He rolled over onto his side, eyes staring out into the ocean waves beyond the transparent pane, their white foamy crests dimly discernable through the veil of night. He wanted to think about anything else.
He watched the occasional flash of lightening bounce off the reflective surface of the window – the way the light flashed reminded him of how his comm link lit up whenever dad called.
When was the last time he heard from dad? Nearly a day ago. And he always called, every day.
On that last call, dad had said that he was on schedule to return to Kamino hours ago. Waiting was even harder now that Boba was old enough to accompany his father on the low-risk jobs. While Boba had begged to go along on this last one, Jango had told him this one was different – the bounty was dangerous, and he needed to be cautious.
Dad always told him not to worry, but he knew the uncomfortable bubbling in his stomach meant that he was. He closed his eyes, mumbling a little tune that dad used to sing to him when he was younger, feeling the weight of his eyelids grow increasingly heavier…
His eyes snapped open at the sound of the apartment doors parting to give entry, accompanied by two voices in hushed conversation. One was dad’s, but he wasn’t sure about the other. He recognized it as human, likely belonging to one of the mercenaries hired to train clone soldiers.
“-- trying to give my boys a culture; a life,” a tired male voice pleaded.
“You’re forgetting their purpose,” Jango’s voice was stern; the very tone his father would use when Boba did something that disappointed him. It told Boba he should remain out of this conversation.
But he was awake and awfully curious. Why would one of the clone trainers need to talk to dad in the middle of the night? Boba rolled quietly out of bed and tiptoed up to the bedroom door he had left slightly ajar. The main chamber of the apartment was dimly lit with a torch Boba had left on for Jango’s arrival, offering just enough illumination for him to perceive the space.
“And what purpose is that? Cannon fodder? For a Republic that doesn’t recognize their citizenship?” The other voice challenged. Boba peered through the gap between the door and the jamb and saw a short, thin silhouette backlit from the bright light spilling from the corridor into the apartment.
“You think that doesn’t make me uneasy? You know what you signed up for.” Jango stood rigid, his silver beskar reflected the low light from the iridescent torch as he turned around to face the other man, that stark silhouette, still standing in the threshold.
“And you know as well as I that I didn’t have the full story when I agreed to this job,” the other man’s voice was quiet, yet simmered with ire. He took several steps into the apartment, the torch light revealing his weathered face. Boba recognized him as one of the Mandalorians who trained the commando clones.
“Easy, Kal,” Boba saw Jango’s body language shift to a more relaxed posture. “Boba’s sleeping, let’s not wake him over our spat, shall we?” He pulled over a stool for Kal and gestured for him to sit as he took a seat in an adjacent chair.
“The other Mandalorians… they’d agree with me. They condemn what you’ve done – .”
“Think I don’t know that?” Jango bristled. He leaned forward in his chair, elbows resting on his armored thighs, looking Kal directly in the eye. “The True Mandalorian way is over. I don’t give a womp rat’s ass what the alleged New Mandalorians think about my choices.”
“I don’t mean the New Mandalorians. I mean the resistance, the survivors on Concordia… to them, you’re dar’manda. You could have taken a foundling.”
“A foundling? No Mandalorian has taken one in years.”
“You wanted a legacy. There could have been another way,” Kal shrugged.
“Perhaps. But I was presented with an opportunity. It’s done, and you’re here helping me train these men.” Jango slid into the back of his chair, crossing his armored forearms across his chest.
Boba peered at the two men from his hidden position, their hardened expressions locked on one another. There was an uneasy silence for a few seconds, and Boba wondered if one of them might throw a punch. He thought about the blaster hidden under his bed should he need to help his dad…
“Jango…” Kal’s voice was barely a whisper. “The last of our culture has been confined to an osik rock.”
“If those fools banished to Concordia had any sense of self-preservation, they would have left Mandalore when they had the chance, as we did,” Jango scoffed, uncrossing his arms. “This is why I don’t understand why you think it so important... Mando’a, they’re not even speaking that on Mandalore. Our language and culture will die on that moon, along with those who were exiled to that rock. Why teach it to your men?"
“Why do I need to teach my men about their culture? They might be all that’s left to inherit it,” Kal’s voice wavered, but his gaze did not.
“Alright. I don’t necessarily agree with your methods, but I’ve never been as sentimental as you, now have I?” Jango extended an arm and roughly patted Kal’s shoulder.
Kal snorted at Jango’s jab. “All I’m asking for is a little flexibility. I want these boys to know they’re part of something outside of the army, the politics. Will you convince those di‘kutla fish people for me?”
“I’ll speak with them. Just need to convince them it’s good for morale... which I reckon it would be.”
“Thanks, Jango. They’ve been breathing down my neck while you’ve been away,” Kal stood with a yawn, heading for the portal. He craned his head back towards Jango. “I’ll never understand why you agreed to this, but… all things considered, I’m glad I’m here.”
“Your men are lucky to have you. As am I.”
Boba watched as Jango escorted Kal to the threshold, closing the portal behind him. As far as he understood, the Mandalorians were upset with his dad, but why? Were they jealous that dad had been selected as the template for the greatest army that the galaxy would ever see? He felt a sinking feeling in his stomach, knowing that the other Mandalorians could be mad at his dad, but he didn’t want him to know. He wasn’t a weakling.
He darted into the main chamber, scrambling to his dad with a grin.
“Boba!” Jango crouched on his heels, arms spread to greet his son. He fell into his father’s embrace, not caring that the beskar was cold to the touch.