Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It is an absolute clusterkriff.

He is pinned down and separated from his traat’aliit, unable to move to a better position when the Republic troops just pepper the air around him with blasterfire. He hunkers down, pressing against the boulder providing him cover and curses when his boots slip in the sludge of melted snow at his feet and he lurches to the side, off-balanced.

That is the only thing that actually saves his head from being separated from his shoulders when a Jetii appears out of nowhere with a blazing green kad’au in hand.

Jango brings both his pistols to bear, but the Jetii deflects the blasterfire back at him, the bolts pinging off his beskar’gam when they hit. Jango clicks his tongue to toggle his weaponry controls, and fire erupts from his left vambrace and he uses the diversion to switch to a slugthrower with his other hand.

Molten slag sprays when the Jetii catches the slugs on his kad’au and his face contorts from that unsettlingly detached blankness that Jetiise so often wear, to an expression that is twisted in anger and pain. Jango’s HUD automatically keeps a tally of the ammunition he has left, and he knows he can’t blast all of it on this one Jetii; there are too many other Jetiise on the battlefield.

He's about to lunge in to try to get in close to disarm and kill when something drops silently from the sky and crashes hard, practically right on top of the Jetii’s head and driving them into the ground. The scuffle is fast and ugly and ends with Myles jabbing his blaster into the other’s face and pulling the trigger.

Jango pulls him off the dead Jetii and braces him when Myles staggers a little.

‘Alor! Targets have been tagged and sen’tra vode are inbound.’

Myles barely finishes his sentence when there is the welcome scream of familiar jetpacks and it is the Republic’s turn to be shot at, instead of Jango. There are several loud explosions from concussion grenades and the ground shakes violently, rattling the snow from the treetops.

‘Tok'kad! Fall back!’ the Mand’alor orders on the Command channel. ‘This is an ambush and we’ve lost too many vode. We will regroup at-’

His buir’s sentence cut off abruptly into static and then Montross is screaming wordlessly, and Jango’s heart stops.

No.

‘Jetii shabuir! I’ll kill you!’ Montross screams, his voice cracking in rage.

Jango can’t make words form in his mouth, but his body is already moving on instinct, hurtling across the battlefield to get to his buir.

They all hear Montross die over comms, still cursing their enemies.

Jango pushes himself faster, dodging enemies and blaster bolts. A Republic trooper slams bodily into him and they both go tumbling into the icy mud and Jango is on him in an instant, snarling and he buries his vibroblade into the soldier’s side.

He is off sprinting again, with the last known coordinates of his buir and Montross blinking on his HUD overlays.

Jango never makes it to the location. Ion cannons blast the ground at his feet, and he goes flying.

He gets hauled up by his chestplate and crashes buy’cese with Myles when the other pulls Jango close to meet him visor-to-visor.

‘Jan’ika! You have to get out of here!’

Words are still too difficult to form, so Jango yells, an awful guttural sound and tries to twist out of Myles’s grip. When that doesn’t work, he punches his Al’verde in the side, where he is only protected by the armourweave kute.

Myles grunts but doesn’t let go. He shakes Jango roughly and then slaps a hand to the side of Jango’s buy’ce hard enough to fritz the displays.

‘They’re after you now, Jan’ika. Mand’alor su’cuyi! Dral’Mandalor darasuum!’

That shocks Jango into stillness and he’s suddenly aware of the circle of ori’ramikade standing fast around him and exchanging fire with the Republic, protecting him. One of them falls, a blaster bolt slipping past beskar’gam, and the other verde shuffle to close the gap in defence, tightening the circle.

Myles takes a half step away, deftly removing the sen’tra on his own back with one hand while the other shoves Jango around.

‘Myles, no!’ he gasps in protest, even as the clasps clicks, and the interface lights up on his buy’ce displays and he turns back to the Al’verde.

Myles grabs his forearm urgently and drags him into a kov'nynir.

‘Ret'urcye mhi, Jan’ika. In this life, or the next. K'oyacyi,’ he says firmly and then pushes him away.

‘Oya Mand’alor!’ he shouts on general comms, and the verde echo the cry fiercely.

‘Ke'slanar! Jii!’ he commands and Jango obeys because he cannot let the sacrifices of the Mando’ade around him be for vain. He activates the jetpack and rises swiftly into the air, the verde following him up.

‘Taabir kotep, vod,’ Jango says, body shaking but voice firm in his farewell. ‘Darasuum kote.’

Jango reiterates Jaster’s commands to retreat over the comms and they move, shooting at any enemies they see below them to provide cover fire for other verde.

Myles’s last words are breathed quietly into Jango’s speakers, only for him. ‘K’oyacyi, Jan’ika,’ before Myles closes the connection.

Jango leads the remaining verde in evasive manoeuvres; their smoke grenades and the thick flurries of snow work as cover to mask their bearing and direction of flight. He gets the Alor’ade to check in with the statuses of the verde as they disengage with the enemies to regroup.

He flicks through his comms to his Grunt’s private channel.

‘Kol-Wa!’ he calls, ‘I’m making you Al’verde now.’

There is a short silence but then the vod who answers isn’t Kol-Wa.

‘Alor,’ the voice says solemnly, edged with sadness and Jango closes his eyes briefly and breathes out.

‘I see… Looks like you’re Al’verde now, Silas.’

‘Lek, alor,’ the man says, accepting the field promotion.

The temperature is dropping, and the air is already turning thick with fog when they make it to the rendezvous to regroup. Jango’s squad is one of the last to arrive in the clearing, and he scans the group to take in what is left of their forces. They’ve lost so many vode; dozens of whole squads, decimated.

‘Mand’alor!,’ Al’verde Bralor hails on comms and Jango straightens and automatically tilts his helm up to the skies as if he can see their ships in orbit above. ‘Republic cruisers have just arrived and are attacking. We are taking heavy fire.’

‘How long can you hold? We will be moving to the shuttles to evacuate immediately.’

There isn’t a reply and Jango frowns, a chill running up his spine as he flicks the controls on his vambraces to scan through their comms channels only to find dead silence.

‘Haar’chak!’ he swears and switches to his external speakers to address the verde around him. ‘They’re jamming all our comms, even our short range is compromised.’

The area erupts suddenly in blasterfire and explosions and Jango sees a dozen of vode fall.

‘It’s a trap!’ yells a verd, before being cut down by a blue blade wielded by a Jetii.

All around him, verde are dying in droves, caught by surprise and unable to coordinate effectively with their comms down.

Jango ducks and rolls, avoiding the swing of a kad’au and comes up with a blaster in one hand and a slugthrower in the other, shooting at anything that moves in a swirl of brown and cream robes instead of the glint of beskar.

He leaps, sen’tra flaring and boosting him into the air and he uses the extra speed and strength to kick hard at the Jetii’s head, feeling the crunch of bone under his boot and he follows up with a few rounds of slugs. The Jetii goes down hard and doesn’t get back up.

Something seizes him, holds him fast, and he snarls, fighting against the Force hold. His fingers twitch against the triggers of his weapons, trying to twist his wrists enough to get a shot off at a Jetii glaring up at him with pale eyes.

‘Murcyur ner shebs, Jetii!’ he howls, thrashing.

The Jetii’s lips twists further into a scowl and suddenly the pressure pressing in around Jango increases and he yells first in alarm, and then in pain when the plates of his armour start to compress and squeeze, the edges grinding into his flesh and bones.

Something snaps loudly in his chest and he chokes on a scream.

The awful pressure releases suddenly and Jango drops. He crashes awkwardly and nearly bites off his tongue as his hard landing jostles what must be broken ribs. But he can’t stay down, he needs to move or be killed where he lays in the mud, so he pushes to his feet with a weapon already in hand. He looks up in time to see one of his Grunts with an active explosive magnetized to their chestplate, bodily throwing themselves onto the Jetii with a scream of, ‘Kote Dral’Mandalor!’

Jango is thrown back by the blast.

He rolls and gets up again and groans at the sharp pain in his side. His ribs are definitely broken. But he is still alive and he can still move and he can still kill.

He has lost his slugthrower and a blaster and his buy’ce, but he still has his spare blaster and his cache of vibroblades, and his verde.

‘Mando’ade!’ he hollers ‘K’olar! Ke’paru!’

He sees movement at the corner of his eye, and he whips up his blaster and the half dozen Galidraan fighters trying to sneak up on him go down.

The sun is going down and visibility with it, as the air thickens with fog, smoke, and heavier snow fall.

Verde emerge from the mist, in ones or twos. Some staggering and leaning on their vode, most of them injured in some way or the other, but all of them upright and still fighting. Mandokarla.

Some of them, like him, have lost their buy’cese. The faces that stare back at him are pale and streaked with blood and dirt, and grimly resolute.

The battleground around them is unnervingly silent and still. Jango exhales out and sees his breathe curl away in the frigid air.

Their comms are still compromised, so he flashes lightning quick battlesigns to the verde with his hands.

[Tok’kad me’sen.]

They still need to get to the ships, three klicks to the south from here.

Jango doesn’t want to think about what it might mean that they’ve lost communications with Al’verde Bralor and their cruiser in orbit. If Jango and his verde can at least make it to their shuttles, Manda willing, it would not be impossible to escape the Republic death trap yet.

Silas steps forward and Jango feels a rush of relief seeing his friend and Commander.

He nods at him and Silas raises his fist to signal the verde. They rise in unison, sen’trase burning as the ground drops away from their feet and they angle southwards to their shuttles.

Visibility is kriffed and everything is enshrouded in mist, making it hard to keep tabs on his verde around him without his buy’ce. The verde in flanking flight positions drift in and out of his view as they fly into the obscuring swirling whiteness of wind and snow.

The cold wind bites painfully at Jango’s bare face and the thin air makes it even harder for him to pull in a breath without it sending a sharp stabbing pain in his chest.

Jango startles, suddenly realising he has not seen any flashes of beskar’game in his vicinity for the past few moments. He slows, casting his gaze about frantically as his heart skips a beat, and then two, when he realises that he doesn’t see the bright burn of sen’trase anywhere either.

‘Vode! Silas!’ he screams, the words ripped from his lips by the freezing wind.

A bright green blur hits him hard in the side and instinct has him immediately lashing out before he recognises his Commander.

‘Jango!’ Silas’s tone is urgent as he digs his fingers deeper between the gaps in Jango’s plates and hauls them both to a higher altitude. ‘We have to go higher!’

Jango clings back tightly as he urges the burn of his own sen’tra, and they spiral upwards dizzyingly.

‘Me'bana?’ he yells, tucking his face close to Silas’s audio receivers.

‘We’re being attacked!’

The next moment something seizes them both and Jango’s head snaps back painfully as they’re yanked violently downwards. Silas curses as both their sen’trase struggle ineffectually against the unseen force and they’re both dragged back to the ground.

They impact heavily and Silas somehow manages to scramble into a protective crouch over Jango while he lays stunned on the snow. He rolls his body upright and to his feet. His left arm is broken, hanging at an awkward angle and the added weight of the beskar dragging on the broken limb is utter agony.

Silas tilts his buy’ce at him and Jango spits the blood from his mouth and then settles at Silas’s side, unsheathing his vibroblade with his good hand as they take in the dozen enemies that surround them.

Jetiise.

A Jetii steps forward, their hands tucked into the sleeves of their dark robes.

‘Mand’alor Vhett,’ he calls in a deep and rolling voice, dark eyes boring into Jango’s. ‘Surrender yourself.’

‘Mando’ade nu draar cetar,’ Jango snaps back, hand tightening on the hilt of his weapon.

Silas shifts minutely, clearly wanting to put himself between the Jetii and his Mand’alor.

‘Ogir'olar, mhi akaanir. Par ijaa, par mav’yc, par kote,’ he murmurs to the man at his side.

Silas nods, firm. Whatever happens, they will fight. For honour, for freedom, for glory.

‘Lek, Mand’alor.’

The Jetiise watch them, faces impassive and their unlit kad’ause in their hands.

The Jetii addressing them lifts their empty palms in entreaty. ‘Mand’alor Vhett, you have fought gallantly. Now… it is finished. Surrender and your lives will be spared.’

Jango bares his bloodied teeth instead.

‘Ret'urcye mhi o’r Manda, ner vod,’ he says to Silas, gaze locked onto the Jetii before him.

‘Taabir kotep,’ comes the steadfast reply.

‘Yes,’ Jango agrees, this time in Basic so the Jetiise can hear. ‘March bravely, brother.’

Jango lunges an attack at the closest Jetii, and Silas moves with him, bringing his slugthrowers to bear. The vibroblade Jango throws at the Jetii’s face is easily deflected to the side, but Jango has already deftly unclipped the hilt of a weapon tucked at his back and the collapsible beskar spear in his hand extends to its full length, straight into the guts of the surprised Jetii.

But fighting effectively with a spear with only a single working arm is impossible, so Jango spins away, leaving the weapon buried in the falling body and reaches instead for the beskad on Silas’s belt. The two Mando’ade twist around the other, trading weapons. Jango catches an attacking Jetii’s blistering kad’au on the length of his blade, while Silas covers his back wielding the spear.

The Jetiise are fast, speed and strength enhanced by their Force tricks. But Mando’ade have been fighting both the Jedi and the Sith for millennia and have their own tricks on compensate.

Silas hurls a frag grenade, buying them some space. Jango twists his body, using the momentum to fling his broken arm up, flamethrower activated. It karking hurts and Jango’s vision whites-out briefly from the pain. He barrels forward in the wake of the flames and dodges the swipe of a kad’au, blocks and parries, and lands a heavy kick to the other’s knee.

The Twi’lek Jetii lands hard with Jango on top of him, and with Jango’s beskad piercing his throat.

Jango wobbles as he clambers back to stand, panting in shallow gasps, and tasting blood at the back of his throat when he swallows.

He takes a painful breath and purses his lips and whistles, a sharp two-note and clenches his fist, and the dozen laaran senaare on his vambrace activate. The small, guided explosives deploy in a chaotic whistling swarm, taking another Jetii down and injuring another when she reflexively tries to deflect them with her jetii’kad.

Jango goes after that Jetii, the swing of his beskad aimed for her exposed neck. Another Jetii flings up their hand and the beskad in Jango is yanked out of his grip. He lets it go, doesn’t hesitate, and turns the swinging arm into a fist instead and twists his wrist just so and a long vibroblade snaps out from the underside of the vambrace. He puts the weight of his body and beskar behind the blow.

Blood sprays onto the snow, some of it splattering onto his face.

His own blood is gurgling up his throat, up into his mouth and bubbling out his nose and he chokes and thinks with some measure of dark humour that he might just end up drowning in his own blood. His lung is probably now mangled to shreds by the broken ribs.

‘Ke’daab!’ barks Silas and Jango’s body obeys before his mind really parses the order, throwing himself onto the ground as Silas launches into the air above him and uses flamethrowers and slugthrowers to force the Jetiise back.

Jango sees it about to happen but can’t draw a breath past a shallow inhale to shout the words of warning. The Jetii that demanded their surrender earlier jumps high, augmented by their Force tricks, snapping out their bright blade, and then Silas falls in two pieces.

There is only him left and he will not surrender. Will not, cannot; not when he is Mand’alor.

He gets his feet under him and stands, locking his knees to stop himself from falling over.

There are only two Jetiise left facing him, both are tall humanoid males, but Jango knows that the odds are not in his favour when they hardly seem winded, and he is only upright because he is stubborn.

His thoughts fly to Jaster and then to his ori’vod Arla.

Jaster is dead, and Jango will die here too, on these haran cursed snow covered plains of a vassal planet that had betrayed Dral’Mandalor.

But Kart’alor Arla is on Christophsis, and she still lives; she will lead their people and so the Empire is eternal. Mand’alor su’cuyi, Dral’Mandalor darasuum.

Silas’s killer speaks, his bright blue kad’au blistering angrily in his hand, ‘It is over, Vhett.’

‘Dral’Mandalor darasuum,’ he says in return, the blood of the Jetii he has just killed drips slowly from the tip of his vibroblade.

The Jetii flicks his gaze to his companion, who dips his head in the barest of nods, staring intensely at Jango.

‘I am sure,’ he says apropos of nothing, pale silver eyes never leaving Jango’s face. ‘I have never seen their faces… but I would know that voice anywhere.’

The other Jetii casts his gaze to the bodies of the Jetiise, expression grim before he looks back at Jango.

‘Then it is as the Force wills it,’ he says and lifts his hands and Jango snarls and tenses but there isn’t anything he can do as his arms are pinned to his sides and legs locked together.

The Jetii turns to walk, the other falling in step with him. They grip him tightly him with their powers and pull Jango along in their wake as they stride across the aftermath of the ambush and fight, and Jango can’t close his eyes, or turn his head away – he can’t move at all or open his mouth even when bile rises to the back of his throat – when he sees on the snow covered ground the scores of broken bodies of Jango’s vode, crumpled where they had crashed, when they had been violently pulled from the skies by the Jetiise. The swiftly falling snow is already burying them from view.

Chapter Text

Jango starts into consciousness suddenly, adrenalin surging in his limbs and body still on a battle high. He is in a ship’s medbay. His beskar’gam and kute are gone, replaced by a thin medical gown – white like the ones the Republic healers force onto their patients, not in the shade of light green that the baar’ure favour.

The screens attached to his bed are beeping loudly; they know he is awake and so he won’t have the element of surprise. Still, he lurches upright violently, trying to swing at the nearest moving thing in his vicinity, which happens to be a medical droid.

It screeches in distress as Jango digs the fingers of his good hand – the other arm is still a blaze of agony, still broken, still useless – into the gap between its processing unit and chassis and yanks out a fistful of sparking wires.

He rolls across the floor, dodging the grabbing servos of another droid and swipes a laser scalpel from a tray. He doesn’t see the Jetii until it is too late, and the hypo is already at his neck. The last thing he sees as he fights the rush of darkness dragging him down is the man staring down at him, dark eyes in a sharp face, gaze alight with interest and calculation.

The next time he surfaces to consciousness, it is a slow and sluggish struggle. He feels so kriffing cold, as if even the marrow in his bones is made of ice. Moving, even just the rise and fall of his chest as he draws breath, makes him feel like he is cracking and splintering from within.

He recognises the discomfort as side effects of carbon sickness.

Blind, nauseous, disorientated and aching, he fights. Of course, he fights.

A Mandalorian only stops fighting when they are dead.

Hands grab him, pin him. He can’t see anything because everything is too karking bright, but he catalogues the hands holding him fast; there are some that feel like branding vices – searing hot and painful after being kept frozen in carbonite - and some that feel cool, hard, and unyielding – droids.

They force him into cuffs, twisting his arms behind his back and Jango’s mind narrows in and notes that whatever battle injuries that he had had feels like they have completely healed.

Even with a bacta tank, his rib injuries alone would have taken half a tenday to mend. How long have they kept him frozen in stasis? Who are his captors?

He strains his hearing, but he doesn’t recognise the strange lilting language that he hears being exchanged over his head as his captors converse.

One of them says something, a command, and the droids holding Jango moves, dragging him between them when his feet slip, and he can’t get his legs to bear his own weight.

He tries counting his heartbeats between each turn they take, to try to start building a mental map. He soon gives up because it actually just makes the awful pounding in his head a hundred times worse. When he throws up, he makes sure to aim for the droid holding him.

They deposit him in a room, unlocking the cuffs and sealing the door behind them.

Everything is still much too bright for his sensitive eyes, so he squeezes them shut and shuffles forward, four, five steps until his knees hit something. A careful and slow investigation of his cell with touch alone reveals a small cot, a fresher unit, and a sink, all cramped into the tiny space.

He manages a few sips of water from the sink and then he slowly arranges himself on the cot, the room spinning behind his eyelids. He breathes deep and slow.

This is not the first time he has been taken prisoner.

He has escaped all the other times before. He will escape this place too.

He lays there undisturbed for what must be hours until he hears the sounds of the doors unlocking and he snaps into alertness and rolls to his feet.

The door opens and a sentient enters with an escort of droids. Jango’s eyesight is improved, although the headache has worsened. He blinks and squints, taking in the sentient – not a race he is familiar with – tall, pale, willowy silhouette, large black eyes, and long neck. The droids’ forms are also unfamiliar with their sleek lines and white plating; probably a local manufacture.

Jango tenses as the droids reach for him, but he doesn’t fight when they stick him with needles and draw blood samples.

The tall sentient is watching him with unblinking eyes.

The droid processing the samples beeps and hands off a datapad to the sentient, who immediately peruses the results. Whatever they read seems to displease them, and they recall the droids with a sharp command, and they leave without further acknowledging Jango.

His lips twist as he stares at the locked door, thoughts racing.

He is sure he is not being held anywhere within Republic space, or even by Republic authorities, although he had been captured by the Jetiise. There are some pockets of independent systems yet, in Wild Space, unclaimed by neither of the Empires, nor the Republic.

But why has Jango been brought here? He doesn’t have enough information to build any sort of understanding, but; he is in a cell, the door is locked, and he cannot leave. So, he must be a prisoner.

There’s nothing to do but to wait, to gather more intel and if an opportunity presents, escape.

Sometime later, the droids come again to deliver a tasteless nutrient paste and to collect another blood sample. Jango eats mechanically, and wonders at what they are testing his blood for.

It is impossible to tell how little or how much time passes, when the door unlocks again and the droids enter, this time with the sentient. Jango does not bother with the docile act this time, dodging the droids and going straight for the other being. They’re so much taller than Jango, with long unwieldy limbs.

They let out a sound of surprise and fear as Jango closes the distance between them. The pale skin of their long thin neck is smooth and cool under Jango’s hands as he squeezes and then twists, the snap of bone loud.

He leaps over the limp form and launches himself at one of the droids and tears out its wiring as he bears down on it with his weight. He heaves its sparking frame at the other droid and uses its heavy chassis to smash the other droid’s processors.

Jango stumbles out of the cell, picks a direction and darts down the hallways beyond. The whole place is white and sterile and bright, and the hairs on the back of his neck prickle.

He tries doors at random, finding them all locked until one finally opens at his touch and he darts inside.

There are two sentients in there, staring at him with their strange placid expressions that Jango finds hard to read.

He maintains eye contact as he punches the door control shut and locks it.

One of them warbles in their language, hands gesturing urgently before the other one hisses at them, and they fall silent. Jango eyes the second sentient as they turn more fully to face Jango.

‘Who,’ Jango says deliberately slow, his voice loud and brash in the quiet room, ‘the kriff are you.’

They straighten and arch their neck, and the crest on their head flares in what Jango thinks is probably a threat display. They lean forward in challenge and hisses and clicks something in that foreign tongue.

Jango hums. ‘Do you speak Basic? Understand it? Because if you don’t, you are no use to me at all.’

They scoff at him, lips curling derisively, and they say something - still not in Basic - but Jango is focusing instead on the other sentient whose white pupils are wide with fear. That one will probably answer his questions, if they understand Basic. He moves to step past the posturing sentient, but they actually try to stop him, wrapping their three-fingered hand around his arm.

Jango breaks their wrist and then their arm. They crumple to the floor screeching and cursing at him.

‘Ah… so you do speak Basic,’ Jango notes.

‘P-Please,’ the other sentient stutters, when Jango turns to look at them. They cringe back and wring their hands in distress. ‘Please do not hurt us.’

He turns back to consider the second sentient still sprawled on the floor, glaring at him in defiance. This one will give him trouble and Jango doesn’t have the time for that. Jango lashes out at their face with his fist and their head snaps back.

Jango leaves them laying there and approaches the other. He stops a distance away, not wanting to crane his neck while he gets the answers he needs.

‘Who are you? And where are we?’ he demands, ignoring the way the other flinches at his tone.

‘I am Gima Nu. We are in a research facility in Tipoca City, Kamino,’ Gima Nu says hesitantly, fearful gaze flitting to their companion laying unmoving on the floor behind Jango.

‘What kind of research facility?’

‘A cloning facility. My people are experts in genetic manipulation.’

Jango feels a cold rush in his veins at the answer. ‘And what,’ he says carefully, heart thundering in his chest, ‘am I doing here?’

Gima Nu blinks slowly at him. ‘You are the clone template, of course.’

Jango stares at the Kaminii in horror, branches of thoughts starting and terminating. He readjusts the bare frames of his plan; he cannot linger any longer – he briefly considers tracking down his blood samples to destroy but discards the thought almost immediately - it is too dangerous, not when he doesn’t know the lay of the land and he cannot risk recapture. He will escape now and return in might later with a fleet.

‘Tell me how to get to the nearest spaceport,’ he commands.

The wail of alarm starts and Jango curses.

Gima Nu shakes their head, their long neck swaying. ‘You will never make it there. Your escape has been discovered and the city is now in lockdown.’

Jango snarls and steps towards them and they immediately quail, lifting their hands placatingly before haltingly giving him the directions. Their eyes widen in fear when Jango strides towards them, but they don’t move away fast enough to avoid his chokehold. Jango can’t let them lead others to him, but he does leave them alive.

The spaceport, the Kaminii had told him, is located several levels above, two sectors over. The odds are stacked against him, but Jango has to try. He doesn’t have a choice.

Chapter Text

He clenches his jaw, fighting the nausea. His vision is still a mess of blurs, and he flinches despite himself, when he hears the soft whirrs of servos at his side and the med droid scans him again.

They only use droids around Jango now, because Jango had proved himself quite adept at killing Kaminiise every time he gets loose; their long thin necks an obvious weakness, so vulnerable and so easily broken.

Jango has tried keeping track of the number of times they’re brought him out of carbonite and also his estimates for the amount of time he spends conscious, but the sessions are bleeding together worryingly and he’s no longer sure of anything. They only keep him conscious for day or two, just enough time for the stasis sickness to wear off and his blood work to return clean, and then they harvest a few vials of his blood and he gets put in the pod again.

He suspects the intervals between his awakenings is decreasing, but it is impossible to confirm when all he sees are sterile walls and the swarm of droids who will not respond to his questions.

Jango hates being forced into stasis and he hates it even more that when he is conscious and lucid, he’s strapped onto a steel table with only the droids and his thoughts for company. Mando’ade nu draar cetar, but the anger that drives him dips more into fear these few times he’s been dragged into consciousness. The disorientation and helplessness he feels makes him rage and despair in turns, and the prevalent chill in his bones because of the carbonite reminds him of the cold snows of Galidraan and hearing his buir and aliit dying around him.

He never allows himself to fall asleep, though exhaustion weighs heavily on him and drags at the edges of his mind. He thinks he sleeps enough in that kriffing pod. And at least in stasis, he doesn’t dream.

But he’s so tired that when his thoughts drifts, he sometimes thinks he hears the voices of Jaster or Myles, just on the edges of his perception.

Jango closes his burning eyes, and he hears Myles say something, the words indistinct but the tone amused and teasing, and Jango’s breath in is a juddering thing.

‘Ne’johaa, vod,’ he mutters and the auditory hallucination laughs. Jango frowns in exasperated irritation. ‘Murcyur ner shebs, Myles!’

Another sound – a soft curious trill – has Jango snapping his eyes open and twisting vainly to see the source. He can make out the vague shape of a Kaminii in the room with him, standing well out of his reach even though he’s half-blind and thoroughly secured down.

Myles’s voice makes a questioning sound and Jango shrugs a shoulder, squinting at the corner where the Kaminii is.

‘Ne’kar’tayl.’

They make another confused trill and shuffle a few steps closer. ‘Who are you talking to, Jango Vhett?’ they ask, their voice low and gentle.

He ignores the question and the sound of Myles jeering in the background. ‘Who are you?’ he asks instead.

The other being hesitates before answering, ‘I am called Kina Ha.’

‘Su’cuy, Kina Ha. I was talking to my friend, Myles.’ In his ear, Myles mutters something.

He watches as the Kaminii slowly swivel their head, taking in the empty room. ‘There is… no one else here but the two of us,’ they say haltingly, uncertain.

‘Yes, I know,’ Jango agrees mildly, tiredly. Myles laughs.

They study him for a long while.

‘What is the date?’ he asks, because he has to try to get some information.

Kina Ha tells him and Jango’s heart drops and a feeling like a rush of ice through his body grips him. Years. They’ve kriffing kept him sleeping for years, more than a decade. Manda.

Jango can’t breathe, he is choking and thrashing in his bonds. Distantly, he hears Kina Ha calling for the droids.

No no no no! he thinks desperately, tries to scream – is probably screaming – tries to fight, when he sees a droid approaching. Not again!

But it is futile, and the hypo is pressed against his neck and the last thing Jango hears is Myles murmuring sadly in his ear, words indistinct.

Jango blinks awake and then after a moment, frowns at the lack of hibernation sickness that always follows a stint in the pod. The frown deepens when he notes the lack of restraints, and the fact that he’s no longer in that cursed blank white room with the droids.

He sits up warily, eyes roving around the brightly lit space. He’s in a small room, furnished with a narrow bunk bed, a small desk, and a stool. The main door is reinforced and locked, and when he investigates the other door, he finds that it leads to a tiny fresher. It even has a water shower.

The man who stares back at him from the mirror tucked above the small sink is pale with dark circles around their eyes, and a collar wrapped around their neck.

Jango’s lips twist in a hard grimace as he studies the device in the reflection and feels it out with his fingers. It is thick and bulky, and he can’t find any seams on it.

He paces the area restlessly, his thoughts churning in his head now that he doesn’t have the fog of hibernation sickness dulling his mind.

These Munit’videke have been harvesting his blood for years, for a cloning project. Jango’s stomach turns over as he tries to consider each angle of that thought. Who would commission such a thing? And why?

Jango recalls the Jetii with the dark eyes and hooked nose, the one that had killed Silas and had captured him; were the Jetiise behind this? The Republic?

His thoughts are interrupted when he hears the locks on the door disengaging. He swivels to face the door, backing away a few steps to properly assess the new threat.

A quartet of droids file in and Jango flicks his eyes over them, taking in their reinforced frames and the electrostaffs already activated and buzzing aggressively in their servos. The droids lower their electrostaffs and corral him back, deeper into the cell and further away from the open door, where he can see a phalanx of similar security droids guarding the hallway. Clearly, the Munit’videke are taking no chances with him escaping.

Jango plants his feet and waits, dark eyes focused on the doorway and following the pair of Kaminiise who edge past the bristling droids to step into the cell. He recognises the smaller one as Kina Ha, who is standing just behind the other Kaminii and staring at him with wide eyes, head tilted to the side.

‘Greetings, Jango Vhett,’ the taller one says, their voice soft and cold. ‘I am Taun We, and this is my junior assistant Kina Ha.’

Taun We pauses, clearly waiting for a response but Jango merely glares silently back.

‘I would have preferred to maintain our stasis accommodation arrangements for convenience’s sake… but Kina Ha has submitted numerous reports that it might be detrimental to your wellbeing in the long run.’

Myles makes a mocking noise and Jango’s frown deepens, and he forces himself to concentrate on the words the Munit’videk is speaking instead.

‘-solution. You understand there needs to be certain precautions, of course. For your safety - and ours - we have fitted your electroshock collar with a tracking signal, so we may know your location at all times; the client would be most displeased if our template went missing.’

Taun We peers at him, a ripple of expression appearing on her small pale face that Jango interprets is likely to be irritation.

‘Do you understand, Jango Vhett?’

He forces himself to nod once. Now is not yet the time to push.

The Kaminii hums, apparently satisfied and then lifts a long limb to gesture at their aide.

‘As Kina Ha was the one to show such… initiative and interest in your wellbeing, she will be the one managing your needs. She will be reporting directly to me.’

The other Kaminii dips their head meekly in a shallow bow, and Jango wonders if Taun We is assigning this duty as a punishment for the smaller Kaminii’s interference.

Taun We trills a soft warning sound in their chest as they stare down at their aide, and then turns to leave abruptly, deftly and silently weaving their way past the security droids.

There is silence in the cell for a long moment, filled only by the ominous buzzing of electrostaffs before Kina Ha straightens and takes a small step forward.

‘Su’cuy, Jango Vhett,’ she says, slowly and carefully, the Mando’a strange in her lilting accent.

Jango grunts in reply, unimpressed. ‘You speak Mando’a?’

Kina Ha shakes her head, the movement slow and swaying and awkward and Jango realises with a small start that she is trying to emulate baseline human body language.

‘No, Jango Vhett. I am afraid I only speak Basic and Kaminoan.’

Jango considers her carefully, shuffling thoughts and plans around in his head and then decides to just ask outright, ‘You going to tell me what you’re cloning me for?’

To his surprise, she starts answering immediately, her answer detailed and concise, as if presenting a report. His frown deepens as he listens and then he staggers to sit heavily down on the edge of the bunk bed.

The Jetiise are building an army made with his blood, have commissioned millions of Jangos to march to the orders of Jetiise generals, marching to die for the Republic.

Bile rises to the back of his throat and he imagines, slightly hysterically, the psychological effect of the Mando’ad verde killing and being killed by an army wearing the face of their dead Mand’alor.

‘Jango Vhett? Are you alright?’ Kina Ha asks hesitantly.

‘No,’ he snarls, ‘I am not “alright”!’ He lurches to his feet and the security droids blatt warningly at him, raising their weapons.

‘How may I assist you?’ the Kaminii asks uncertainly.

Jango stares hard at them, mouth a grim line. ‘How many are they?’ he demands.

‘You are referring to the clones?’

‘Yes, the kriffing clones! I want to see them. Take me to them.’

‘Of course, Jango Vhett. That can be arranged. We can visit one of the laboratories now.’

Jango is herded out of the cell and marched down the white hallways, led by Kina Ha. He counts the turns they take, notes doors and hallways that might potentially lead to a path for escape, but all that goes flying out his head when their group files through a doorway and into another stark bright room and his eyes snap instantly to something small and dark skinned, lying in a transparisteel case.

It is an infant.

And they are wailing, their red face scrunched in distress, tears streaming down their chubby cheeks, but the closed case silences their cries. Jango jerks forward and gets shocked back into place by the security droids.

Distantly, he’s aware of other Munit’videke in the room, clustered around workbenches, who are turning to look at their group with curiosity.

Jango only has eyes for the transparisteel case in the centre of the room.

There are multiple lines of tubes running through the sides of the transparisteel case and attached to the baby. Jango feels cold and sick when he sees that these are draining lines, while other tubes feed various fluids into the little body.

‘Me’bana? What is this?’ he demands, voice shaking with rage.

A Munit’videk breaks away from one of the groups and approaches. ‘That is the only successful subject that has survived from its batch. It is a pure genetic replication, completely unaltered; no tampering with the genetic structure or any growth acceleration.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Why… it is a clone of you, Jango Vhett. An exact replicant.’

Jango steps forward towards the case and then quite suddenly he is on the ground convulsing when the collar around his neck goes off. The pain is sudden and sharp, no more than a few seconds but it leaves him panting, curled and breathless on the ground with his limbs shaking.

The Munit’videke watch him in silence as he slowly picks himself off the floor.

‘Are you alright, Jango Vhett?’ Kina Ha asks in the silence and another Munit’videk huffs before Jango can gather himself enough to form an answer.

‘The template should not be permanently damaged; the voltage is calculated to only be enough to incapacitate temporarily. Your concerns are unnecessary, Kina Ha.’

Jango narrows his eyes at the Munit’videk but then shifts his attention to the case. He sees the tiny head full of dark curls and Jango feels a painful twist in his chest.

‘What are you doing to him?’

‘The unaltered clone is your exact genetic match and will now be the source of genetic material for others downline. With it, we can avoid further… difficulties when we require fresh genetic samples.’

Jango barks out a dark humourless laugh. ‘Difficulties. You mean whenever I manage to break out and break a few necks.’

They hum in mild agreement, apparently unfazed by the violence in his words. ‘Yes, you have been particularly… uncooperative. There is also the fact that carbonite freezing causes some temporary side effects on the cell structures, which delays our testing and progress. We need fresh genetic samples with some regularity, as the samples quickly degrade. It is simply more expedient to have access to samples on hand using an unaltered clone.’

‘Give him to me,’ Jango says, voice steady as he looks the demagolka in the eyes.

‘The clone is property of this research facility, Jango Vhett.’

‘Give him to me,’ he repeats himself, ‘and I will let you take whatever samples from me you want.’

They draw back in surprised confusion. ‘But what use will you have for the clone? It is so small, and it does not have any enhancements. It will take many years to develop to maturity.’

‘Never you mind, Kaminii,’ Jango snaps, and manages a half step forward before the security droids shove him back. ‘Give me the child.’

The other Munit’videke in the room warble to each other in their language and the one he is speaking to blinks slowly at him and hums a few notes back at the others.

‘Curious,’ they say contemplatively, studying him closely.

They draw back to a safe distance and motion to the droids, who start shuffling forward with Jango to the transparisteel case.

‘Nala Se,’ another Munit’videk starts forward, sounding uncertain. ‘Are you certain this is wise?’

Jango ignores Nala Se’s reply, ignores them all and reaches for the hatch.

The sounds of the baby squalling spills out once the seal is broken and Jango reaches in, heart hammering in his chest. None of the Munit’videke move to stop or to assist him, as he fumbles to disconnect all the lines and sensor pads attached to the squirming baby.

At last, the child is tucked against his chest, their tiny, unclothed body warm in his arms.

All of a sudden Jango is filled with uncertainty as he stares down at the little red face scrunched up and wet with tears. What the kriff is he to do with an ik’aad? He has no idea how to care for one, and this one is a miniature version of himself.

But, he thinks, there is no karking way he is leaving the ik’aad with the demagolkase.

He tucks the child more securely in his hold, bouncing and petting them like how he has seen some buire and cabure do. The child is still screaming ceaselessly, not so easily soothed.

Jango turns to find the room watching him intently, some of the faces of the Munit’videke puckered faintly in distaste at the baby’s cries of discomfort.

Well, kark them.

He bounces the baby steadily and glowers back defiantly.

‘We require some genetic samples now, Jango Vhett,’ says Nala Se mildly, gesturing to a stool near a workbench. They move to the workstation, not turning back to check if Jango is following.

Jango swallows his rage, grits his teeth, and sits, the child tucked protectively into the crook of one elbow as he offers up the other. The Munit’videk approaches, calm and confident. Jango keeps his gaze on the whimpering child as the scientists slides long needles into his arm.

‘He needs feeding,’ Jango says.

The Munit’videk tilts their head. ‘Yes, of course. We have nutrient solutions available,’ they murmur, gesturing with long fingers at the drip bags still standing next to the transparisteel case.

Jango realises their meaning with sickening horror.

‘No! He needs infant formula, not more needles, you kriffing demagolka!’

Nala Se merely blinks at his outraged yell, unafraid, and hums again, the sound coming from deep in their chest.

Kina Ha steps forward and Nala Se snaps her head around and slants them a narrow look.

‘I can have that synthesized, Jango Vhett,’ she offers softly. ‘What else do you require for their care?’

Jango shifts his focus entirely onto the smaller Kaminii and starts listing things he thinks he might need for the baby that is now falling asleep in his lap. Kina Ha listens attentively, even taking out a datapad to take notes. Nala Se huffs an irritated breath and moves away, and Jango watches from the corner of his eye and notes the way Kina Ha’s frame relaxes minutely when the other leaves.

Another Munit’videke scientist approaches cautiously and pulls out the needles in Jango’s arm. There is a thrill of dark satisfaction deep in his belly when they hurriedly back away from arms reach when Jango glances at them, warbling lowly in fear.

He stands and follows Kina Ha as she leads them out back through the long hallways, back to his locked room, where she leaves him, promising to have the items listed on her datapad delivered soon.

Jango swaddles the baby clumsily in his blanket and clambers to sit on the bed, settling the baby to sleep in the cradle of his crossed legs. He traces their features gently; traces their cheeks, nose, lips, their skin baby smooth under his calloused fingertips, the hair on their head thick and black, impossibly silky.

He stays sitting on the bed when the door unlocks and the droids troop in under Kina Ha’s supervision, carrying crates of supplies which they stack in the corner to make way for the foldable crib that will take up most of the remaining space in the cramped room; Jango won’t be able to manoeuvre easily without banging his knees on the side of the crib.

Kina Ha folds her hands in front of her when the last crate has been shoved in the space under Jango’s bunk bed.

‘I hope this is sufficient for their needs, Jango Vhett,’ she says as Jango eyes the tower of crates in the corner.

‘It will do for now,’ he grunts back.

‘Of course. Kindly inform me if you require anything else.’

He gazes neutrally back at her and speculates if it is naivety or calculated kindness that has her aiding him this way.

In his lap, the baby shifts and starts to awaken, head turning and mouth instinctively chasing his knuckle in hunger when he brushes their cheek. He carefully lays them in the crib and turns to start warming a formula pack.

Kina Ha continues to stand in the doorway, quietly watching him with wide black eyes. She leaves unobtrusively only when he has seated himself back on the bed, back settled against the wall and the baby tucked into the crook of his arm and suckling hungrily.

The door locks behind her.

Chapter Text

There are so many things Jango that worries and wonders about; Arla, the Empire, the Jetiise and the kriffing demagolkase Munit’videke, and the tiny clone version of himself that he must now care for whilst trapped in this hellish place. Some of these concerns are so removed from his ability to address, especially when he starts to think logically about the years that actually separates him from the events of Galidraan. To Jango though – having spent most of the decade in carbonite - it still feels fresh, like a wound barely scabbed over and he can't help but pick at it.

It is disorientating to think that his ori’vod is now Mand’alor, and has been one for years, that she must have aged, grown older while he was kept in stasis in the pod. That the age difference between them now stretches at least a decade longer.

His fingers tighten subconsciously on the folds of the blanket tucked around the bundle in his arms.

By Manda, he is exhausted. His eyes are stinging with the lack of sleep but every time he moves to place the baby down, they start awake and make small noises of distress that absolutely tears at his heart.

So Jango sits, slumped against the wall and his elbow and arms aching as he tucks the child against his chest.

They’re so little, just a small weight resting against him.

Jango runs a finger down the bridge of their nose, can’t help but smile softly when their face twitches in mild irritation.

It is beyond strange to think that the tiny sleeping face is his, that Jango was once this small and helpless and vulnerable like this.

Exactly like this.

They are bui’tsad, his literal biological lineage. They are of his baar, his body.

He hasn’t really thought much of having ade or having a riduur; those were things he had thought to be far in the future for himself. But here he is now, still in his early twenties while the galaxy and time has spun on, holding a baby version of himself and it so kriffing weird, but it also feels right. It feels perfect.

He leans in and presses his forehead to theirs and breathes in their soft baby scent.

‘Gar cuyir ner bui’baar, bal ni kelir cabuor gar ti ner oyay,’ he promises softly before pressing his lips to their thick curls.

He closes his tired eyes.

Jango has always been a practical man and knows when to accept when he is in a disadvantageous situation. The fact that there is a shockcollar around his neck grates on him, but it is not the thing that is keeping him docile and compliant. The Munit’videke had secured his obedience when they had given the ik’aad over into his custody.

Jango can’t even entertain the thought of escape now, not unless the plan is completely failproof. The consequence of a failed attempt sends a bone chilling fear through him at the thought of harm befalling the child, or if they were to be removed from his care.

In many ways, the child is a liability; a vulnerability that the Munit’videke have already manipulated.

Jango has already accepted the responsibility and the care for them; he can do no less for an innocent child pried from the clutches of these demagolkase. Children are precious. Ade cuyir vencuyott.

This is the yoke that he accepts around his neck, the lead that he reluctantly bows to.

His enemies have had a decade to work their plans with him unknowing and sedated. It will take time to unravel their plans, and for Jango to build his own.

Time, Jango has; time for the little weight in his arms to grow bigger and stronger, time to gather a better understanding of the state of the galaxy that is still at war.

Dral’Mandalor ne’nau’ur kad solus tuur.
Greater Mandalore was not forged in a day.

Jango will simply have to be patient.

He is, Jango thinks with a slow dawning realisation as he stares at Kina Ha looking back at him patiently, a di’kut.

‘What do you mean there are other clones?’ he demands, ignoring both the way his voice cracks in incredulity and the rising panic clawing up his chest.

He scrambles to recollect their previous conversation, a cold sinking feeling in his gut. In his arms, the baby snuffles on the edge of wakefulness and Jango hurriedly pets and bounces them, even as he stares wide-eyed at the Kaminii.

Kina Ha takes in his alarmed state with patience and pity and reminds him of certain points that have somehow inexcusably escaped his mind.

‘The order was for three million clones, Jango Vhett. Nala Se and her team of researchers have been working on the project for years, trying to achieve genetic perfection. It is hard for her to admit so, but human genetics is completely foreign to her understanding, and the existing framework we have for cloning our own people is incompatible with human cell structures. It has caused some delays in the start of production, but they are confident they will be able to make up for the setbacks.’

The baby squeaks in discomfort and Jango hastily relaxes his grip guiltily.

‘Sorry, bui’baar’ika,’ he murmurs softly in apology. He looks up to see Kina Ha watching them closely.

‘What does that mean?’ he asks her, even though he think he knows exactly what it means. The child in his arms is just one, with three million more on the way. Kriffing hells.

‘A prototype batch has been produced, with various enhancements and genetic modifications. They have advanced aging coding.’ She then gestures at the baby in the cradle of Jango’s arms. ‘They are not like him; they are not like your Boba.’

Jango startles and glances down before snapping his gaze back at the Kaminii and then groans deeply, dragging a hand down his face.

‘That’s not what-’ he begins, and the rest of his protest is intelligible and muffled by his own hand pressed in exasperation against the side of his face.

Kina Ha blinks at him and warbles uncertainly.

‘You know what? We can come back to that later. I want to see the other clones. Now.’

‘Of course, Jango Vhett,’ Kina Ha acquiesces mildly and Jango ignores the questions he has on why she’s so damned agreeable to his demands regarding the clones. It is something he has to pull apart later.

He moves to grab the cloth he has fashioned into a baby sling when the baby scrunches their face in a way Jango is now familiar with and makes a little grunt. Jango bends closer and sniffs and then scrunches his own face in reaction.

‘Hold on, he needs changing first.’

‘Of course, Jango Vhett,’ Kina Ha repeats and patiently folds her hands together.

Jango sets about the task efficiently. He can’t help the amused snort when he catches sight of Kina Ha pausing minutely at the smell.

‘I will wait outside,’ she says politely as she steps away.

‘Alright then,’ he says solemnly to the child despite the wry smile on his face and tickles the baby’s round belly until they gurgle happily. ‘Let’s get this done. Par ijaa, par mav’yc, par kote. Par cinyc sheb’ika.’

He stands still and struck a few steps through the doorway into the observation room, rooted to the spot.

A few of the Munit’videke turn to glance at him before returning their attention to the space below, where, judging by the muffled sounds of blasterfire and explosions, a training simulation is being carried out with live ordnances.

Jango shuts his eyes and breathes out heavily - tries to convince himself that there is no way the kriffing Munit’videke are doing what he thinks they’re going - and then forces himself to cross the room to peer out the transparisteel with trepidation.

The scene before him kicks somewhere deep in his chest.

Through the haze of smoke and sporadic blasterfire, small forms in pale blue outfits scramble about, exchanging fire with training droids.

Jango presses himself against the transparisteel barrier, heart hammering in his throat when a pair of children dart out of cover to provide a distraction for the rest of them to move to positions flanking the droids.

A simple tactic, yes, but certainly not normally something children at that age should know. These are ik’aade, with pudgy limbs and cheeks still rounded with baby fat. His mouth twists as he takes in the small weapons clutched in their hands, and the way they handle such weapons with obvious familiarity.

Jango can already see their potential for lethality in their unrefined battle forms, in the slant of their shoulders and in their neat footwork.

These are tiny verd’ikaade… child soldiers.

It is an absolutely chilling thought that the Republic and the Jetiise had ordered this, and it fills Jango with such pain for these children. Children are precious to Mando’ade, and to see ik’aade made to train and fight makes him tremble with rage.

The simulation below ends and Jango remains tensed as he watches the children quickly form up neatly in two rows of three back at the starting point, weapons holstered and standing at perfect military attention.

The Munit’videk demagolkase in the room are conversing amongst themselves, pouring over their screens of data.

The children in the training hall are completely unacknowledged, left to stand motionless even as long minutes drag by.

Jango is aware of Kina Ha standing beside him. Like him, she is looking down at the children below but Jango can’t read her expression in the reflection of the transparisteel.

‘How old are they?’ he asks her quietly. It is one of many questions he has that he wants answers to, but it is also the most unconfrontational one. The other questions that want to tear from behind his teeth are too sharp and filled with curses, and with deadly violence following only a half heartbeat behind.

That is not an option here, not when he has a sleeping baby tucked in a birikad strapped across his chest.

She cants her head towards him, and answers equally as softly, ‘They’re just under the age of two standard years. Developmentally, they’re estimated to be a little more than twice that.’

Jango swallows hard, eyes drawn back to the verd’ikaade still standing in formation.

‘Take me to them,’ he orders, and Kina Ha hums and leads him to the turbolift tucked away at the side of the room.

Some the others pause in their discussions to watch them go. Jango sees one of them shifting, perhaps to protest, but another one clicks sharply at them in Kamin’a and they subside and are quickly drawn back into a debate amongst themselves.

They ride in silence down to the training floor, and Kina Ha leads them out before slowing to a stop a distance away from the children and leaving Jango to cross the rest of the space alone. He can feel the pinprick of eyes staring down at him from the observation room above, but he pays the demagolkase no heed, his attention only in front of him.

The children watch him approach, imperceptibly straightening even further in attention as their wide brown eyes track him sharply with interest.

Jango is no stranger to a position of authority in the military, has trained for most of his life to lead his verde into battle, has stood before battalions and addressed legions. Yet standing before these half dozen ik’aade, his heart is beating erratically, and his palms are damp with sweat. He moves to fold his arms across his chest but arrests the movement when he remembers the baby at the last second and has to turn the gesture into an awkward cradle and pet around the birikad.

The ik’aade are tracking the movements of his hands intensely, their little bodies coiled with tension.

Jango clears his throat. ‘Su’cuy, ik’aade.’

He doesn’t get a response, except for the tension ratcheting even higher. He lifts his hands slowly, palms up, in an attempt to placate.

‘Udesii, ik’aade. Ni ne’jurkadir gar-,’ pauses a split second to take in their strict military bearing and redirects, even as he curses the demagolkase in his head.

His firm “K’udesii” doesn’t break their formation, but the Basic equivalent of “At ease” has them relaxing their forms somewhat, though they still watch him warily.

Jango releases the tight breath he didn’t realise he was holding and tries for a smile. It is probably more of a grimace, but it really is the best he can do at the moment.

‘Hello, children,’ he tries again, this time in Basic.

There is a long pause, and he sees them rapidly exchanging glances before they greet him in unison with a loud “Sir!”

Jango grimaces in earnest this time, mouth slanting unhappily.

‘No, don’t call me that. Call me by my name. I am Jango Vhett.’

There is a loud gasp from one of the boys, quickly muffled. Jango casts his eye over the group to spot them, but one of the ik’aade in front leans forward boldly, distracting him.

‘Who is that?’ they ask, tilting their chin at the baby.

Jango reflexively peers down his own front, at the gap between the folds of cloth. The baby gurgles happily when he sees Jango looking, and Jango bounces them a little, eliciting a happy squeak.

When Jango looks back up, the ik’aade are staring at him, at his face, and Jango can feel heat crawling up the sides of his neck because he knows he probably has an idiotic smile on his face. He doesn’t stop grinning though and he takes a small step forward before sinking to sit cross-legged on the floor and undoing the fastening on the birikad.

‘This is…’ Jango hesitates a fraction of a second and knows immediately it is something the group of ik’aade hones in on, and continues on as smoothly as he can ‘…Boba. Boba Vhett.’ Jango pauses, throat bobbing as he swallows, and runs a finger from Boba’s forehead down his nose, lips, and chin. He tucks in close to murmur to the baby, ‘Ni kyr’tayl gai sa’ad, Boba. Ni kelir cabuor gar. Haat, ijaa, haa’it.’

‘He is my son,’ he says quietly, straightening to meet the gazes of the ik’aade steadily.

‘He is a clone,’ says the bold child from earlier, and there is something sharp in the words and the way their dark eyes narrow in challenge.

Jango nods once, slowly. ‘Lek. And he is your kih’vod; your little brother.’

There is another round of rapid-fire exchange of looks between the children.

‘He is so small,’ says another boy and Jango holds his breath as they break ranks to approach cautiously. Their brown eyes are darting from his face to little Boba and back again, gauging his reaction.

Jango hums in agreement, ‘He’s a baby.’

‘He’s not a batchmate,’ says another, and Jango forces himself not to react at the term, to keep his expression calm and neutral.

‘Would you like to hold him?’ he asks the boy who has been edging closer, the one who had commented on Boba’s size. The boy brightens immediately and Jango grins back at him and carefully shifts Boba into their arms, adjusting their hold until both are comfortable. The boy retreats a few steps – out of range to be grabbed unawares easily, Jango notes grimly – and some of the other ik’aade crowd around at once, peering curiously at the baby in their midst.

A pair of ik’aade keep their eyes on him, never shifting their attention away from him.

Keeping guard, Jango realises with a twist beneath his ribs.

He remains seated on the floor, posture relaxed and hands resting on his thighs.

‘What are your names?’ he asks, meeting their gazes squarely.

The pair straighten sharply and the boy on the left speaks, ‘N-11, sir. This is N-7.’

These children did not have names, they had designations.

Jango’s expression does not reveal his cold rage and he manages a calm, if somewhat curt, ‘Well met, N-11, N-7.’

Jango flicks his gaze to the rest of the ik’aade, notes the numbers printed in Basic across the front of their blue uniforms, and turns back to the pair to ask, ‘Where are the rest of your brothers?’

‘It’s just us six, sir,’ N-7 replies.

‘We were a batch of twelve, but only half of us were successfully decanted,’ N-11 supplies, seeing the frown of confusion on Jango’s face.

A breath shudders out and Jango bows his head in grief, closing his eyes briefly.

‘I see,’ he says quietly.

When he looks up again, it is to find the group of ik’aade watching him, their hushed chatter as they had poked and prodded at Boba now quietened to something more sombre.

The boy he had handed Boba to earlier – and Jango’s gaze is quickly drawn to the N-10 printed on their chest – approaches and solemnly passes over a sleeping Boba. He takes the baby and then brushes a hand briefly on the boy’s shoulder in thanks. Jango notes the way the boy flinches away minutely, and clenches his jaw.

‘Vor’e, ik’aad,’ he says softly, making his tone kind.

Jango steps back a few paces, watching the children watch him in return, their small identical faces assessing him. They had drifted back into loose formation again, subconsciously arranging themselves in the order of the numbers and designations that had been given to them in lieu of names.

His grip tightens on Boba.

‘Ret'urcye mhi,’ he says, his tongue feeling thick and quite forgetting all about Basic.

He swallows and nods deeply once at them, and then turns to walk away, his heart an aching thing that squeezes painfully in his chest.

Kina Ha falls in behind him as he passes her, and they ride up the turbolift in silence.

The observation room is still full of the scientists engrossed in their work and who barely glance at him and Kina Ha as they make their way pass the data stations.

Jango marches ahead, navigating the myriad of identical hallways with ease, all the way back to his own cell. Kina Ha merely follows in his footsteps, saying nothing, the Kaminii seeming to sense his mood.

He hears the door locks engage behind him, as he tucks Boba into his crib. He stares down at the sleeping baby, at the way the dark lashes rest on rounded cheeks, at the curve of his mouth, and runs a finger down the centre of Boba’s face, forehead to chin. 

Jango seats himself on the edge of the bed and takes a steadying breath and then begins his Aay’han.

‘Ni su’cuyi, gar kyr’adyc, ni partayli, gar darasuum.’ He recites the names of his buire, aliit, friends and verde. He still stumbles on Jaster’s name. And on Myles’s.

He takes another deep breath, feeling a different something twist painfully in his chest, and then names the ik’aade that were missing from the ranks today.

‘N-1, N-2, N-3, N-4, N-8, N-9.’

The cold, impersonal designations burn on his tongue.

‘Nu kyr’adyc, shi taab’echaaj’la. Ven’gra’tua ner. Haat, ijaa, haa’it.’

Chapter Text

After their initial meeting, he has not been allowed contact with the half dozen children again. The demagolkase worry that his interference might be skewing their data.

Jango snarls and tells them point blank where exactly to shove their data. Nar’shebse.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Taun We give a signal with her hands, and the security droids escorting him immediately converge upon him, holding him fast even as he fights and curses ineffectually in their grasp as they wrestle him down to his knees. The angry words die on his tongue and fear is an icy grip around his heart when Taun We steps forward and plucks Boba from his birikad.

Jango stills immediately, stops breathing.

Boba is wailing, abruptly awaken from his nap, and Taun We balances the length of his body along one forearm, his head resting in the palm of her hand.

The Munit’videk does not say anything, has no need to.

Jango is shaking in hapless fury and fear, gaze tracking how her long fingers curl around Boba’s little head, long pale fingers entwined in his curls. Taun We’s gaze is cold and merciless, her white pupils boring into him and she stares down at him unblinkingly.

Jango clenches his jaw and swallows hard, and then drops his gaze in submission.

For one long agonising moment, there is only stillness and all Jango can hear is Boba’s piercing cries and the roar of his own terrified heartbeat. Then Taun We thrums warningly, a low ominous sound coming from deep in her narrow chest, before holding Boba out to the side and Kina Ha hurries forward to fold Boba into her arms, her face looking paler than usual and her eyes are pinpricks of white.

‘Get him out of here, Kina Ha,’ Taun We orders sharply and the younger Kaminii hastens to obey, gesturing for Jango to follow as she quickly backs out of the room, long limbs wrapped securely around Boba.

The droids release him and Jango surges after them, hands already reaching for Boba.

Jango grabs Boba from Kina Ha’s unresisting hold and tucks the ik’aad against his chest, curling his shoulders protectively over the small form.

Jango trembles with both fury and cold anxiety, his pulse racing, and he presses Bob’ika close, a litany of mindless Mando’a tumbling from his mouth to soothe the crying child.

He directs a sharp ‘Ke’slanar mhi,’ at Kina Ha, and then starts moving, setting a brisk pace, eager to put distance between Bob’ika and the demagolkase.

The Kaminii is clearly shaken by the events, wringing her hands together restlessly and trilling anxiously, and she and the security droids follow in his wake as he retreats back to his room.

Jango wants to snap at her, but he swallows the impulse; she is not at fault here and his anger would be misplaced. He cannot afford to alienate his only tentative ally.

‘Udesii,’ he says gruffly, sliding a quick sideways glance at her, before looking forward again. ‘Me'vaar ti gar? Jate?’

She startles, glancing at his face and then to Boba and back to him again. ‘Lek,’ she says, visibly trying to calm herself.

‘Ni ven’kyr'amur val an,’ he swears darkly. ‘Haat, ijaa, haa’it.’

Kina Ha does not say anything in reply, because her understanding of Mando’a is limited, picked up only in bits and pieces from his offhand usage, but the expression on his face is meaning enough.

Kina Ha hums a low sound, which does not, Jango notes, sound particularly like a protest.

It takes a few rotations before Jango feels comfortable enough to venture out of his quarters again, for his nerves to settle from seeing Bob’ika threatened, and being able to trust himself to not immediately go for the next Munit’videk he sees.

He chafes at being surrounded by so many threats and being unable to do anything about it.

Eventually his days start to take on a predictable rhythm, and most of his time is spent on Bob’ika, on his care, feeding and entertainment.

Before Boba, Jango had never known that ik’aade required quite so much attention.

He catches sleep whenever he can, resting whenever Boba is down for his nap and Jango’s ori’ramikade skills in resting in between skirmishes becomes more relevant than ever.

At the moment though, Jango is uncomfortably cold in his soaking wet tunics, as he wrestles the ik’aad into their soft kute after their bath.

‘Bob’ika, your feet go in there- no not both feet, just the left.’

Soon enough, Boba’s dressed and happily gumming on the corner of his pillow, and Jango hurriedly changes out of his wet clothes, his eye on the chrono. The timepiece had been provided unprompted by Kina Ha, who merely commented that developing children need to maintain a schedule.

Jango is still trying to make some headway into the childcare datapads he had requested, so he’ll just have to take her word for it for now.

He has just finished stuffing the extra wipes into the bag when door beeps and unlocks.

Kina Ha is waiting for him just beyond the threshold, with a pair of security droids.

‘Su’cuy, Jango Vhett,’ she greets.

‘Su’cuy,’ he grunts back. ‘Pare sol. One moment.’

He crosses over to one of the droids to sling the strap of the bag over its helm, settling the bag over the front of its chassis, before darting back inside the room to gather up Boba.

Boba gurgles happily and waves a fist at Kina Ha, who dips her head and lifts a hand to wriggle her three long fingers at him.

‘Su’cuy, Boba Vhett.’

She nods at Jango and the group of them start down the hallway, making their way to the training wing.

Jango may not be permitted to interact with the other children, but the demagolkase do not bother to protest him coming to observe them every chance he gets.

The more he learns of the way the children are brought up and trained, the more his heart aches for them.

In the Empire ade are trained to fight, yes; Mando’ade ba'juri verde.

But the ade are loved and cherished, protected, supported, and guided by an entire aliit. Ade are encouraged to train at their own pace, and specialists baj’uire contracted if an ad discovers an affinity or an interest for a skill not immediately found within their clan.

There is no such support or encouragement here for these verd’ikaade. Their regime rivals the vigorousness of the ori’ramikade but lacks the mandokar emphasised by Mando’ade. The children are each singularly proficient, but do not work cohesively as a unit should, their teamwork needing improvement. They run endless drills and simulations and then are sent off to watch training videos with droids. Their feedback is presented back to them by yet another droid, which blatts numbers and statistics at their faces.

Camaraderie between the children or behaviour that even hints at childish play are immediately noted down by the demagolkase. Jango has seen the group collectively tense and fall quiet, their little faces going several shades paler whenever Orun Wa reaches for his datapad, and it makes Jango want to hit something.

Jango is standing in an observation room, pressed up against the transparisteel as he watches the start of the current training session. The children are standing neatly in formation, and he bites the inside of his cheek, feeling the low burn of constant anger spike into true rage as the doors below open.

The ik’aade’s training opponent that trudges into the salle this time has Jango frowning in vague recognition and then straightening in alarm. The form is far sleeker and compact than what he is familiar with, but no less menacing. Its movements are fluid despite its brutal build.

Jango might have spent ten years unconscious in a stasis pod, but he will recognise this line of combat droid anywhere, even if it is a newer model. They are a rarity on the battlefield, but when the Sith Empire deploys them, they are relentless and practically indestructible and leave behind a terrifying trail of devastation and death.

Orun Wa is leading the combat droid, and Jango can’t hear the briefing they give to the assembled children over the roar of blood past his ears.

‘Are you out of your kriffing minds?’ he barks, whirling to the demagolkase in the room with him.

They barely spare him a glance, continuing to click to each other in Kamin’a.

Jango clenches his jaw, glaring at them all, and then turns back to see one of the children step forward to begin a spar with the combat droid.

It is a ridiculous and horrifying sight; a small child facing off against a Sith dark trooper three times their height.

N-12’s face is set in a grim mask, his dark eyes flitting all over the looming form of his opponent, lingering over servo joints and the gaps in the reinforced plating.

The bout begins and ends in seconds.

Jango stops breathing, staring at the small, crumpled heap on the ground. For a long terrible moment, Jango fears him dead but N-12 twitches and slowly puts himself upright, his face white with pain.

Orun Wa waves a scanner in his direction and then says something, dismissing him, and N-12 limps back to the side-lines. N-11 steps forward into the training ring.

‘What is he doing? This is madness! They’re only children!’

Jango surges forward to pound on the transparisteel with his fists.

‘Ke’gev! Ke’gev, shabuir hut'uun!’

In the salles below, N-11 tries to dodge but the dark trooper seizes him by the front of his tunics and hurls him face first to the ground.

Jango screams.

He breathes out, staring blankly at the ceiling above him as his mind drifts. He is unable to anchor himself to a firm thought. He has a vague sense of horror and anger, but even those emotions are hard to sustain, soothed away and buoyed along by the sedatives.

There is one thing though that nudges through the forced artificial apathy, and it gives him enough energy to loll his head to the side.

The crib is empty and Jango’s heart jumps despite the dulling drugs and he desperately fights to gather himself enough to roll onto his side.

Immediately, there is a pair of large black eyes in a pale face staring down at him, and Jango reflexively wants to lash out but all he manages is a limp twitch of his arm.

‘Udesii, Jango Vhett,’ Kina Ha says, and Jango thinks that there is maybe concern shading her tone.

She reaches out with one hand to push at his shoulder, settling him onto his back even as Jango makes noises of protest, feeling too sluggish for anything more.

She leans closer and Jango catches a glimpse of the bundle of blankets tucked in her other arm.

‘Boba Vhett is here. He is safe and unharmed,’ she says gently, and she shifts to rest Boba carefully onto his chest.

Jango feels the warm weight of his son draped across his body and the winding tightness in him eases. He closes his burning eyes, and his next breath out is painful and shaky.

When he opens his eyes again, Kina Ha has retreated quietly to the corner.

‘Me’bana?’ he manages to rasp out, tongue feeling thick and uncooperative.

Kina Ha visibly hesitates and then starts speaking cautiously.

‘We were observing the training session for the clones when you turned… violent. I had the droids sedate you before you could attack anyone and took Boba Vhett into my care.’

It takes a few moments for the words to stop slipping around in his head long enough for him to understand her.

Jango turns away to stare woodenly at the ceiling.

‘They are just children, Kina,’ he says finally, still not looking at her. ‘And they have them training and fighting kriffing dark trooper droids.’

The words are broken and anguished.

Kina Ha trills a long note in agreement, low and sad.

A few seconds drift past and then Jango swallows hard.

‘Vor entye, for keeping Bob’ika safe.’

‘I will not allow harm to come to your son, Jango Vhett,’ she says seriously and Jango doesn’t understand why she would promise such a thing, but he believes her.

‘And the other ade?’ he asks softly, tired, and drained.

The drugs are still weighing his limbs down, but Jango somehow musters enough strength to lift his hand to brush against Bob’ika. His ad sleeps on.

Silence stretches painfully long until Jango rolls his head to face her.

Kina Ha bows her head, unable to meet his gaze. Her shoulders sag and her entire form shrinks in unhappiness.

‘I am sorry, Jango Vhett,’ are the only quiet words she offers, sounding as helpless as he feels.

And Jango does understand, even if it leaves a bitter taste on his tongue.

She has no real authority over the cloning program; her assignment is Jango’s continued wellbeing, and she has already gone beyond that mandate to also try and protect Boba. His hand twitches on where it rests on the ik’aad laying on his chest, his fingers rubbing against the material of the blanket, soft and fuzzy and warm; evidence of the consideration and care shown in Kina Ha’s selection of it for Boba’s use, when all Jango had thought to request at the time was described with the simple bare word of “blanket”.

Kina Ha cares, and Jango doesn’t know why and doesn’t know how to even begin to unravel her reasons. Especially when every part of him – mind and body – feels as scattered and fractured as it does currently, and not only due to the sedatives.

‘I need to see them,’ he says, the words slipping from thought to lips without filter.

‘The others are… wary, after the incident today,’ she says slowly. ‘They may not allow you back in to observe in the future.’

Jango says nothing, but his lips are curling into a silent snarl.

‘Although,’ Kina Ha continues and then pauses, clearly uncertain, before she gathers herself to continue rather wryly, ‘my quick response in mitigating potential violence might indicate to them my commitment in curbing such behaviour.’

A grim laugh huffs out of Jango. ‘Well, it’s good then that they trust you, lek?’ he asks her, dark eyes challenging.

She holds his gaze steadily and then straightens with a small nod.

‘Lek,’ she replies, sounding firm.

Jango feels a warm curl of satisfaction.

Whatever this is, it is something, at least.

The Kaminii is right about the scientists being skittish about him returning to observe. Kina bids him to be patient, to leave it a few rotations before they press their luck again.

It grates on Jango’s nerves and he gnashes his teeth in frustration, but he agrees.

So instead of Jango haunting the side-lines of the children’s training, he follows Kina Ha as she attends to whatever duties she has.

‘I am going to go karking mad if I am kept in this cell for a moment longer,’ he tells her frankly, raising his voice to be heard over the sounds of Boba wailing. He knows he looks frazzled and tired, but there’s too many things he is worrying about and Boba has not stopped crying for over half an hour.

She takes one look at his face and acquiesces, motioning for Jango to follow after her as she sedately traverses the hallways to deliver various reports. Jango is sure she can have droids deliver them, but he’s not complaining in the slightest, glad for the opportunity to stretch his legs.

Boba quietens after a few minutes of them walking about and Jango breathes out a sigh of relief.

Kina Ha walks them through the facility, and Jango takes note and adds to the mental layout he is building in his head.

‘What is this place?’ he asks her suddenly, as they are making their way through an elevated walkway that is transparisteel on both sides, and all he sees beyond is cavernous open space, brightly lit.

‘This will be the training arena. When Nala Se and the others are confident enough in their research, the production of clones will start immediately. The initial batches will be smaller and will likely receive specialised training and education to be Commanders and officers in the Grand Army of the Republic. Production of regular troopers will follow shortly after.’

They slow to a stop and both Kina Ha and Jango turn to gaze out at the vast empty space.

‘Soon,’ she continues quietly, ‘this space will be filled with clones.’

And Jango can see it, can imagine it; an image of thousands of children just like the six he has met, standing in strict formation in rows upon rows upon rows, their faces all an endless echo of his. Jango feels a shiver run down his spine and he turns to the Kaminii beside him.

‘Gaa'taylir ni,’ he says urgently, and doesn’t care that he is begging. ‘Gedet’ye. This is insane. We cannot allow this to happen. We can take Boba and the others, get to the spaceport and get the kriff out of here.’

Kina Ha is already shaking her head.

‘This research facility is kept isolated from the rest of Kaminoan cities and only has one spaceport. It is heavily guarded by droids.’

‘The droids wouldn’t be a problem,’ he insists and he’s distantly aware that he’s crowding aggressively into her space, but she does not recoil or retreat, does not summon the security droids, even as he reaches out to grab her wrist.

Instead, she stares down at him with her large black eyes, a low hum sounding deep within her chest. She wraps her hand around the one he has gripping her wrist, not to extricate herself, but to ground him.

‘I have no doubts that you will be able to escape that collar, Jango Vhett, and perhaps even successfully overtake the guard droids to steal a ship. But the clones will never make it out of the facility, not when they are still chipped.’

Ice crashes through Jango.

‘What do you mean “chipped”? Like slave chips?’ he demands, breath tangling in his lungs.

‘I do not know for certain. The nature of their chips is beyond my clearance level. I only know of their existence and that they are a requirement of the original contract. I have heard Nala Se in discussion with the others about certain contingencies built into the clones.’

Jango’s grip on her wrist tightens enough that he feels the bones grind together under his hand, and he forces himself to loosen his hold. Kina Ha still doesn’t pull away.

‘Does Boba have it? Is he chipped?’

Kina Ha shakes her head and some tension releases from his shoulders.

‘No, Boba is safe; his genetic profile is completely unaltered.’

‘But the others…?’ he asks, already dreading the answer. His fears are confirmed when the Kaminii nods.

‘In the contract, in the case of the loss of the genetic template, the project is to be scrapped, all data wiped, and all organic material destroyed immediately.’

A long string of harsh curses tear from him until the initial swell of rage is spent and he is left standing, head bowed and chest heaving. Kina Ha pulls from his slack grip and raises her hand to rest it tentatively on his shoulder.

‘Courage, Jango Vhett,’ she murmurs gravely, softly. ‘The children need you.’

He takes a moment to breathe, to centre himself and then he straightens, his mouth firmed in determination.

He turns his head to look out into the vast training hall. It is a trick of light and angles, but Jango sees multiple echoes of his grim face staring back at him in the reflection of the transparisteel.

‘Taabir kotep,’ he says, under his breath and it is directed to himself as much as it is to the eyayade. He will see this through. Ibic haar Manda.

Chapter Text

The Munit’videke show no inclination of ever allowing Jango back into their research spaces again.

Jango is undeterred, determined to regain access to the children, ogir'olar.

He is likely on probation, being closely observed, so Jango bites his tongue and keeps his mouth shut, and obediently follows Kina Ha around as she completes her administrative duties.

Jango has tried peering at the various screens of datapads that have been left out around the place, but almost everything is written in the clumped-together rounded Kaminoan glyphs and completely indecipherable to him.

When Kina Ha isn’t making rounds to deliver or collect reports – and Jango doing his own bit of casual reconnaissance as he tags along – they sequester themselves in her small office.

They’ve completed the rounds for today and have just stepped through the entryway of her office, leaving the security droids at the door. The space is even more cramped now that Kina Ha has requisitioned a buycika for Boba and a seat for Jango, both of which are jammed into a corner cleared for their use.

In something that has very quickly become routine, Jango busies himself immediately, preparing a formula pack for Boba as Kina Ha settles herself at her work console and starts to shift through and compile reports. By the time Boba’s done with the formula and is down for his nap, Kina Ha has a datapad ready for him which he seizes with an impatience and eagerness he doesn’t bother to hide.

The reports she translates for him are written in dry, factual prose, and interspersed with scientific jargon and numbers and data that the demagolkase love so much, but Jango reads each line devoutly and learns about the children’s progress in their studies and training.

Jango always feels a confusing mix of emotions when he goes through the reports. On one hand, it is clear the ade are wonderfully brilliant; their academic tests score well beyond their years. And on the other hand, their physical training progresses at an equally impressive pace but it burns at Jango that these ade are clearly pushed beyond their limits regularly.

He scrolls down to the attached medical reports and skims the information quickly. He releases a small sigh of relief; no major injuries reported today, just some cuts and bruises. N-5’s arm has evidently healed enough for him to be released from the infirmary and he has been returned to his brothers. The most concerning entry was reading about N-12’s burn injury that had needed bacta treatment.

He drops the datapad down on the corner of Kina Ha’s desks and throws himself into his seat, groaning loudly, staring at the ceiling as he listens to the Kaminii quietly tap away at her console.

Jango’s life before had him always on the move; planning, fighting, leading. Even during the times when he had been on campaigns and hyperspace travel taking many tendays, it was always with the knowledge that the calm was only transitionary, that the next phase would quickly be filled with thousands of things to do, people to meet, plans to put in action.

Here, where the rotations stretch repetitively endlessly, Jango feels restless and adrift. He was not meant for sitting quietly, waiting for attention and direction to be given to him.

He rolls his head to take in the Kaminii at her desk, studying her.

She is physically smaller than the other Munit’videke, and she’s younger. The others tend to ignore her or show her mild disdain. At first, Jango had assumed it was because she had him always trailing after her. But now he wonders if it was because of their dislike of Kina Ha herself that they had foisted him onto her. An inconvenience and an outcast, paired together to get them out of the way of whatever research work they are doing here.

Kina Ha is a junior administrative assistant that had the responsibility of Jango’s care foisted upon her, because she had conscience enough to protest his treatment in the pod. Taun We and Nala Se couldn’t be karked if Jango had went mad in there, only that his blood would still be fresh and available for harvesting.

If he lingers too long on it, Jango can still feel phantom cold slicing straight through his flesh and into the core of his bones, can still taste the acrid burn of chemicals on the back of his tongue, the way the sedatives had dragged on his thoughts and movements.

He draws a deep breath and exhales slowly, and carefully sidesteps those thoughts, unclenching his fists.

Kina Ha pauses in her work at hearing his heavy exhale.

‘Me'vaar ti gar?’ she inquires and tilts her head at him in curiosity.

And that is something too, that she’s taken it upon herself to pick up the Mando’a that he has left scattered around in his conversations, parsing meaning through context and making an effort to build her vocabulary without his teaching.

He’s silent for long enough, that her gaze sharpens in concern.

‘Naas. Nothing,’ he replies hurriedly, a little gruff, waving a hand at her when she shifts as if to stand.

Kina Ha settles back into her seat and after a long moment of watching him, where he does nothing but observe her in return, she turns back to her work with a small, confused hum.

He stands, ignores the way the Kaminii’s gaze flick over him, and starts stretching out his limbs.

He’s in the middle of rolling his shoulders to loosen the cramped muscles there when Kina Ha’s console chimes with an incoming text message and she taps to receive it.

Whatever is in the contents of the message has her straightening up, the small cluster of dangling ornaments that she wears at the side of her head clinking together with the sharp movement.

‘What is it?’ he asks her and her gaze darts to him before returning to her screen.

‘Naas,’ she says dismissively and waves her hand in a way that imitates his earlier gesture, a small quirk to her lips, and Jango frowns deeply but doesn’t try to pry further.

Boba shifts and snuffles, on the edge of waking and Jango goes over to check on Boba, tugs the covering to adjust it and pets him back to sleep. It takes a while for the ik’aad to settle, lulled back to sleep by the rhythmic petting to the beat of the Mando’ade war songs that Jango hums.

Jango watches the Kaminii as she continues her work, urgently typing away at her console. After an hour or so, she trills softly at Jango to get his attention and stands, and he takes the cue to gather up the still slumbering Boba and exits the office with her. She locks the door to the office behind them.

Jango is instantly on the alert when Kina Ha starts down a different hallway than the one that they should be taking, the one that would lead Jango back to his room.

‘Tion’vaii mhi slanar?’ he questions sharply, already disliking this deviation from routine and remembering with suspicion the message Kina Ha had received earlier.

He stops in the middle of the hallway and plants his feet. His eyes dart around the space, looking for threats. He sees none, and the pair of security droid escorts maintain their distance from him, whirring steadily and their electrostaffs remain deactivated.

Kina Ha turns to look at him over her narrow shoulders. ‘Please follow me, Jango.’

Jango sets his jaw and doesn’t move, arms automatically coming up to curl protectively around Boba tucked in his birikad.

The Kaminii turns and then closes the distance between them, something tense and urgent in the way she carries herself as she leans down to speak quietly to him.

‘Orun Wa and the others are meeting to make an assessment of the children at the end of this shift. If we hurry, we might be able to slip in and observe.’

Jango frowns deeply and wants to point out that the demagolkase are hardly going to allow him to crash their meeting when he’s not even been allowed back into their labs unless it is for another blood draw from Jango, and that has already happened another four times since he’s rescued Boba. He opens his mouth to tell her just that when she speaks quickly, interrupting him before he can even begin.

‘Gedet’ye,’ she murmurs softly, blinking at him, and it is her use of Mando’a that makes him pause and reassess her. There is something more that she seems reluctant to disclose and unease prickles across the back of his neck as he eyes her.

‘Morut'yc?’ he questions her because he has to be sure. He won’t risk Boba’s safety. ‘Is it safe?’

He stares hard at her face as she hesitates and Jango ruthlessly squashes his rising alarm, feeling his face harden into a grim mask. He shifts his weight, braced to move and evade the droids if necessary.

‘Gedet’ye,’ she repeats helplessly, as she takes in his combative posture. ‘Par ade,’ she coaxes, and those two words are enough to immediately convince him, though it also sends Jango’s pulse immediately racing. Jango curls his hands into fists at his sides and draws a deep breath.

‘Keep Boba safe,’ he orders her, his dark eyes holding hers firmly.

She dips her head in a nod and answers in solemn Mando’a, ‘Lek. Morut'yc.’ She raises a fist to tap at the centre of her torso, above where her heart is and swears, ‘Haat, ijaa, haa’it.’

Jango startles a little, despite himself, at the Mando’ade vow, but quickly blinks away his surprise.

‘Ke’slanar mhi,’ he says, jerking his head down the hallway and he falls into step just behind her as she turns to lead the way.

‘Din’kartay?’ he asks, and she pauses for a second to slant him a sideways glance that is somewhere between worried and resigned, and then she looks forward again.

‘Udesii, Jango. Gedet’ye,’ she says and the Mando’a voice is layered with the tonal hums of Kamin’a and Jango’s apprehension rises despite her words.

‘You must remain calm, or we will not be allowed in,’ she warns and Jango has the feeling that he won’t like what he’s about to hear at all.

‘There is to be a holocall with the client. He has requested for the research team to make a full report on the progress of the project.’

Jango barely has time to feel more than a hot flash of rage when Kina Ha continues quickly with, ‘I have spent the last hour editing the schedules and meeting minutes to ensure that we would be included on the list of those attending, and that Taun We is… engaged elsewhere and would be unable to join the meeting.’

He pauses, anger forgotten, and casts her an incredulous look.

She returns his stare with a small nervous chirp.

Jango huffs out a startled laugh and flashes her a smile filled with teeth.

‘Manda. You really are something, Kina.’

They continue down the hallways, picking up their pace. All the while, Jango’s mind is whirling with troubled thoughts. There is anger too, and fear. But those emotions he locks down and pushes away. They slip into the comm room and the gazes of the several Munit’videke already there zero in on Jango.

One of them steps forward, the crest on the top of their head flaring in annoyance. They click sharply in rapid-fire Kamin’a at Kina Ha, who placidly holds her ground and trills back meekly. The Munit’videk narrows their eyes at her before whipping out a datapad, scanning the screen quickly. They turn to glare at Jango, who has so far managed to keep his expression blank, before snapping something at Kina Ha and stalking off.

Kina Ha turns to Jango and motions for him to follow her to the side of the chamber, where they stand unobtrusively, out of the pickup field of the holo cam. Jango’s complement of security droids settle into place near them.

A few minutes later, the console beeps with an incoming call and Orun Wa steps forward to receive it.

The blue haze of the heavily encrypted holo takes a few seconds to consolidate into a clearer visual feed and Jango has to fight the need to either flee or apply violence to everything in the room. He knows Kina Ha is looking at him in concern, but he can’t draw his eyes away from the projected holo of the man. Jango draws in a sharp shaking breath as the Jetii on the other end starts to speak, returning Orun Wa’s polite greeting.

‘Greetings, Orun Wa,’ Dooku says and Jango clenches his eyes shut and swallows back the sour bile rising up the back of his throat. He’s breathing rapidly in shallow gasps, and all he can hear is the rush of the winter winds in his ears, the bite of frost on the tip of his nose, the smell of burning ozone, of burning flesh -

A cool hand curls around his shoulder firmly and Jango flinches hard, fists half-raised in defence before he catches himself. Jango swallows and forces open his eyes to look up at Kina Ha, who is humming softly in comfort, her face creased with concern. And standing this close to the Kaminii, Jango can feel the vibrations of her hums thrumming against his side.

Jango reaches up with a shaky hand towards her hand still wrapped around his shoulder and taps out an acknowledgement in dadita, and then marshals his focus on the words being exchanged by the Jetii and the demagolka.

Dooku is nodding. ‘I have read your reports, Orun Wa, and I thank you for the level of detail you have included in them. It has been most illuminating and shows incredibly promising results.’

Orun Wa visibly preens, the crest on their head ruffling.

‘Then would you be agreeable if we were to now proceed with scaling up our production?’

Dooku hums in consideration. ‘The results your team has produced has exceeded my expectations. I believe I would like to view the clones, before making a firm decision.’

‘Of course. When may we expect your arrival, Master Jedi?’ Orun Wa inquires, but Dooku is already shaking his head.

‘I am afraid I will not be able to make the trip there in person myself any time soon, and we cannot afford to delay production for much longer. If you would summon the clones here now, so I may view them? I am very much interested in seeing them.’

‘We would be glad to fulfil that request, Master Dooku,’ Orun Wa agrees, and another Munit’videk steps away to arrange it. ‘After you have signed off on the initial production run, adjustments and further modifications can still be accommodated on later batches,’ the demagolka assures the Jetii.

Orun Wa takes the opportunity to transmit their proposal to the Jetii, who glances down at his datapad off-screen when it chimes.

‘If I may draw your attention to the areas that I believe would be of most interest to you, Master Jedi. My team and I have drawn together several proposals for the different enhancements we can offer, for the different functions of each class of clones, as well as their projected rate for maturity and battle-readiness.’

Dooku’s brows furrow as his eyes dart across the information on his datapad.

Jango shifts his weight and slides his gaze to the Kaminii standing by his side and tilts his head slightly in query.

Kina Ha gives him a subtle nod in reply and Jango settles, content in the knowledge that she would find a way to get that information for him later.

The doors open then, drawing everyone’s attention as a Munit’videk steps in, closely followed by a half dozen children marching in lockstep. They form up before Orun Wa, standing at stiff attention.

Jango finds himself leaning forward, gaze roving over each form and face with a kind of desperation to check over the children with his own eyes, comparing what he sees with the memory of the medical reports he had read earlier. He notes the cut lip and the bruising on N-6’s cheek, the bacta patch wrapped halfway around N-12’s neck and disappearing down the collar of his tunic, and the still healing arm that N-5 has tucked in a sling.

‘The clones can think creatively; you will find that they are immensely superior to droids,’ Orun Wa says, gesturing over the ade.

Jango sees Dooku’s gaze flicking over each boy, lingering on the injuries visible, and Jango straightens minutely. Surely the Jetii would question the demagolkase on the treatment of these children.

But what comes out of the Jetii’s mouth is something else.

‘They are more easily damaged too, it seems,’ the man remarks drily, and Jango bristles in abrupt rage, fists clenching at his sides.

Orun Wa hums in acknowledgement. ‘Some superficial damage is to be expected. After all, this is the prototype batch, and we are conducting vigorous testing and proofing.’

The children are perfectly still, even as Dooku takes several minutes to study them and compares whatever he sees to the notes he has on his datapad. He lifts a hand to rub along the edges of his jaw as he stares in consideration at the clones, and then finally puts the datapad away.

‘You are confident that the future batches will be more receptive to authority? The clones are meant to be military; we have no place for insubordinate troopers.’

The demagolka clicks in Kamin’a before replying. ‘Of course, Master Dooku. We will modify the genetic structure to make them less independent than this batch. They will be totally obedient and will take any order without question.’

Dooku makes a low sound of approval, ‘That is good to hear. Good soldiers follow orders.’

‘Then, you would like to proceed with the order?’

Dooku nods decisively, ‘Send me the relevant documents and I will see to it that the funds are released to you. I look forward to the next phase.’

‘Of course, Master Jedi,’ warbles Orun Wa and they execute an awkward bow, likely thinking it to appeal to their client’s Jetii sensibilities.

A demagolka Jango recognises as Ko Sai now steps forward into the comms field to address Dooku.

‘The current line will be terminated at once to focus our attention and resources on future batches,’ she tells him. ‘We now have the data to determine the areas of improvement to work on. We already have plans to upgrade our facility to accommodate for the larger production runs.’

Jango doesn’t quite catch the full meaning of the first sentence. It is only when he feels Kina Ha jerking in alarm next to him, does he understand.

He is not the only one, and he doesn’t get the chance to be the first to react.

Like lightning, a quick ripple pass over the children; they tense and then move immediately into action.

They go for Orun Wa, the nearest Munit’videk to them. They tackle him at his knees, unbalancing the demagolka. Orun Wa is pulled down with a startled trill, the ade pilling onto the long-limbed sentient to pin him to the ground on his front. Faster than anyone can react, the ade have the scientist’s long limbs neatly bound with their belts, his arms pinned to his sides. Another belt is wrapped around his neck, the ends of which are tightly gripped by a grim-faced N-6 as he straddles Orun Wa. The cut on the boy’s lip has split open and blood drips down his chin and stains his teeth.

One of the other Munit’videke steps forward, as if to go to Orun Wa’s rescue, but they quickly stop in their tracks with a fearful and uncertain warble when N-6 tightens the makeshift garrotte, and the captured scientist starts choking. N-6 only loosens the twist when the Munit’videk hurriedly steps back.

Orun Wa starts thrashing wildly, almost dislodging N-6. Another boy, N-10 – the boy who had so carefully cradled Boba in his arms when Jango had handed him the baby when they had first met – has one arm wrapped around Orun Wa’s head to hold him still as the other hand grasps a fistful of the delicate looking head crest. He twists hard, eliciting a strangled yowl. Between the two ade, they wrestle him into quiet submission.

The other Munit’videke in the room are screeching in Kamin’a and one of them spies the security droids flanking Jango and snaps an order at them.

The droids moves towards the commotion, and Jango moves unthinkingly with them, drawn to the action. Then another order from the Munit’videk has one of the droids spinning in place and driving Jango back to his corner with its crackling electrostaff, where it remains watching over him as the other three droids advance on the ade.

Jango doesn’t know what happens, doesn't see exactly how they did it, but he does hear a lot of yelling and screeching and when he manages to peer around the droid guarding him, he sees that the ade have somehow taken down a droid and have stolen its weapon, and have successfully disarmed another one.

‘What the kark,’ he breathes, arms tightening around Boba.

Both N-11 and N-7 are wielding the electrostaffs taken from the droids and although it is obvious that the length of the weapons are hampering them slightly, the two boys are effectively holding their own against the remaining two droids.

‘Stay back!’ N-11 demands, the words high and sharp in his young voice.

Ko Sai trills and the droids pause in their attack.

‘Stop this at once,’ she orders the ade sternly. ‘You no longer serve a purpose in our research. Your genetic codes are too close to the original and your psychological tests indicate your batch is too unstable and insubordinate to be used in the Republic army. You will be decommissioned.’

Jango snaps his wide-eyed gaze of disbelief over to the Jetii on the other end of the holocall, but the man is silent, watching the events unfolding with a neutral expression. Jango bites back a few curses, helpless to intervene.

‘Then we have nothing to lose,’ N-6 concludes quietly in the taut silence.

And then he bites his lip, looking heartbreakingly young in that moment before his face hardens and Jango feels a chill shoot down his spine. N-6 grits his teeth and tugs harshly on the belt ends in his hands and throws his weight back, forcing Orun Wa’s neck into a painful looking arch. N-10 and N-12 throw their entire bodies on the Munit’videk to hold him down as N-6 strangles him.

Everything dissolves into pandemonium as the pair of droids attack, bearing down on the children to rescue Orun Wa.

These children have faced abuse daily in the guise of training, and now driven into a corner, they fight back desperately with everything they had been taught with.

The droid guarding Jango is called to join the fight to subdue the ade and Jango moves without thinking, hands already unslinging the birikad and thrusting it and Boba wrapped within it at Kina Ha, who pulls Boba in to shelter him tightly against her chest.

‘Ke’gev!’ he barks, as he shoves his way to the front of the room, heart in his throat and his eyes locked onto the ade.

They shift to take in his approach as a new threat, and Jango catches the glint of a laser scalpel – obviously filched from the infirmary when he was sent there for his injuries – in N-5’s good hand, just slightly too large to be easily concealed in his small grip.

One of the droids whips out its servo and manages to grab N-5 around the boy’s forearm wrapped in its sling. N-5 cries out sharply in pain, legs kicking furiously at the droid’s joints even as he is hoisted up into the air by his still-healing arm. A flash of sparks and then N-5 drops back to the ground in a crouch, laser scalpel clutched in his hand and the droid’s severed servo at his feet.

His young face in crinkled in a snarl of pain and fear, and he bares his small white teeth. He raises the laser scalpel in threat even as he tucks his injured arm tighter into the curve of his body. He retreats a few steps and is instantly yanked behind the protective wall of his electrostaff-wielding brothers, and the small laser scalpel trade hands to N-12 who twirls it in his fingers, testing its size and shape without ever taking his eyes off the larger occupants of the room.

Jango comes up behind the droid that had attacked N-5. He digs his fingers into the gap between its backplates and with a grunt of effort and adrenalin lending him strength, peels the plating apart. The edges of the steel cuts his palms bloody but now the delicate innards of machinery is exposed, and it is easy to grab fistfuls of whatever he can reach and yank. Wires spark and coolants splatter, and the droid deactivates where it stands.

N-11 is spinning the electrostaff in his hand, landing glancing blows off another droid, but it is not enough to put it down. Their eyes meet briefly and a flash of understanding flies between them. N-11 slams the butt of the weapon on the floor and braces, the tip of the weapon angled towards the droid’s torso. Jango lifts his leg and delivers a hard kick at the droid’s back and spears it on the staff.

He shoves the droid to the floor and then yanks the staff out in time to use it to deflect the blow from the last droid that is falling towards N-12’s head. The boy hardly flinches, just ducks under Jango’s arms and scrambles up the droid’s frame to perch on its shoulders. The boy evades the droid’s grabbing servos and then flips the laser scalpel in his hand before driving it deep into the droid’s central processors.

Its mechanics stutters into silence and the droid jerks hard. N-12 wobbles precariously and then loses his balance. Jango grabs the boy by the front of his tunic before he tumbles off and deposits him neatly behind Jango, ushering N-12 back to the cluster of his vode.

Jango twirls the electrostaff in his hands. His palms are slick with his blood as he wraps his fingers more firmly around the grip, feeling the weapon buzzing in his hands. He plants his feet, facing the rest of the room, expression set.

‘Ke’gev,’ he growls out again at the Munit’videke, voice low and infinitely dangerous.

Chapter Text

Ko Sai hums a deep angry note, low and loud enough that its reverberations rattles the teeth in his head. The string of Kamin’a she snaps out is piercing, her eyes never leaving Jango’s face.

There is a moment of stretched stillness when nothing happens, and then Ko Sai slowly turns to glare at Kina Ha, making another piercing demanding trill.

Jango watches, still and tense, eyes fixed firmly on Ko Sai even as the smaller Kaminii approaches with Boba in her arms.

‘Jango Vhett,’ Kina Ha says, her soft voice ringing loud in the silence of the room.

Jango drags his gaze away from Ko Sai to find Kina Ha checking him over carefully.

‘Me'vaar ti gar? Jate?’

He jerks, blinking at the Mando’a before huffing out a disbelieving breath.

‘Lek,’ he tells her drily, a slant to his lips as he readjusts his grip on the electrostaff in his hands. ‘Ori’jate.’

She nods, accepting his answer and Jango watches her, tension tightening his shoulders because he has trusted her with his son, and she has been kind and helpful so far, but this might be too much for the Kaminii.

‘Taabir kotep. Par ade,’ she says to him, words clear and solemn and a breath punches out of him. He holds her gaze steadily and nods at her, and then she steps closer and Jango lets her step past him.

The children flick assessing eyes over her form, but her arms are occupied with cradling their kih’vod and keeping him safe, so they do nothing more than cast wary and suspicious glances at her. She doesn’t try to get nearer to Orun Wa, who lays still and subdued under N-6 and N-10.

She does lean over slightly to look him over before turning to the other Munit’videke in the room and warbling to them.

‘Orun Wa is alive,’ she assures in Basic, likely for the benefit of the Jetii still on the holocall.

‘For the moment,’ Jango agrees easily, though there is no disguising the threat in his tone.

‘That can be remedied,’ growls N-11 in a low voice, dark and bitter, and Jango carefully doesn’t react.

Ko Sai bristles and the Kamin’a that she spits at Kina Ha is furious and shrill, her pupils constricted into pinpricks of blazing white in her rage.

Jango doesn’t understand the language – doesn’t have the capacity to, not when so much of Kamin’a is layered with subharmonics that is outside of baseline human perception – but it’s not exactly hard to guess at what is being said and when Ko Sai takes a few steps closer, still in a chittering tirade, Jango responds with a warning growl of his own.

Ko Sai abruptly silences, her incensed glare snapping to Jango, and then darting down to the sides of his hips where N-12 and N-7 have situated themselves, brandishing their scalpel and staff, ready to defend their aliit.

‘They are only clones, you know,’ Ko Sai says dismissively, warbling at him disparagingly. ‘And these clones have clearly demonstrated their defects and have highlighted where we can act to mitigate unwanted behaviours in future products.’

‘I will kill you if you touch a hair on their heads,’ promises Jango with deadly calm.

Ko Sai scoffs in irritation, the charms on her headpiece tinkling with the movement.

‘You are merely the template here, Jango Vhett. You have no say in how we chose to use or dispose of our products.’

He shifts forward despite himself, and Ko Sai is not stupid enough to remain so close and retreats a few steps.

‘These are children,’ he tells her, tone as level as he can make it through his boiling anger. ‘These are children and you have hurt them enough. You have karking shabla ideas of making soldiers, as if you are designing droids, demagolka.’

Ko Sai sighs in exasperation. ‘We are making an army! The contract was to supply an army to the Republic.’

When Jango shifts forward this time, the children flanking him move with him.

‘People are not droids, to be made and discarded,’ he hisses, incensed. ‘We can think and feel.’

‘We have no use for thinking or feeling if the clones cannot obey,’ snaps the Munit’videk and Jango snarls response. He hefts the electrostaff in his hands, and the children coil tight with tension and readying themselves to attack.

‘Enough.’

Dooku’s voice rings out over their heated exchange, and it infuriates Jango even further that the Munit’videk instantly subside in deferment, when they had met Jango only in unrelenting challenge.

The blood is still rushing past Jango’s ears, and he takes a steadying breath before releasing it slowly.

‘K’udesii,’ he grinds out, and the children immediately lower their weapons slightly. Jango holds his guard position and resists the urge to shove the ade back to safety.

The Jetii’s low timbre rolls over the room as he speaks with deliberation, tone contemplative.

‘Keep the control batch,’ he instructs the demagolkase. ‘This batch has shown great promise in their training; perhaps we can further their training in such a way as to reach their full potential as a special squad for the army.’

‘If that is what you wish, Master Jedi,’ says Ko Sai, sounding reluctant and sullen.

Jango finds himself speaking, the angry words pushing out past his lips. ‘With what you call as training, the children will be dead long before they will be fighting in any army.’ He clenches his fists tighter, feeling the grip of the weapon go slick with the blood from his cut palms, and thinks about Boba neglected and trapped in that awful soundproofed transparisteel case, of the half dozen ik’aade that did not survive the decanting.

‘You want a specialist squad?’ he demands bitterly, feeling a great hollowness in his chest and swallows down the bile rising at the back of his throat. ‘Mando’ade ba'juri verde. I will train them for you.’

At his side, he feels N-12 startle and dart a lightning quick look up at his face, but he refuses to take his eyes off the rest of the room.

There is a long, long pause.

‘Acceptable,’ agrees Dooku at last. ‘Ko Sai, please see to the necessary arrangements-’

‘No,’ interrupts Jango sharply. ‘Not her. Kina Ha.’

Another pause, longer this time. Ko Sai swivels her head to turn an expression of utter loathing on the Kaminii standing behind Jango.

‘Kina Ha, then,’ Dooku says slowly. ‘Kindly attend to the arrangements needed for the clones’ training. Thank you for meeting with me today, Ko Sai. I look forward to your progress reports on production.’

The Jetii bows, dismissing the demagolkase.

‘Now… I would like to speak to Jango Vhett.’

The Munit’videke warble amongst themselves in Kamin’a, casting glares over at Jango’s side of the room before they bow in farewell to the Jetii and leave the room.

Jango turns on the spot and goes down on one knee to address the children, meeting their gazes steadily. The ik’aade are pale with stress and uncertainty. The nearest child, N-12, stares back with wide eyes edged with wetness, biting his bottom lip, laser scalpel clutched tightly to his chest, and Jango aches with the need to reach out and reassure, but he know the ad might not react well to his touch at the moment.

Instead, he makes his tone gentle as he instructs the children.

‘Go now, ad’ike. Go with Kina Ha. She will keep you safe.’

He flicks his gaze up to catch the Kaminii’s eye and she dips her head in a solemn nod.

‘Morut'yc,’ she hums softly, and the children turn to look up at her. ‘Come along, children. Ke’slanar mhi.’

The children dart glances between himself and Kina Ha in tense indecision before N-11 slowly straightens from his defensive crouch.

The look on his face is painfully raw and vulnerable. ‘Lek, Jango,’ he says quietly, voice wavering and the words a little unsteady and Jango feels a roil of feelings twisting behind his ribs.

‘Vor’e. Thank you. I will see all of you in a little while,’ Jango promises, voice low and as soothing as he can make it, catching the eye of each ik’aad in turn.

Kina Ha croons a warm comforting note and gestures with one hand – the other arm still wrapped around Boba – and the children fall in tentatively behind her in pairs, leaving their Munit’videk hostage trussed up and abandoned on the floor. Orun Wa and shifts and groans loudly but is ignored by everyone.

As they move past Jango, N-10 darts away from the group, towards one of the deactivated security droids and pries its electrostaff out of its servos. His face when he turns to look at Jango is both simultaneously terrified and challenging, chin jutting out in defiance. Jango merely nods at him and the boy swallows hard and looks away before scurrying back into line.

Jango watches as the children are guided out, a pair of medical droids entering with a hoverbed just as the last child has stepped through the doorway. He turns his attention away from the droids as they move to scan Orun Wa and attend to the scientist.

Jango take a breath to centre himself. Ibic haar Manda. Then he steps decisively into the range of the holo cam. Immediately, Dooku’s attention sharpens on him.

‘Dooku,’ Jango bites out in lieu of a proper greeting.

The man’s dark eyes bore into him, and the man dips his head in a polite nod. ‘Greetings, Vhett.’

It is a terrible feeling to be pinned by that piercing gaze and Jango feels the touch of winter in his lungs and hears the buzz of kad’ause loud in his ears before he tries to push away those encroaching memories.

He’s doesn’t offer any other words, and he feels his lips pressing together into a grim line as the silence stretches between them.

Even with the washed out effects of the holo, it is clear that the years have not been kind to the Jetii. Dooku looks older than the spectre that still haunts Jango’s nightmares; the light touch of grey hair at his temples that Jango remembers has now bloomed fully across his head and the wrinkles on his face are carved more deeply into the skin. His eyes though, remain the same; dark, intelligent, and keen.

‘I have read the report on the incident that led to Boba being placed in your care,’ Dooku says slowly, and Jango feels a chill crash down his spine hearing his ad’s name on this killer’s lips.

‘And I have heard of the Mandalorian proclivity to adopt children into their care and culture,’ the Jetii continues. ‘Nala Se had allowed it with the Alpha clone because there was no need for a secondary genetic source, when the original source is willing and cooperative. And now, I will allow it with these clones. But do not mistake this agreement to mean that they will be released from their intended purpose to serve in the GAR. You have proposed to have them trained as a special squad, and I expect there to be results to show for it.’

Still, Jango remains silent, biting down hard enough on his tongue that he draws blood. He fights to maintain his composure, counts the seconds in his head, even as he struggles to draw enough air to fill his lungs.

The Jetii studies him for a long moment, unbothered by Jango’s continued strained silence.

‘They are clones,’ Dooku says, his voice deep and unyielding, and yet strangely gentle. ‘We cannot afford to raise them as anything but soldiers. They are needed for war.’

Jango swallows down the taste of copper and unclenches his jaw enough to speak. ‘Your Republic and the Empires have been at war for millennia, Jetii,’ Jango scoffs, voice rough. ‘It will not end any time soon. Not in our lifetime.’

Dooku tips his head forward, dark eyes catching his.

‘You might not care to hear it, Vhett, but there is a great imbalance between the Light and Dark sides of the Force. The Sith has enshrouded much of the galaxy in Darkness, and if we do nothing, then all is lost.’

Dooku is right; Jango doesn’t care about Force osik dramatics and makes that plain in the deeply unimpressed expression he arranges onto his face. The Jetii leans back, shaking his head, a wry twist on his thin lips.

‘I can see you remain unconvinced. But the Wars will end, Vhett. And the clones will be the ones to bring peace to the galaxy,’ Dooku tells him, and his words are laced with grave conviction.

‘And what role does Dral’Mandalor play in this?’ Jango can’t help but needle. ‘You talk about Light and Dark and your Force, but what has that to do my Empire? Or with the common people everywhere? You forget the galaxy at large, and the billions of peoples in it, if all you care about is if your magic shines the brightest.’

The look on Dooku’s face slides into annoyance, which makes Jango’s mouth twitch in a mocking smirk.

‘The Endless Wars and the Sith bring untold turmoil and suffering. The Force that ties all life together, ties all to this dark fate should the Sith take the Republic Core. Even now, the concentration of Light now dwindles on Coruscant.’

‘It is beyond arrogant to think that your Republic is the only bulwark against the Sith,’ Jango throws back sharply. ‘Mandalor has held its own for thousands of years; we are good at killing you Force users. Your Republic might fall, but our Way is Eternal. Dral’Mandalor darasuum.’

The Jetii shakes his head pityingly.

‘It is useless to rally against fate, Vhett. A True Vision has been recorded by a great Jedi Seer.’

Jango can’t help but scoff and raise a sceptical eyebrow at the statement. ‘This Seer, where is he now?’

‘He’s dead,’ Dooku says shortly after an infinitesimal pause. His tone is clipped. ‘He was killed on Oba Diah’s moon not too long ago.’

‘Oh yeah?’ Jango laughs, low and mocking and crosses his arms across his chest. ‘He didn’t See that coming?’

Dooku’s lips thin in displeasure and the Jetii stares him down. Jango does not retreat, meeting his gaze squarely.

‘They are not children,’ Dooku tells him when the tension draws unbearably taut, circling back to their discussion, and there is a dangerous warning underscoring his words in his tone. Jango’s eyes narrow in response. ‘They are soldiers.’

‘Training droids and videos are not enough to make you an army,’ Jango grinds out. He is not sure why he wants to push so hard on this, when everything the Jetii has said is true; these children will grow up to be dangerous men, soldiers, in the hands of the Jetiise, fighting against the enemies of the Republic.

But he has seen the abuse that is disguised as training and the endless testing that these ade have suffered under the demagolkase, has read the translated reports in Kina Ha’s office, has seen the medical scans and records, and he cannot just stand by and let it continue. He does not have it in him to turn away from the children. He is Haat’ad; he is not dar’manda.

Jango did not submit on Galidraan, but here on Kamino he can bend, if it saves these ade.

‘I will train them for you,’ he says as evenly as he can. ‘All of them. You want them to kill the Sith? I will give them the training Mando’ade verde receive. I will make you an army for the Republic,’ and here his words shade bitter. ‘In return, I want full control of their training program.’

Jango watches as Dooku goes still, eyes glazing for a few seconds before his gaze sharpens and something changes around the Jetii that even Jango, Force-null that he is and a galaxy’s span away, can feel it.

Karking Force magic osik, he thinks in disgust, lip curling.

The Jetii stares at him with shades of triumph and wonder bright on his face, stares at Jango like he is something he wishes to pin to a board and scrutinise further, and Jango skin itches and he wishes badly that they were in the same room so he could punch the Jetii in the face.

‘As the Force wills it,’ Dooku breathes in quiet reverent awe and Jango opens his mouth to say something disparaging about the di’kutla Force but the doors suddenly hisses open. The Jetii regains his composure quickly, expression shuttering as Taun We strides in.

Jango jerks before he can stop himself and covers his reaction by shifting in place and readjusting his grip on the electrostaff.

The Munit’videk doesn’t break her pace, sweeping across the room with confidence. She pins Jango with a flat glare, ignoring the weapon in his hands before she turns to greet the Jetii on the other side of the holocall.

‘Master Dooku,’ she hums warmly in greeting. ‘Apologies for my late appearance; there was a conflict in my schedule this rotation. Ko Sai has already updated me on your latest instructions and the other… developments.’

She doesn’t look over at Jango, keeping her entire focus on her client.

‘I feel it is my duty to caution against allowing the Template further access to the clones, to mitigate product tampering. It is not wise to introduce variables when a standardised baseline product has not yet been properly established.’

Dooku waves a hand, dismissing her concerns and Jango can feel the discontented thrum the Munit’videk makes, vibrating the bones in his chest and throat, even if he can’t hear it with his ears.

‘There are greater things at work here, Taun We, than we can hope to understand. Fortunately, the Force guides us.’

Jango chokes back the scoff that rises up, keeps his face neutral even as he judges with a kind of hysterical incredulousness, the reckless decision the Jetii is making based on a feeling in their magic senses.

Jango isn’t going to complain about it, not when he’s getting what he wants from the shabuir Jetii.

Taun We looks as if she might argue further so Jango shifts his weight on his feet, and she pauses to glance at him and Jango seizes the moment to speak.

‘The training module proposals will be prepared and forwarded to you. Kina Ha will be sending the reports,’ he informs the Jetii brusquely. He mentally apologises to the Kaminii for the added burden of paperwork, but Jango knows he can’t face the prospect of submitting reports to Dooku without wanting to throw up or shoot something.

He doesn’t wait to be dismissed; he still has his pride. He isn’t going to relinquish his newly acquired weapon either. He tucks the staff along the length of his body and turns on his heel and marches for the doors.

He is almost at the doors and reaching for the controls when Dooku calls out a farewell that makes Jango’s fingers spasm over the panel.

‘May the Force be with you.’

Jango sucks in a sharp breath but doesn’t turn around, tensing automatically in aggression. He pushes his shoulders down and smooths out the lines of his body, and steps calmly out of the room and lets the doors slide shut after him.

The hallway is surprisingly empty. There isn’t even a contingent of security droids waiting to pounce on him like he had expected.

The weight of a weapon in hand is comforting, even if it’s only an electrostaff, and he glances about another time to check for potential dangers or ambushes before he starts off at a brisk clip back to his quarters. It is where Kina Ha would have retreated to, with the children in tow.

The ade need him, and Jango had promised to see them, and he knows for his own sake, he will need to check them all over with his own two eyes before the tangled knots in his gut will ease.

Chapter Text

The door is locked and Jango spends a few seconds staring at the controls and feeling awkward because he hasn’t exactly been on this side of the locked door before. Should he press the chime?

The door unlocks with a soft click and slides open, just as he is reaching for the panel.

Multiple identical tiny faces have already turned towards the door to look at him, their expressions ranging from distrustful to relieved, and Jango does a quick headcount of all half-dozen of the ade, and also Kina Ha and Boba, as he steps inside.

The children slowly back away from him warily, retreating deeper into the small space, some of them clambering onto the bed for the advantage of a higher ground.

A glance around the space shows Jango that they have used the time to ransack his things; crate covers are still popped open, and their contents show evidence of having been thoroughly riffled through.

N-5, he notes with some amused exasperation, has managed to find the kal’ika Jango has hidden between the wall panelling in the fresher. It is only a small blade, a flimsidoc opener that Jango had liberated from the workstation of a distracted scientist and had managed to sharpen into a cutting edge. Almost too quick for his eyes to follow, the ad tucks the blade away up his sleeve, out of view.

Jango draws in a deep breath and then lets it out slowly, then turns to prop his electrostaff in the corner.

‘Me'vaar ti gar? How is everyone?’ he asks when he turns to face the room again, eyes seeking Kina Ha out for an update. She has, he notes, tucked herself right into the corner farthest away from the bed and the children, likely in an effort to not crowd the uneasy ade.

Bob’ika has evidently been given over into N-10’s care. He has the ik’aad in a firm but gentle hold against his chest, feeding Boba from a bottle. N-10 has barely given Jango more than a cursory glance when Jango entered the room, his attention is focused instead on his kih’vod, a rapturous expression on his young face.

N-11 steps forward from the cluster of children and straightens his shoulders, standing with his feet apart, hands tucked behind his back.

‘Sir,’ he snaps out smartly, staring fixedly at a point just above Jango’s ear and quite suddenly the rest of the ade scramble to array themselves before him, like troops awaiting an inspection.

Even N-10, who is the last to scurry into place, stands stiff and straight, while his arms are still occupied with Boba.

Bewildered and frankly out of his depth, Jango slides a look at Kina Ha, who stares back at him with equal helplessness, her narrow shoulders shrugging up silently in mimicry of the human gesture of uncertainty.

Jango licks his lips.

‘K’udesii,’ he tells the children gently and they loosen slightly. ‘Are you alright? Anyone injured?’

For whatever reason, that makes the children tense up again and N-5 turns pale, subconsciously angling his injured arm away from Jango.

Again, N-11 speaks for the group to report, ‘All units are within functional parameters. No visits to the infirmary are necessary.’

Jango jerks.

‘You are not-’ he starts angrily, too sharply, too loudly, and stops himself so fast he nearly chokes on his own tongue, when he sees the children hide their flinches.

‘… Ni ceta. I’m sorry. I am not angry at you, I promise.’

He crouches down slowly, maintaining the distance between himself and the children.

‘You are not units,’ he says softly. ‘You are people. And it is important to me that all of you are alright. If you are hurting or injured, I would like to know, so that I can help treat your injuries, or find a baar’ur.’

The group stares at him in silence, before N-6 speaks up to ask cautiously, ‘What is a baar’ur?’

‘A medic,’ Jango explains, and bites the insides of his cheeks when the children draw together defensively into a tighter group.

‘We do not need a baar’ur,’ N-11 says firmly, lips pursing, bright eyes flashing.

This reticence to seek medical treatment is another thing that Jango needs to unravel, but it has to hold for another time. For now, Jango nods his acceptance solemnly.

‘No baar’ur,’ he agrees, and the children relax minutely. ‘But may I check your arm, N-5? I am worried that your arm might have been injured further.’

‘M’fine,’ N-5 says immediately and Jango notes the way the other ade edge in front slightly, as if to hide N-5 from further scrutiny.

‘Boba’s finished his formula,’ announces N-10 loudly, holding up the empty bottle as evidence.

‘Vor’e, ad’ika,’ Jango tells him and flashes him a brief smile, but Jango recognises it for the attempt at distraction it is, and he will not be diverted. ‘He seems very comfortable with you. Perhaps you can hold him for a little while longer? It is probably time for his nap anyway.’

And then he shifts his attention back to N-5.

‘N-5, I need to check your arm. K’olar, gedet’ye. Please come here,’ Jango says, firmly but not unkindly, briefly contemplates on making it into an order but discards the thought as soon as it appears.

N-5 swallows nervously, throat bobbing, and the other ade freeze into watchful stillness.

Jango keeps his posture loose and expression open as he waits patiently.

Slowly, trembling, and very obviously terrified but trying to hide it, N-5 sidles closer. Jango offers him a warm smile when N-5 stares back at him with wide eyes, ‘Jate. Vor’e, N-5.’

He holds out his palms to the ad encouragingly and N-5 glances down and then frowns abruptly.

‘You’re bleeding,’ the ad tells him hesitantly, wrinkling his nose.

And yes, the ad is right and Jango is a di’kut. Jango huffs out a breath and then offers a small wry grin to N-5.

‘Gar serim. You’re right.’

Now that the ad has pointed it out, and Jango is reminded of it, the deep cuts across the palms of his hands start to burn something terrible and he grimaces.

‘Jate,’ he says to no one in particular. ‘Let me clean this and get some bacta on, and then we’ll take a look at your arm.’

Before he can move to stand however, N-12 has turned to swipe a hand in the space under Jango’s bed to pull out the basic medkit that is shoved behind the stack of extra kutese for Boba.

Manda, they really did go through all of his things.

N-12 meets Jango’s eye, biting his lip and clutching the medkit to his chest. And then he steps up beside N-5, popping the lid of the case open and passing it to N-5 to hold while he riffles through the contents to unearth a packet of sterilisation pads. N-12 refuses to look up at Jango as he tears open the pack and then reaches for one of Jango’s hands, his small hands shaking slightly with nerves.

Jango stays quiet and lets him wipe the blood away, attending first to one hand, and then the other. He knows the other ade are watching him, but he keeps his gaze on N-12 as the ad carefully checks over the cuts before slathering it all with bacta. He wraps both hands with a roll of bandage and then snaps the case close with a click, taking it from N-5.

Finally, the ad looks up at Jango and Jango gives him a grateful smile. ‘Vor’e, N-12. That was very neatly done.’

The ad flushes, looking a little lost at how to react at the praise, so Jango kindly shifts his attention to his brother.

‘N-5?’ he prompts, and the boy shuffles nearer a few inches before mumbling, ‘12’s already looked at it. Said I’ll be fine.’

‘That’s good to hear. I’d still like to check you over, for my own piece of mind. Alright?’

He waits calmly until he receives a small hesitant nod from the ad before putting his hands on N-5, carefully checking for breaks, and feeling relieved to find only bruises.

‘We need to put some bacta on this, so it’ll heal faster. Does it hurt? Do you want a painkiller?’

N-5 merely stares at him in what Jango thinks is mute panic, casting a quick helpless look at N-12 beside him.

N-12 speaks then, back straight and posture rigid, his young voice going professionally distant in a way that unsettles Jango, ‘Are you authorising use of medical supplies for this uni- for N-5?’

Jango notices the hasty correction, the dart of worried eyes to the expression on Jango’s face. There is a roil of complicated feelings that makes it hard for Jango to breathe all of a sudden.

‘Yes…’ Jango manages and unclenches his fists when he feels his nails digging into the cuts on his palms despite the layers of bandaging. ‘Yes, please use whatever you need, whatever you want,’ he emphasizes perhaps a bit too forcefully, because N-12’s grip on the medkit tightens and Jango has to pull himself back.

Jango would like to treat the ad himself, but the ad looks anxious and skittish, so Jango forces himself to settle back and let N-12 take the lead. He studies the ade around him and thinks on the reports that Kina Ha has slipped to him.

‘For future reference,’ he says, voice loud and firm, so the other ade can hear him, ‘if any of you are hurt and need supplies, you can use whatever I have. If you need more, tell me, and I will make sure you will have what you need. If it is beyond our abilities to treat, we will find a baar’ur. Together. Because I’m not leaving you alone with those demagolkase. Tion suvarir? Do you understand?’

He holds the eye of each ad as he receives their ‘Lek’ in reply, and then hovers over N-12 as he sprays anaesthetic over N-5’s arm. N-12 taps his vod on the other shoulder with a nod when he is done with the treatment, and N-5 hastily skitters away back to the others.

‘Pare sol, N-12,’ he says before the ad can close the medkit and put it away, holding up a hand. N-12 immediately freezes, staring up at him with wide eyes.

‘We should probably check on your injuries too, ad’ika,’ Jango says gently, and prepares himself to again coax another ad into submitting for a check-up. To his relief though, N-12 merely nods and readily hands over the medkit before shucking out of his tunic, revealing the swath of bacta patches on his neck and chest.

Jango settles on the floor in front of the boy, so he isn’t looming over him and slowly reaches out to peel the patches off, examining the burn injuries the ad had received from a session with the training droids. The wounds are healing well, and Jango just needs to replace the patches. He informs the ad as such, before proceeding. N-12 is calm, watching him steadily, and when Jango gives him an encouraging smile, the ad flashes him a brilliant grin in return, nose scrunching.

Jango pushes the closed medkit case into the ad’s hands and gives him a wink and jerks his head to indicate the scowling N-6. N-12 brightens immediately and scampers off to daub some on bacta on his brother’s face.

N-6 shoves him away, making a face when he accidentally tastes the medicine smeared over his lips.

‘Sir,’ he says, drawing Jango’s attention immediately. ‘Did you mean what you said earlier? You are going to be our trainer?’

The heads of the other children turn to look unerringly at him and Jango clears his throat.

‘Lek, I am.’

‘What about Orun Wa?’ N-6 frowns. ‘He was in charge of our training and development. Until today that is, when we … when I …’ he trails off, looking suddenly small and unsure and uncomfortable.

Until you almost killed him, Jango thinks grimly although he carefully keeps his face neutral. And in his mind, he can still see the fleeting broken expression on the ad’s face from a few hours ago, before it resolved into beskar-clad determination to fight back against the Munit’videke, to fight for their right to live.

It is a pity the Munit’videk still lives, but Jango would rather him live than have N-6 facing the burden of having taken a life.

‘He won’t be involved with your training anymore,’ Jango says firmly.

And if he dares, Jango will kill him before the demagolka comes anywhere near these ade again.

At the rate Jango is collecting names for his Cuy'val Dar, for all those who have wronged him and his, he might well be better off making a list of exceptions instead. That would undoubtedly be an easier list to maintain, considering it only has Kina Ha on it.

He casts his gaze on them all and then recites to them from memory the same words Montross had once said to him and his cohort, when Jango and Myles and his other friends were still young and still earning the pieces of their beskar’gam.

‘Ni kar’tayl gai sa’hibire. Ner ba’juir buirkan gar bralir,’ he says, and then repeats it in Basic. ‘I take you as my trainees. My responsibility as your trainer is to see you succeed. Tion vorer? Do you accept?’

The children trade glances with one another.

And one by one, he collects their ‘Lek’s, feeling a thrill race down his body and when he reaches the last ad, he knows the smile on his face is exuberant and probably a little wild.

He almost forgets Kina Ha in the corner, until she makes a soft sound, and he finds her staring at him, her large eyes wide and unblinking. She is looking at him as if she’s seeing him in a new light, eyes roving all over him from head to boots, her head cocked to the side. She blinks rapidly and shakes her head slightly, and there is a small, pleased smile curling on her mouth.

He turns back to the ade. ‘Haat, ijaa, haa’it,’ he vows, tapping a closed fist over the centre of his chest. ‘Until your verd’goten – and even beyond that – I will train you. I will protect you. Beskar, tal bal taakur.’

The cluster of ade watch him, each expression edged with a desperate kind of hope and vulnerability that twists something in Jango’s chest.

‘Ibic haar Manda. This is the Way of Mandalore.’

Chapter Text

He is hovering.

He knows he is hovering, but he can’t help gravitating towards the ade and orbiting their cluster.

The mess hall is too open, too wide, too empty and it makes Jango’s skin prickle with unease even though there is no one here but them. He makes another circuit around the room, patrolling.

When they had first seated themselves, the ade were tense, watching him from the corner of their eyes. And Jango also notes the edges of the hall where their gaze flit to, every so often, and knows that that is where the Munit’videke have hidden their observation cameras.

Now though, the children are bent over their trays, eating quietly, efficiently, their shoulder sloping as they ease their vigilance when it is clear that Jango is on watch.

The quiet grates on Jango’s nerves and every scrape of cutlery makes him quicken his steps a little and tighten his circuit, and he too, has taken to flicking his gaze up to where the cameras are hidden. His grip tightens around the electrostaff, and his other arm unconsciously curls around Boba in his birikad.

Jango does a quick check over the table of ade, automatically counting heads, and then paces some more.

‘What is that?’ asks one of the ade suddenly, voice loud and cutting, and Jango snaps around, weapon already half-raised to fend off a threat.

Seeing no one else in the empty mess hall, he turns to find the children staring at him in bemusement.

N-7 slowly raises a singular eyebrow at him and Jango scrunches his nose and makes a face back, which makes the ad giggle. The ad abruptly stops, biting his lip and looking unsure, as if the moment of levity might displease Jango. Jango doesn’t allow himself to linger on that reaction, doesn’t draw attention to it.

‘What’s what?’ he asks easily, smiling openly at the rest of the ade and relaxing, when it is obvious he doesn’t have cause to use his electrostaff. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees N-7 loosen with relief.

‘That thing you were humming,’ clarifies N-6, leaning forward across the table, eyes bright and looking interested. ‘Kina Ha was humming that too, to us and Boba.'

Jango cocks his head, a frown gathering on his forehead before he makes a small sound of understanding.

He gives the room one more sweep of his eyes and then approaches the group, a warm feeling in his chest as the he watches the ade shuffle on the benches to give him a seating space among them. He smiles in thanks as he sits.

They have, he notes, given him the seat from which he can keep an eye on the main entryways to the hall. N-10 is sitting in front of him, and he catches the ad’s eye as the ad checks the secondary entryways over Jango’s shoulder.

‘Hukaat'kama. Watch my back and I’ll watch yours,’ Jango tells him, and the ad nods solemnly.

‘So, what’s the thing then?’ asks N-6 impatiently.

Jango glances down at his food tray. ‘Eat your fibre cubes,’ he says instead of answering, and bites the insides of his cheek to hide the smile of amusement that threatens his face when N-6 scowls heavily and stabs a green cube with his multitensil.

Jango waits until the ad is chewing before answering.

‘It is the Vode An,’ he says simply and doesn’t elaborate further, waiting. When N-6 opens his mouth to ask, Jango shakes his head, ‘Nayc, ad’ika. Don’t talk with your mouth full.’

Which of course means another ad takes over questioning Jango, and N-5, who is sitting at Jango’s right elbow speaks up.

‘What is the Vode An?’

And Jango can’t help the grin splitting his face at the carefully pronounced Mando’a and the imitated Mando’yaim accent. He reaches over slowly, and the ad tracks his movements keenly but doesn’t shy away. Jango taps at N-5’s forearm, eliciting a dull clinking sound as Jango’s nails rap against the table knife the ad has slipped up into his sleeve.

‘When you conceal your blades, ad’ika, you have to remember your opponent’s sightlines, and be mindful of how the cut or fall of the fabric of your clothing might give away the outline of your weapon.’

N-5 cocks his head, listening intently to the advice, and then he readjusts the hidden blade.

‘Ori’jate. Much better,’ Jango praises and the ad beams back, face flushing endearingly.

Jango casts a look around the table and feels a wistful pang in his heart. Jas’buir loved children, and he would have loved every one of these boys.

Even if he’s pretty sure Jas’buir would also be horrified at the prospect of raising more Jangos, when he had already complained so much about raising the one.

Jango swallows hard against the sudden lump in his throat, and then clears his throat.

‘The Vode An is a song that reminds us that Mando’ade are always stronger together. It is an oath of brotherhood that we hold in our kar’ta,’ he said, tapping the centre of his chest. ‘We know that we are indomitable when we fight together.’

The children are listening, fascinated, and waiting for more, and Jango pauses to consider them. The eagerness on their young faces remind him fondly of his clan’s foundlings when he visits them and shares stories with them.

‘There’s a story that we tell … Would you like to hear it?’ he offers hesitantly, and the children nod enthusiastically, shoving away their dinner trays.

It is as if he can feel Jas’buir guiding his words when he starts the story, just like how Jas’buir had always started his stories, and like all the children stories the Mando’ade share, ‘Ni partayli ner buir rejorhaa'ir ni, bal ibac ibic … I remember something my father told me, and it goes like this…

‘There was once three vode who were very different from one another. The first vod loved to fight, and they were the strongest of them all …’

When Kina Ha comes to collect them a while later, she finds the ade interrogating Jango, mercilessly pulling apart the narrative and discussing animatedly amongst themselves.

‘But why, couldn’t the first vod have just hidden and waited outside the compound and plan an ambush?’ demands N-6. ‘It was only a small raiding party, and surely the vod knew the terrain better than the hostiles.’

‘Lek, but their compound couldn’t have withstood the assault anyway; it was better that they made a tactical retreat to a secondary position,’ N-11 cuts in, before Jango can reply.

Not that he is even attempting to answer. To Kina Ha, it looks as if Jango is completely out of his depth and is filled with mild regret. From the snippets of conversation she catches, it sounds as if they are discussing-

‘A hypothetical enemy engagement?’ she asks mildly, making her way to the table.

Jango gives her a long suffering look, slouching wearily in his seat. ‘Nayc. A children’s story,’ he tells her tiredly, rubbing at his eye and Kina Ha warbles in confusion.

Jas’buir and Myles are probably laughing themselves sick watching him suffer from the Manda.

Kina Ha’s presence barely makes the children falter in their analysis, and N-6 leans across the table to catch Jango’s attention to continue the cross-examination.

‘And another thing,’ the ad says, and Jango bites back a groan, ‘when the first vod goes to the second vod’s compound, they now know that the raiders would be targeting that compound next and had time to prepare for the assault. They could have set perimeter traps and prepared themselves for a siege there, instead of packing everything to retreat to yet another location.’

N-11 pauses to think, and unable to refute his brother’s point, turns expectantly to Jango for an answer.

Jango clears his throat and N-5 helpfully nudges over a glass of water.

‘Vor’e, ad’ika,’ murmurs Jango, and gratefully seizes on the opportunity to stall and think as the other ade stare at him impatiently.

Jango puts the glass down and meet’s N-6’s eye. ‘The terrain was unsuitable,’ is all he says and N-6 huffs and throws his hands up in annoyance, and Jango can’t help but laugh.

‘Jate, that is enough. Let’s not keep Kina Ha waiting,’ he says, still chuckling. The children gather up their trays, N-10 passing Boba over to Jango, so he has his hands free. Jango traces a finger down Bob’ika’s face, forehead to chin, tickling the ik’aad.  

‘Din’kartay?’ he asks Kina Ha, as they observe the children clear the table.

She hums an affirmative before replying, ‘Tsikala an.’

‘Vor’e, Kina,’ Jango tells her quietly. ‘Par an, vor entye.’

She tilts her head down to look at him, something soft in her large eyes. ‘N’entye, Jango. I knew from the moment we met that I would not regret helping you. And seeing the brightness in the children now, I know it is the right thing to do. Ibic haar Manda.’

Jango draws in a steadying breath, a little overwhelmed at hearing the familiar Mandalorian axiom spoken here in another voice that is not his own. He has lost everyone since Galidraan, and it is a terrible feeling to have everything - aliit bal beskar’gam - so violently ripped from him. It is not a hurt that will be easily soothed. Or forgotten. Mando'ad draar digu.

The children gather loosely around them, and N-10 looks up at Jango and holds his arms out expectantly for Boba. Jango huffs with amusement, and then passes the birikad over to him, watching as N-10 fastens the straps efficiently. N-12 steps up to N-10 and tugs on each strap twice, like a verde double-checking another's gear.

Jango has never felt so exposed or so vulnerable, or so alone, as he had here on Kamino.

But, he thinks, looking at the children make faces at a burbling Boba, and at Kina Ha standing by his side, maybe he can start to build something here.

‘Where are we going?’ asks N-7, frowning faintly as he follows behind Kina Ha. He darts a glance back at Jango, who is bringing up the rear. Behind Jango, there is a hovercart carrying the crates filled with whatever few possessions the children have; mostly clothing and datapads programmed with educational modules. And N-5’s cache of stolen blades.

When they had went to collect the things, Jango’s reaction upon seeing the room where the children had been housed was to merely clench his jaw tightly and trade heavy looks with the Kaminii.

Kina Ha smiles as she looks down and answers the ad, ‘Your new quarters. It is bigger than your previous room.’ Then she slides a glance behind at Jango as she continues, ‘And as your trainer, Jango will also be housed near you.’

Jango nearly trips in surprise and trades startled looks with the ade. Kina Ha chirps in amusement.

‘Come along, let’s get all of you settled.’

N-11 falls back to walk beside Jango, looking contemplative and Jango waits patiently for the ad to speak.

‘I don’t understand what is happening,’ N-11 says finally, balling a fist at his side and setting his jaw. He avoids meeting Jango’s gaze, looking like he thinks his admission will bring him punishment. Or that Jango will pull out a datapad to note down his deficiencies.

Jango aches to reach out a hand to soothe the defensive set of those small shoulders, but he knows the ad is not yet ready to accept comfort like that from him.

What would buir do? he wonders helplessly.

Have patience, the dry voice of Jaster replies, overlaying the memories of all the times Arla had lashed out at Jaster and Jango both, and then had slunk off to brood by herself, guilty and grief-stricken. Patience, understanding and compassion.

Jango stops walking and N-11 stops too, and they let the others go on ahead.

‘N-11,’ Jango says, and oh, how the designation feels so vile in his mouth, and he does not lie to himself; he knows he avoids calling the children by the serial numbers the Munit’videke gave them. But the children are still adjusting, and he doesn’t want to confuse or upset them by imposing yet another change in their lives. This is Jango’s problem.

He lowers himself to kneel in front of the ad and waits for the boy to draw his reluctant eyes to meet his.

‘It is alright, ad, to ask questions or to tell me if you don’t understand something. I am here to guide you,’ he says. And even though his tone is low, gentle, N-11 still flinches.

Jango forges on because there are things the ad needs to hear and understand.

‘There will be many changes in the days ahead, ad, and I suspect we all will need time to adjust to it. But know this; Orun Wa will no longer oversee your training. There will be no more combat training with dark trooper droids. Not for the foreseeable future. Not until you are ready, and then only under my close supervision. And definitely no live ordnance training. Mando’ade ba'juri verde. Mandalorians raise warriors. We don’t get our children killed in training to achieve that.’

The boy is silent for a long moment before speaking, voice wavering just a little. ‘This is really not some kind of trick? Or a test?’ And then his tone hardens, still softly spoken but Jango can hear the cut of a dark promise beneath, as sharp as a beskad, ‘Because if it is, I swear I will kill you.’

‘Not a trick. Not a test. Haat, ijaa, haa'it.’

N-11 nods decisively, accepting his answer. ‘Jate,’ the ad says curtly, voice a bit thick. He turns and walks away quickly, catching up after the group, and Jango lets him go.

Jango catches up with them at the door to the children’s newly assigned quarters, where Kina Ha is allowing the children to choose their own entry code.

‘Orun Wa used to just lock it for us,’ N-10 tells her, looking a little confused.

‘It is important that you can access your quarters whenever you want to, ad’ika,’ she says.

‘It’ll be the same code to open from the inside?’ he asks, tilting his head in inquiry, and when she nods, he blinks and glances between the two adults. ‘I won’t need to hack the controls to open the doors?’ he clarifies, sounding a little suspicious, a little testing, and Jango bites down hard on his tongue.

‘Lek, ad, the same code will open the door from both sides. You are not going to be locked in your own quarters,’ Kina Ha answers, and Jango marvels at how calm she manages to sound, when he is half a breath away from turning right around and marching off to hunt down the demagolka.

‘And we can lock you out?’ And this time, it is a challenge. The children watch their reactions sharply.

‘This is your space, ad’ike,’ Jango tells them, sliding neatly into the conversation. ‘You will be responsible to keep it clean and tidy, and Kina Ha or myself will check on that routinely… barring that or an emergency, we will not intrude unless invited.’

N-11 is looking hard at his face and Jango gazes back steadily.

Not a trick. Not a test.

N-10 enters a passcode into the system and Kina Ha saves it, and then the group shuffles through the entryway. Jango and the Kaminii wait just inside the threshold with the hovercart, in what seems to be a living area with low seating arranged around in a circle, while the children cautiously venture deeper into the rooms beyond.

N-7 hesitates and peers back at them. ‘Are you coming?’

‘Sure, ad’ika,’ replies Jango easily, and they follow after the boy as he makes quick work in exploring the space.

The first doorway on the left leads to a communal sleeping area with comfortable looking beds. Jango approves; he doesn’t think the ade would have appreciated being separated from each other. When he runs his hands across the bedding of the nearest bed, it is soft, warm and in a gentle blue in shade, and he is reminded of the blanket Kina Ha had selected for Boba. He turns to the Kaminii beside him and touches her softly on her elbow, getting her attention.

‘Vor entye, Kina,’ he tells her, voice rough and she smiles gently back at him, the corners of her large eyes crinkling. Jango shifts and turns the light touch into a firm burcyan’rok, grasping her forearm and she reaches back the same way, and then they are wrist-to-wrist, sharing a brokar’ta.

Then Jango steps away and finds N-7 watching them intently, head cocked.

They tour the rest of the areas, which include a modestly sized refresher, and a small pantry area furnished with a long table and chairs and a small cold unit stocked with drinks and the storage cabinets stocked with-

‘What are these?’ N-7 asks, pulling out a container from a storage compartment and popping the cover. Rattling around inside are small spheres with uneven surfaces in a multitude of different colours. The boy picks one up to inspect more closely.

Jango turns to the Kaminii to find her smiling as the ade gather in the pantry in curiosity.

‘That is my favourite snack,’ she tells them. ‘It is called Mantell Mix and is imported from the Ord Mantell system. I thought you might like to try it.’

The expression of surprise and the small sound of pure enjoyment N-7 makes when he tries a piece is something Jango will never forget. The container is quickly passed around the other ade.

‘Don’t eat too much of it all at once, ad’ike,’ Jango feels compelled to warn them, though his heart isn’t much in it as the children make happy noises as they quickly devour the sweet banggrains by the handfuls. ‘You will get a stomach upset.’

‘I have furnished your quarters with what you need. Do you want anything else, ad’ike?’ Kina asks them, as they jostle over the snack.

‘Lek,’ says N-10 firmly, turning to the adults and Jango resists the urge to reach out and brush the crumbs off the ad’s round cheeks. ‘We need a buycika for Boba.’

‘Boba is still very small, and he needs a lot of care and attention. He will be staying with Jango, and they will be just down the hallway from you,’ the Kaminii says kindly.

‘Well, yes … but …,’ the ad trails off, fidgeting. ‘For when he’s here with us, I mean. When he visits.’ He turns wide eyes to Jango, ‘He can visit us, right?’

‘Lek, of course he will visit you; you are his brothers,’ assures Jango hurriedly. ‘And you can visit him too. Any time.’

N-10 beams brightly, looking relieved when Kina nods in agreement and tells them that she will requisition a buycika.

‘Do you need anything else?’ she asks the group, her attention drawn to N-7 when he makes a rather mournful sound as he gives the empty container in his hands a little shake.

‘Can we get more of that Mantell Mix?’ he asks her shyly.

Jango feels sharp alarm when he catches the curl of mischief on Kina’s mouth when she flicks a glance in his direction.

‘Ask your ba’juir,’ she tells the children and Jango shoots her a look of betrayal when the children turn to him, their faces hopeful and beseeching.

Manda take him.

Chapter Text

In the few rotations since the confrontation with the Munit’videke and the deal with the Jetii, Jango and the children spend all their waking hours together, with Jango slowly earning their trust and the children relaxing their guard with him.

It aches to see the boys so hesitant to interact with childish abandonment, how they sometimes quickly stifle their laughs and straighten whenever they remember that they are not alone, that Jango is amongst them.

And yet …

N-6 is still brave enough to ask Jango his questions, skirting closer every time Jango responds with patience and good humour, until the boy is now comfortable enough to stay by his side for long minutes at a time.

N-10 finds no difficulty in approaching Jango for things for Boba, but still stutters and trips over his words when Jango addresses him directly.

N-5 continues to steal whatever small blades he can put his hands on, tucking them into sleeves, the waistband of his pants, or shoving them into shoes and socks, and Jango is not sure if it’s just a natural quirk of character, or if it is a coping mechanism for something, but the ad did take his tip on weapon concealment, and it is a lot harder to spot if the ad is armed or not now.

(The ad is always armed.)

N-7 and N-12 engage Jango in conversation the most, smiling and asking for stories, but Jango knows it is partly a test for him. Sometimes their innocent questions and comments have a certain slant to them that is designed to elicit some kind of response from Jango, and always then, N-11 is watching him.

All Jango does is to be as open and honest as he can with the children. He is Haat’ad, a true son of Mandalore, and this is the Way.

Still, Jango wishes for more time to get better acquainted with the children now under his care, and when Taun We steps into to the ade’s quarters unexpectedly and unannounced, it is a feeling like being dropped into the pod and flash frozen again for Jango.

The ade immediately drop what they’re doing and form up before the Munit’videk, straight-backed with their hands tucked neatly behind their backs.

Taun We ignores the children, her white eyes dragging across the room from corner to corner. Slowly, Jango stands from his seat at the pantry, the scrape of his chair is loud in the tense silence. Taun We watches him, her thin lips pressed together in displeasure.

Jango steps around the table, pausing deliberately to first right the glass that N-5 knocked over in his hasty scramble, before making his way to the front of the room.

He slides purposefully in between the Munit’videk and the ade and stands there, silent and firm.

After a long moment, Taun We speaks.

‘Training of Null squad will commence tomorrow under your supervision, Jango Vhett. There will be an assessment at the end of the tenday to gauge your progress. A reduced performance in any field of testing will not be tolerated,’ she tells him.

Jango grinds his teeth but says nothing, merely gives a sharp nod.

She makes an annoyed sound and then leaves as abruptly as she had entered.

He releases a slow controlled breath and then turns around. Each ad has gone silent and pale, half of them not meeting his eyes.

‘Udesii, ad’ike. It is alright,’ he tries to soothe them, even as he tries to still his own shaking hands and ignores the urge to tug at the collar still wrapped around his neck.

‘What are we going to do?’ N-7 asks the room, voice fraught. ‘We haven’t been training or drilling for days.’

‘Our performance will dip for sure,’ N-11 mutters grimly, fist balling at his side.

‘Will they still be testing us on the Xan Du tactics? We get didn’t the module on our datapads to study!’

‘Orun Wa never sent them.’

The mention of the demagolka makes Jango cut in. ‘Orun Wa is not your trainer,’ he reminds them firmly, their heads snapping to look at him. ‘Ni ibic jii. Ner ba’juir buirkan gar bralir.’

He steps closer to the group, touches their shoulders soothingly. ‘All will be fine, ad’ike.’

The children do not look convinced, though Jango does get a few flashes of tremulous smiles from some of them.

Jango thinks discussing military strategy with ad’ike isn’t exactly appropriate, but he has seen the other things these ade have been put to study – and their test scores as well – and they just look so anxious that Jango finds himself saying, ‘How about a story with the real life application of some of Xan Du’s stratagems?’ and can’t really bring himself to regret it when the entire group perk up with interest.

‘Jate, gehat’ik ca’nara,’ he says, and gestures with his hands for them find seats as he settles himself at his customary spot on the floor in the middle of the living area. N-7 darts off to get snacks while the others pull the cushions from the living room seating and arrange themselves around Jango. N-7 comes careening back with several bowls of Mantell Mix, which he hands out before throwing himself onto a cushion, datapad out and stylus ready.

Jango smiles easily at the group of eager faces, and although Xan Du’s stratagems aren’t exactly a normal thing for bedtime stories, he starts the same way as he has for all the stories he has shared with these ade, ‘Ni partayli ner buir rejorhaa'ir ni, bal ibac ibic … many years ago, there was once an Al’verde who commanded a fleet. Kaysh gai Jayd be’aliit Mereel …’

Boba is still fast asleep in his buycika as Jango moves about, quietly preparing for the day. When he is ready, a quick check of the chrono tells him he has enough time to drop the ik’aad with Kina and then make it back comfortably in time to escort the other boys to their morning meal.

The baby sleeps on, snuffling adorably when Jango swaddles him in blankets and tucks him into the birikad.

The hallways are brightly lit, despite the early hour, and Jango suspects that the facility never truly powers down. His footsteps echo down the empty corridors and his skin prickles from the feeling of being watched, though the only thing he sees is a lone cleaning droid.

Kina opens the door to her quarters as soon as he pokes at the chime, looking wide awake and clearly expecting him.

‘Su’cuy,’ Jango greets her, a greeting which she returns. She opens her arms and Jango carefully transfers Boba to her, and then passes over a satchel filled with things for Boba.

‘Vor’e, Kina,’ he thanks her.

She nods and says, ‘We will see you at midday meal.’

‘You can comm if you have any trouble,’ he tells her, and she smiles indulgently at him, having already heard this from him repeatedly since agreeing to watch Boba for him when he is busy with the older children.

‘Lek, Jango,’ she says mildly.

Jango dithers for a few seconds; it’s hard to be separated from Boba even if it’s only for half a day, and even though he’ll be with Kina, Jango still worries. He swallows down the unexpected lump in his throat and then reaches out to pet his son.

‘Cuyir jate par Kina, Bob’ika,’ he tells the sleeping bundle. ‘Ret'urcye mhi.’

With another nod at the Kaminii and a last pet for Boba, he turns around and makes himself walk away. When he reaches the corner in the corridor, he turns back for one last look and finds Kina smiling softly down at Boba and swaying him gently in his sleep. She looks up and dips her head at him, and then retreats into her quarters and Jango straightens his shoulders and makes his strides confident as he makes his way back to the other ade waiting for him.

He has the passcode for the ade’s quarters – and that’s another thing that tugs painfully in his chest; of course he has noticed the combination of digits N-10 has chosen for their key – but he still presses the chime and waits for the door to open.

The group appears promptly, forming up in their customary pairs, standing straight-backed with their hands pressed to their sides. Their faces are eerily blank, as they stare straight ahead. Jango swallows hard.

Gone are the chattering children he had bid a warm goodnight to, replaced in the morning with these quiet and still verd’ikaade.

He is silent for too long, caught up in his own unease. He mentally curses himself when he notices the tension tightening the corners of their eyes and the line of their shoulders.

He shoves aside his complicated feelings; whatever the conflict he is feeling, he cannot let the children see his uncertainty in this course of action. This is the deal that he has made, and he will have to see it through.

The children are still waiting to take their cue from him, and Jango is not so cruel as to make them more anxious.

‘Morut'yc vaar'tur,’ he greets them, tone carefully modulated. They do not reply, merely straighten even further, and Jango cannot help himself and gentles his tone when he adds, ‘I hope all of you slept well last night, ad’ike.’

They are not so undisciplined as to slump in relief, but they do relax a little at the affectionate Mando’a. N-11 slowly uncurls the tight fist at his side and flicks his eyes up at Jango’s warm smile. Jango paces around the group, inspecting them with a trainer’s eye.

N-5 has actually gotten very good at concealing his blades, and Jango tells him so, which gets him a flash of a bright happy grin.

‘Jate,’ he announces once he’s done with inspection. ‘K’udesii. Ke’slanar mhi.’

He leads the group to the mess, careful to set a comfortable pace for their shorter stride. The children collect their trays from the droid at the counter and seat themselves at their table.

Jango makes a circuit around the hall before collecting his own tray. He makes to sit at one of the other empty tables, intending to give the ade some space and privacy when he catches sight of more than one unhappy slant of lips and dejected slump of shoulders.

His grip tightens on his tray and he immediately course corrects.

The ade brighten, shuffling to make space for him on the bench. Still, Jango makes sure to ask, ‘Do you mind if I eat with you?’ and takes a seat only when the ade nod enthusiastically.

‘What are we doing today?’ asks N-7, munching on his calcium wafers and spraying debris everywhere.

Jango hums, swallowing his mouthful of water and wishes it were caf instead.

‘We’ll start with some drills and then move on to some spars. I want to see what you’re capable of, so I can work from there.’

The children exchange nervous glances and Jango softens his tone.

‘Don’t worry, ad’ike. Eat your breakfast,’ he tells them, and looks meaningfully at the untouched fibre cubes on N-6’s tray.

Drills are a safe place to start his assessment of the children. Drills are repetitive. Drills are boring.

But Jango finds that it is not an easy thing to witness, to watch these ik’aade conduct military drills with such precision and seriousness.

The children move perfectly in sync, in perfect formation, identical in every way, the line of every extended limb held at the same angle.

It makes Jango feel like he’s having vision trouble after a night of drinking tihaar with Myles and the others, and he knows that soon there will be more identical children, moving in identical ways, a whole hall of echoes, and he has to swallow down the sour taste at the back of his throat.

Taabir kotep, Jango, he tells himself firmly, trying to calm his jittering heartbeat. Sol’taab, t’ad’taab, mhi taabir.

He calls for a halt and the group stops immediately, standing at attention. There’s a fine sheen of sweat on their faces and their eyes track him nervously.

‘K’udesii,’ he tells them. ‘That’s enough for now. Take a break and have some water.’

The children shift restlessly, but do not move from their positions and Jango stops himself from frowning at them.

‘Sir,’ says N-11, eyes levelled at Jango’s chest. ‘We are not tired. We can continue for another hour at least.’

And this time Jango does frown. ‘I said that’s enough. Sit down and rest awhile.’

N-11’s presses his lips tightly together briefly, and then he tilts his chin up to meet Jango’s gaze. ‘We’re not tired,’ the boy repeats, voice fraught and sounding a little desperate and Jango doesn’t understand why.

‘Ad’ika-’ Jango starts but is cut off by a rush of frantic words from the boy.

‘-We can do more! Were our drills not satisfactory? We can practice until we get it right, we just need more time. We can perform better, I promise. We don’t need to rest; we can do this for hours. We can run suicides-’

‘Nayc.’

N-11’s snaps his mouth shut with a harsh click and drops his eyes, staring at Jango’s chest, face carefully blank and expressionless, except for the shine of tears gathering in the corner of his eyes.

Jango swears under his breath. A quick glance over the group and it feels like his heart is has been cut out, because every face is pale and stubbornly stoic and none of them would look him in the eye.

‘Oh, ad’ike,’ he says, and the words are broken-sounding things, and he can’t continue because he just doesn’t have the words.

Instead, he reaches for N-11 and the boy doesn’t react, unmoving as a statue. Jango presses the child close against his hip, one hand rubbing the small shoulders even as he reaches out for another ad. Slowly, gently, carefully, he gathers the children to him as he moves through their ranks, tucking them close to his body. N-11 is clutching at the fabric of his pants, burying his face in Jango’s side as he cries silently, whole body trembling.

He is not the only one.

Jango runs his hands comfortingly over their backs, carding his fingers through their hair, curls his warm palms at the nape of their necks, all the while murmuring to them soothingly in Mando’a.

Ad’ike, ad’ike. Ven’jate an, ad’ike. Ni ibic jii. Ni taylir gar. Beskar, tal bal taakur, ni kelir cabuor gar.

Everything will be alright, he promises them, over and over again. I am here now. I’ve got you. By beskar, blood and bone, I will protect you.

The ade clutch tightly to each other and to any part of Jango they can reach, ducking their heads and hiding their faces from the world. They are weeping – Jango is too – but they are unnervingly silent.

He speaks gently to them in Mando’a, in Basic, sings the lullabies that he remembers until his mouth runs dry and then he hums for them the war songs he knows.

Eventually though, he tapers off into silence himself even as he continues to pet and rock the sniffling ade in his arms.

He needs to speak, needs to assure them-

-but he doesn’t know how to begin.

‘All of you have been very brave,’ he tells them, because it is true. ‘I know it has been hard, and that you’ve suffered, and I am sorry that I could not be there for you then. But I am here now, ad’ike, and I will protect you. My body between you and harm, always.

‘There is nothing that will make me turn away from you. I will never abandon you. Gedet’ye, give me the time to prove this to you. Give me time to earn your trust.’

One of the ade makes a small wretched sounding keen, and it’s the first sound Jango has heard from any of them since N-11 last spoke.

Jango sinks down to sit himself on the floor, tugging the group with him.

‘Jate an, ner ade. Ven’jate an.’

He holds them all close and one by one, the ade fall asleep in a pile, exhausted, and emotionally spent. Jango tucks in their splayed limbs and strokes their heads and ignores the cameras in the room.

N-10 stirs, making to get up but Jango soothes him back to sleep.

‘Ke’nuhoy, ner ad.’

‘Hukaat'kama?’ the boy mumbles, fighting to keep his eyes open and Jango hums and strokes his head, pushing the curls off his forehead.

‘Lek. Ni ja'hailir gar. Ke’nuhoy, ad’ika. Morut’yc.’

Jango lets them sleep for a little over two hours, and then gently wakes them all to have a quick wash before their meal.

He collects his tray last and when he turns to find a seat, he sees that there is an empty seating space left for him at their table.

Midday meal is a subdued affair, with the children eating quietly and poking half-heartedly at their nutrient mush.

Jango eats with a little less dexterity than usual using his left hand, because N-6 is holding tightly onto the sleeve of his other hand under the table and is refusing to let go.

They all look up when the doors open, relaxing when Kina enters with Boba strapped across her chest in his birikad. There is a slight falter to her steps when she sees their sombre faces, but she gives them all a gentle smile when she reaches their table.

‘Su’cuy, anade.’

‘Su’cuy,’ the children quietly greet her in return, and she turns to Jango, question clear on her face but at Jango’s slight tilt of his head, she tactfully doesn’t ask what is wrong.

‘Ke’sirbur “su’cuy, buir”, Bob’ika,’ she croons to the ik’aad, as she hands him over to Jango.

N-6 quickly drops his hand away from Jango’s sleeve and Jango tucks the ik’aad to his chest, relief flooding him at having Bob’ika close again and giving him a quick brush of his lips on the tiny forehead. Once Bob’ika is comfortably nestled in the crook of his left arm, Jango casually slides his other hand to wrap around the much smaller one of N-6, giving it a gentle reassuring squeeze.

Jango doesn’t say anything, just settles more comfortably into his seat, as N-6 grips back tightly, a slight hitch in his breath.

Kina sits herself at the next bench over and Jango feels a flash of deep gratitude towards the Kaminii for remaining silent and supportive, taking her cue from Jango, and letting him navigate the situation.

‘Can I hold him?’ asks N-10, from a few seats away and Jango glances over.

‘Finish your meal first, ad’ika.’

‘M’not hungry,’ says N-10, bottom lip wobbling and looking on the verge of tears, which triggers a few sympathetic sniffles from around the table, and Jango traps a sigh behind his teeth.

‘Three more bites, alright? Then you can hold him.’

N-10 shovels three spoonfuls into his mouth and then pushes his tray away, cheeks bulging with food.

‘Chew and swallow first,’ Jango tells him firmly, and then Bob’ika is carefully passed over, brother to brother, to N-10 who promptly tucks Boba’s head into the crook of his neck and hugs him close, tension releasing from his shoulders.

Jango turns his attention to his own tray and the unappetising glob congealing in the centre. He doesn’t have much of an appetite either, the coil in his gut making him nauseous but the ade are observing him and he has to set the example here, so he picks up his dropped cutlery and eats.

Nobody speaks, and the children keep their eyes averted.

A bell rings, notifying them of their meal break drawing to an end, and the children cringe and hunched down even further in their seats.

Kina looks around at the children in concern, warbling lowly. Jango says nothing, mouth turning down at the edges as he takes in the mood.

‘Shall Boba and I see you all later for evening meal, Jango?’ Kina asks uncertainly.

Jango is already shaking his head. The children are miserable and afraid and are in no shape to do any further training today, and Jango is not going to force them to. ‘Nayc,’ he says, ‘we’re done for today.’

N-11 snaps his head up sharply at Jango, and then turns away just as quickly.

‘We’re going to head back to our rooms,’ he says calmly, directing the words at the Kaminii, but loud enough for the ade to hear. ‘I can start working on proposals for the training modules.’

At the mention of “training modules”, N-7 beside him flinches, and Jango runs a hand soothingly down the ad’s back, pushing down the curl of anger at the demagolka trainers who have terrorised these children.

‘Orun Wa has an outline of our complete training program,’ informs N-11 quietly, eyes locked firmly on the tabletop.

‘Orun Wa,’ Jango explodes fiercely and angrily, still keeping his eyes fixed on Kina, ‘dajun lo'shebs'ul narit! Hut’uunla shabla shabuir. Jariler bal pirunir sur'haaise.’

Kina blinks at him and Jango heaves out a loud breath, unclenching his fist and pushing his tensed shoulders down. He swallows, throat clicking and already regretting his outburst because he’s trying to assure the children, not traumatise them even further, but when he dares a look, rather than hunching away in fear, they actually look… reassured.

‘That’s … a lot of new Mando’a words,’ says N-6 shakily, but his small hand is still clutching Jango’s, and he hasn’t pulled away.

‘Lek,’ says Jango after a short sheepish pause and sounding a bit unsteady himself, ‘and you won’t be learning the meaning until you’re much older.’

N-7 snorts and Jango gives him a wry look.

‘Jate. Let’s clear up and head back, shall we?’ he suggests.

A few minutes later has them all making their way back to their quarters. Kina part ways with them with a warm ‘Ret’, to return to her office.

N-7 enters the passcode and the ade slip in. N-6 tugs Jango in after them, his fist in the fabric of Jango’s pants.

The other ade immediately pull the cushions off the seats to arrange on the floor, bringing in their blankets from their sleeping area, and Jango quickly realises they are wordlessly seeking comfort in a ritual he has started, and he swallows hard, and then steps forward to help the ade.

The mood in the room doesn’t feel right for a story, so instead, he gives them his presence and silent comfort.

‘Jango,’ says N-10 carefully, a frown on his brow even as he cuddles Boba in his lap, and Jango gives him a questioning hum when the boy hesitates and doesn’t continue.

‘… Boba is your son, lek?’

And Jango has a sudden feeling that he knows where this is going, and he doesn’t do more than reply with a calm, ‘Lek.’

‘… Bal kaysh cuyir cuun kih’vod, lek?’

And again, voice steady even as his heartbeat jumps, Jango responds, ‘Lek.’

They are all watching him now and N-10 draws a quick breath.

‘… Jango,’ he says, half fear and half raw hope writ on that young face, ‘Tion mhi gar ade?’

Jango reaches out carefully, willing his fingers not to tremble, as he runs a light touch – forehead to chin – on N-10’s face. N-10 inhales sharply, dark eyes shining with emotion.

‘Lek, ad’ike,’ he says gently, addressing them all. ‘If you would allow me to claim you as such.’

Chapter Text

The children are brilliant, so resilient, shereshoy, and Jango is proud of every single one of them.

They are also keenly observant. It’s not as if Jango allows himself to openly reveal his weak spots – old injuries healed not quite right; his right knee after that campaign on Iridonia always twinges something terrible at all the wrong times – he’s quite adept at hiding such potential targets, but these children home in on all of these areas without mercy.

N-12 feints to the left and lightning quick, darts in to kick at Jango’s knee. Jango manages to twist away before the small boot connects and grabs the boy’s ankle and tugs him off-balance.

In a manoeuvre that catches Jango by surprise, the boy latches onto Jango’s forearm and uses his entire weight to disbalance his larger opponent. And then in a move Jango definitely recognises but can’t counter in time, N-12 has swarmed up his upper body and has wrapped his legs firmly around Jango’s neck.

He freezes when N-12 gives a pointed squeeze with his thighs and a sharp poke to the back of his head, exactly where the central processor would be on a security droid.

‘Cetar,’ he yields and then reaches up to tap out on the boy’s knee, and then he helps the ad dismount.

‘Kandosii, ner ad,’ he says, and N-12 squirms happily and smirks up at him, before scampering to the side-lines.

‘Jate. Projor!’ Jango calls out, and N-11 steps into the training ring next.

Jango hides a concerned frown as he runs his gaze quickly over the boy, checking him over. N-11 has been quiet and subdued ever since his breakdown at training the rotation before, avoiding looking Jango in the eye, and just skirting the edges of Jango’s presence. It is completely unlike the ad’s usual behaviour, where Jango has noted that the boy acted as a sort of squad leader or an ori’vod to the other ade.

‘Tion tsikala?’ Jango prompts, and N-11 lips firm into a resolute line.

‘Lek, alor,’ the boy says, and salutes Jango with a tap of his fist to his kar’ta and Jango responds in the same way.

The bout begins but neither make a move. N-11 doesn’t slide into any combat position, merely stands there and Jango maintains his open posture in response; neither offensive nor defensive. Jango waits, patient and unmoving.

They remain as they are for long minutes, until the ade watching them grow restless and start shifting uncomfortably, confused, and still N-11 does nothing but stare at the floor near Jango’s feet.

‘Cetar,’ N-11 says abruptly and then turns around to make for the side-lines without waiting to be dismissed.

‘Ke’gev,’ Jango says sharply and N-11 jerks to a stop, curling a trembling fist at his side.

The other ade still, observing them with wide-eyes.

Jango approaches, makes sure his footsteps fall loud enough so the ad will not be startled by his close proximity.

‘Turn around please, ad’ika,’ Jango says, softening his tone but still firm.

‘I asked if you were ready, and you answered “yes”. To then yield without even an attempt is an insult to me, as your trainer,’ Jango says and N-11 winces hard. ‘You may excuse yourself from a spar if you have a valid reason. Tion suvarir?’

‘Elek, alor,’ N-11 says, barely louder than a whisper, and Jango feels absolutely dreadful and it’s hard, but it needs to be said.

He reaches out to touch the ad’s shoulder but stops himself when he sees the small flinch. Jango bites back a sigh, and then feels a little annoyed at himself for pushing too hard.

‘We’ll talk more later, ad,’ he says instead, and nods to indicate the other ade waiting outside the ring.

‘Elek, alor,’ N-11 repeats before he hastily makes his way to his vode.

Jango turns away to return to his side of the ring, using the brief moment to recentre himself.

‘Projor!’ he calls and N-10 steps forward onto the training mat. ‘Tion tsikala?’

‘Tsikala, alor!’

Jango has just changed into a fresh tunic after a shower and is about to feed a fussing Boba when the door chimes. He shuffles the ik’aad onto one arm, slipping a kal’ika into the sleeve of his free arm, and then gets the door.

He does not expect to see N-11 standing outside, face stoic, and a slightly anxious looking N-5 plastered along his side.

‘Su’cuy, ad’ike.’

‘Alor,’ nods N-11, casting a quick look up at Jango’s face before settling his gaze straight ahead.

‘We can care for Bob’ika for a while, buir,’ offers N-5, casting a sideways glance at his brother, and then at Jango. ‘While the two of you … talk …’

Jango did not think N-11 would present himself quite so promptly after the training session. He had planned to summon the boy a little later but studying the boy’s pale complexion and grimly resolute expression, as if awaiting an execution, Jango thinks that maybe it would be kinder to have that conversation now rather than later.

Jango hums. ‘Jate, a’pare sol, N-5. Let me get you his things,’ he says, and unloads Boba into N-5’s arms and then hands him the small satchel that Jango has prepared as Boba’s go-bag. ‘Come get me if you have any problems, lek?’

‘Lek, buir,’ says N-5, flashing him a quick smile. He bumps his shoulder gently against his brother, giving him a meaningful look before taking off, leaving Jango and N-11 standing in the hallway.

Jango waits until he sees N-5 disappear through the doorway of their quarters before looking down at N-11 still standing before him.

‘Ko’r,’ he invites, waving the boy in and N-11 steps in stiffly after him.

Jango’s new quarters are bigger than the cramped place Taun We had assigned him. Like the new quarters allocated to the ade, it has its own small pantry and seating area. He gestures for the ad to take a seat and then goes to the pantry, running through the options he has in his head for possible refreshments to offer; it’s not like he has much, but years spent on battlefields with only field rations has made him quite creative at adapting what ingredients he does have on hand.

He returns to the seating area with drinks in hand – semi-sweet fibre paste diluted in chilled water – and places one on the low table in front of the ad.

N-11 clenches his fist in his lap, and thanks Jango without meeting his eyes.

Jango sinks down on the seat opposite and considers the child before him, and thinks again of Jaster and Arla with painful squeeze in his chest.

The ad speaks abruptly before Jango has gathered his own words.

‘I would like to step down as squad leader and nominate N-7 for the position.’

It is so wrong to hear these terms from a child’s lips that it takes a second for Jango to understand what the ad is saying.

‘Why?’ Jango asks, having a feeling that he knows the shape of the ad’s hesitance, but wanting to know for certain.

N-11 lips turn down at the corners unhappily, ‘I am not good enough. N-7 can lead them. He is more adaptable and capable than I am.’

‘He is adaptable, and very capable,’ Jango agrees carefully, studying the boy in front of him.

‘Jate,’ says N-11, nodding jerkily and looking relieved. ‘I will inform the others immediately-’

‘Nayc,’ Jango interrupts calmly, looking the ad in the eye. ‘I want you to remain as squad leader.’

This boy flinches as if he has been struck.

‘But why?’ N-11 asks desperately. ‘I haven’t been performing well; I’ve failed to maintain my squad’s performance, I’ve been insubordinate, I was ill-prepared, and I don’t know how to-’ N-11 cut’s himself off suddenly.

Jango cocks his head and keeps his tone mild. ‘Don’t know how to…?’ he prompts.

N-11 presses his lips tightly together and stares back at him with wide eyes.

‘Ner ad-’ begins Jango gently but N-11 makes a sharp noise of distress that gives Jango pause, and then he suddenly understands, so he amends with, ‘Ad’ika,’ but he still needs the ad to trace to the origins of his worries, to give it form, so Jango presses on with, ‘I need you to tell me what troubles you, so that I can help you. Tell me, gedet’ye.’  

The boy is looking increasingly cornered but remains silent.

‘Ke’rejorhaa'ir ni,’ repeats Jango in Mando’a, making it an order this time.

‘I don’t know!’ N-11 shrieks, looking wild about the eyes, and then more words come tumbling out, jumbled, jagged and fast, ‘I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know! I don’t know how to operate within the new parameters! I don’t understand what you want from me, from us! I don’t know the operational procedures you are expecting, and I cannot prepare the squad adequately. We do not have a framework of reference for expected conduct, and I’ve already made so many mistakes. It is not fair to punish the others because of me, because I cannot adapt.’

N-11 is shaking, chest heaving, hands clenching to the edge of the seat as he sways unsteadily.

‘It is alright, ad’ika. Jate an. Breath with me, in and out,’ murmurs Jango, kneeling on the floor and pressing their foreheads together. N-11 makes a small noise and slams his eyes shut. ‘Jate an, jate an.’

N-11 tries to pull away, and Jango drops a palm to the boy’s nape, grounding him and holding him close.

‘Please,’ begs N-11, though he doesn’t struggle in Jango’s hold. ‘Please, gedet’ye, alor.’

It feels like his heart is breaking as Jango gathers the child into his arms, tucking the boy's head into the crook of his neck. He can feel the hot tears on his skin, the full body trembles against his chest.

Jaster had waited for Arla for years before she had been ready to accept him; Jango knows he must do the same and be patient for this boy.

He strokes the boy’s hair, calming him down.

‘Jate an, ad’ika. Jate an meh gar ne’tsikala. Ni pare par gar.’

‘But what if I am never ready? What if I don’t want it?’ mutters quietly N-11 into Jango’s neck.

Jango doesn’t do more than just hum reassuringly, continues running his fingers through the dark curls, even if it feels like a kal’ika has been driven into his chest and given a cruel twist. But it is not about what Jango wants here, it is what N-11 is ready to accept.

‘Then that is alright too,’ he promises solemnly. ‘No matter what, ad’ika, ni kelir cabuor gar. Beskar, blood and bone. I will still be your ba’juir, even if I cannot be your buir. Haat, ijaa, haa’it.’

The rest of the tenday hurtles by like the stretch of starlight through the viewport of a shuttle jumping through hyperspace; their course is already set. Jango watches protectively over them all. He keeps a close eye on N-11, though he does it as discreetly as he can, not wanting to put any pressure on the ad.

N-11 has taken Jango’s advice to heart and has temporarily given command over to N-7.

‘That is what your Second is for, ad,’ Jango had told him after their talk. ‘They are there to provide you support when you most need it. A good leader knows when to seek help from those around him.’

And that night when Jango recited his Aay’han, he had thought of Myles, steadfast, loyal, of his sacrifice and his last words sent over comms… and the edge of grief had cut deeper than ever.

N-7 slides neatly into the position of squad leader and the others follow him easily, seamlessly. It is a team dynamic that is comfortably adopted.

Testing the squad’s ability to adapt to a different commander, and to test N-7’s leadership mettle, were good excuses to use to ease the pressure off N-11 for a few rotations; the ad takes far too much personal responsibility.

Jango checks the chrono.

‘You’ve got ten more minutes,’ he calls out, hiding his fond amusement when several heads pop up from the group huddle at the other end of the room, where the ade are busy trying to come up with a strategy for a simulated skirmish.

The dark heads bend down again and Jango’s amusement dims when he catches snatches of phrases like “casualty rates” and “diversionary operations”, and it is a cold reminder that these children are being trained for war.

‘Jate, time’s up!’ he says loudly, when the allotted time is over.

The children immediately return to their seats at the front of the room and N-7 hands over a datachip to Jango, who slots it in at the holo projector. They all watch as the program runs, using the ade’s proposals in the simulation.

The simulation ends with a victory for the GAR, but with heavy loses.

Jango rewinds to the key moments in the battle and questions the ade on the factors that played into their decisions.

‘Why did you send the 501st battalion to take the eastern plains?’

‘It was a diversionary tactic, alor,’ N-7 explains. ‘It was to provoke the Umbarans and draw them into the fields.’

‘A battle in the open fields and without air support? The Umbarans would have the advantage there. Why didn’t you choose to send gunships with your men?’

‘It’s just a diversion,’ the ad repeats. ‘The objective was to draw out the Umbarans. We factored in the costs of loss of the clone units versus the gunships.’

 ‘The financial costs, you mean?’ he carefully asks for clarification, and keeps his expression neutral when the ad nods.

Jango turns back to the console and ejects the datachip and hands it back to N-7.

‘Alor?’ the boy says, looking uncertain.

Jango exhales slowly and says, ‘Same simulation, new end goal parameters; mission success with minimal casualties.’

N-7 looks down at the datachip in his small hands, and then back up at Jango and the words his says next makes Jango go still.

‘But we’re just clones, alor. We’re meant to be expendable.’

‘Nayc, ner ad,’ Jango says, pained. His fingers are shaking as he traces N-7 face reverently, hairline to chin. ‘Nayc. Your lives are precious. Every single one. Gedet’ye, try again and come up with a different strategy.’

A droid assistant comes to them in the middle of their firstmeal the next rotation. It has everyone tensing in their seats as it draws to a stop next to their table and N-5 is not the only one sliding a kal’ika into his palm.

‘Jango Vhett,’ the droid beeps. ‘You are to present your assessment report to Taun We in an hour’s time.’

Message delivered, it promptly wheels around and leaves them.

Jango huffs in annoyance and then eases his blade up his sleeve again.

‘We can run drills by ourselves until you return,’ says N-7, but Jango shakes his head. He doesn’t trust the Munit’videke enough to leave the ad’ike unsupervised and unguarded. He cannot risk that.

‘I’ll get Kina to join you in your quarters. You can use the time to practice your slicing skills.’

That would work nicely; Kina has indicated an open willingness to provide assistance whenever and however she can. This way, the aliit will be together in a defensible position and the ade can dismantle and hack into the systems of whatever unfortunate droid Kina brings along with her.

Jango pulls out his datapad and types out a quick message to the Kaminii, and almost immediately receives a reply from her.

‘Jate. She’ll meet us there when we are done here,’ he informs the group, and then automatically reaches across the table to swap the red coloured fibre cubes on his own tray with the green ones on N-6’s. N-6 smiles happily at Jango, immediately eating the fibre cubes with his preferred flavourings. Jango pretends not to see N-5 surreptitiously exchange a few of his own carb discs with Jango’s.

They finish their meal quickly and then make their way back to their quarters. Jango assigns the ade some reading modules and then digs out his datapad to go over his notes as he wait for Kina and Bob’ika to turn up.

‘Jate an?’ he checks in with the children, counting heads.

‘Lek, buir,’ N-7 tips his head at him. ‘We will see you at midmeal?’

Jango hums and reaches out to ruffle the dark head of hair affectionately. ‘I hope to be done by then. Take care of each other.’ He catches N-11’s eye and the boy nods back once, looking serious.

Jango has time enough to exchange a few words with Kina when she appears, and to drop a kiss to Boba’s forehead, and then he’s out the doors, making sure it is locked behind him, before striding off to Taun We’s office located on the other side of the vast facility.

Halfway there, as he waits for the turbolift that he has summoned, a small cleaning droid comes skidding around the corner. A pair of security droids show up shortly after, who settle themselves by his sides as his escorts. He ignores them as easily as he ignores the malfunctioning cleaning droid that runs over his boot.

It is not a surprise to find that the Munit’videke have him under constant surveillance. Taun We has warned him before that they were tracking him through his collar.

The Munit’videke are not comfortable letting him roam freely, and Jango doesn’t care about making them feel comfortable with his presence. Par val haatyc or'arue jate’shya ori'sol lenedat'ike. Let them watch him, let Jango draw their eye and ire away from the children.

In his mind, he can hear N-6 calling it a “diversionary operation”. He knows it had been N-6 who said it too, during the tactical planning lesson; the children might all look and sound identical, Eyayad’ike, but with a single glance, Jango can tell them apart by the way they hold themselves and how they move; can identify each ad by their inflections and the way they speak.

Sol’taab t’ad’taab, he marches on steadily, one foot in front of the other until at last he is before Taun We’s office and he is admitted inside, with the droids following him in. Like with every single area Jango has ventured into on Kamino thus far, Taun We’s large office is austere and brightly lit.

Taun We is at her desk, and she watches him enter, a cool expression on her face. Another familiar Munit’videk is with her, sitting in one of the two seats in front of Taun We.

‘Su’cuy,’ he greets them levelly, and then drops himself into the empty seat beside Nala Se.

‘Jango Vhett,’ Nala Se greets him with a tip of her head, her trinkets tingling softly.

Taun We presses her lips together and Jango suspects she might have commented something in subharmonic Kamin’a outside of his hearing range, because Nala Se slides her a glance and chirps questioningly.

‘Template,’ Taun We addresses him, and Jango doesn’t allow himself a reaction to the term. ‘You have had the Null clones in your care and training for the past several rotations. I would have your report now.’

Jango does frown at the way she had referred to the Eyayad’ike.

‘Why do you call them that?’ he asks instead and sees impatience flare in Taun We’s eyes.

‘They were never meant to be more than the first and the last of their series; a prototype for testing. And now, their flawed genetic design has been discontinued from further production,’ she tells him, her tone clipped and annoyed. ‘Your report, Template.’

Jango stares at her for a few moments, and he can’t help but calculate the odds of him managing to kill her before the collar goes off-

-remembers the chips implanted in the children-

-and then produces his datapad instead of the kal’ika.

Taun We hums, looking amused and knowing, as if she knows the direction and the quick reroute of Jango’s thoughts. Jango only allows himself to briefly grit his teeth, and then he pushes away the spike of rage and smooths out the lines on his face. His tone is distant, and his body language is blank and professional as he starts his report.

Chapter Text

Jango reaches for calm as he faces Taun We, tries to tuck his apprehension and anger behind a blank expression. He tries to imagine the situation is no different than meeting with Republic representatives at a negotiation table, but this is about the ade, his sons, and it feels like there’s a vice around his chest, squeezing tighter with every second that passes.

Taun We’s dark eyes stare unblinkingly at him, and it is a long moment after Jango’s report before she speaks.

‘In your opinion, are the clones’ training progressing at an acceptable rate?’ she questions him, and it sounds like an obvious trap.

‘The children are capable, and have the potential for a lot more,’ he answers, which is true. ‘They are much more advanced in their training than any other children I’ve known.’

Taun We scoffs, ‘That is not an assuring statement. The clones were design with specific mental and physical enhancements; of course, they are superior. How are the training sessions going?’

‘We are getting into the rhythm of things,’ Jango replies. ‘An adjustment period was needed to settle them into their new schedules.’

And for me to learn the scope of their mental conditioning, Jango doesn’t say. A few rotations with the ade is enough for Jango to know that the demagolkase have been conditioning a mindset upon the children to think of themselves as product, less than sentient, exchangeable, replaceable, and expendable.

She cold gaze sharpens on him and Jango feels his heartbeat quicken. ‘You are saying that the clones are unable to adapt easily? It should be noted that the ability to quickly adapt to new situations or a new commanding officer is a necessity, when they are serving with the GAR.’

Jango bites his tongue and curses internally as his verbal misstep.

‘I am saying,’ he says carefully, tone as level as he can make it, ‘that this is obviously unchartered territory – for all parties involved. It is hard to truly judge their progress when standard metrics cannot be applied. That said, I am confident that they will be fully trained to acceptable GAR standards by the time they reach maturity.’

The Munit’videk stares at him for a long silent minute and then she reaches to tap on the buttons on her console, and a holo appears, projected in the air above her desk.

Jango stills, makes his expression blank and stoic, as a recording plays, and he is sharply aware of Taun We observing his face and his reactions. It is a recording taken from one of the cameras in the training halls, of the first day of training with the children. There isn’t any accompanying audio, but Jango viscerally remembers the way the children had huddled around him, their warm little bodies pressed close to his as they turned their faces away from the cameras to hide their tears as they silently cried.

Taun We makes them watch the entire length of the clip, as the children continue to grip tightly to Jango, clutching to one another, clustered tight in a shuddering miserable huddle, slowly calmed and soothed into exhausted sleep by Jango.

The holo recording finally ends and Jango meets Taun We’s eyes, neither challenging nor defensive, just carefully blank. Sitting at his side, Nala Se continues to stare at the space where the recording played, humming contemplatively.

‘Have the clones been emotionally unstable?’ Nala Se asks suddenly, breaking the silence of the toom, turning to Jango.

Jango tamps down on the instinctive reaction that surges, the protective need to defend the children, and twists to eye the Munit’videk beside him. Her tone, however, is that of honest professional curiosity, rather than designed to hide a trap.

Still, Jango weighs the situation cautiously before answering. ‘It has been an eventful few rotations,’ Jango feels compelled to remind the scientist. ‘But yes,’ he admits despite his reluctance, ‘their moods fluctuate to the extreme, sometimes within a short time frame.’

Jango swallows the other words he wants to say, half-formed sentences which are a confusing mix of accusatory, provocative, and defensive. He already misspoke once, and it will do him and the ade no favours to attack Nala Se now.

Nala Se thrums thoughtfully, eyes going slitted and then she turns to the other Munit’videk.

‘Our research into baseline human early childhood development has actually highlighted certain behavioural fluctuations that are attributed to a combination of physical, social, and emotional development. In short, undesirable as it may seem… considering their growth cycles, their behaviour is still within normal parameters and expectations.’

Jango can’t suppress his small jerk of surprise at the unexpected support, darting a glance at the scientist.

Taun We’s presses her lips together, and the two of them exchange a long series of whistles and clicks before Taun We sits back. She barely looks mollified, but Nala Se seems calm, still chirping away with her explanations.

Eventually, Nala Se tips her head at Jango to say, ‘Objectively, as a human, would you say that there is any cause for concern regarding their behaviour?’

They are just being children, Jango wants to say in frustration, but knows that would not be enough to convince the Munit’videke. ‘No. It’s all normal behaviour.’

He turns to direct the next words to Taun We sitting opposite him. ‘You are not building droids; some deviations and quirks are to be expected. With proper training and guidance, the children will be everything and more, than what your client is expecting,’ Jango promises calmly.

Taun We’s eyes narrows at him, sensing the dangerous edges of his words.

‘What we need is time,’ Jango continues, not letting his face show any hint of a plan beginning to take shape in his suddenly racing thoughts. Dral’Mandalor ne’nau’ur kad solus tuur. The Empire was not forged in a day.

The Munit’videk trills in irritation. ‘Time,’ she says in between aggravated clicks, ‘is not a commodity we will have, when we begin large scale production and if we are to meet the delivery date. It will not be feasible to dedicate so much personal attention to the individual clones when we will have batches that will run in the thousands.’

Jango clamps down hard on his reaction and sits as he is, palms flat on his thighs.

Again, Nala Se cuts in, tone smooth and unruffled by the tension in the room. ‘That is so,’ she agrees with a slow nod. ‘However, keeping the Null clones might actually be a wise decision as they are the control batch, against which the other batches can be measured and compared to. We can continue to track and take note on areas of improvement.’

When Taun We doesn’t seem to have anything else to say, Nala Se hums and then stands, twisting to look down at Jango.

‘Jango Vhett, if you would accompany me to the research wing? We are in need of your genetic material,’ she tells him serenely.

Jango nods dutifully, very carefully not looking in Taun We’s direction as he stands to follow the scientist out of the office, keeping his pace calm and unhurried in his retreat.

When the doors close after them, Nala Se clicks something at the security droids escorting Jango, and they immediately turn and trudge away. Jango watches them disappear around the corner and then turns to look at the scientist, only to find her already more than halfway down the opposite corridor.

‘Come along, Jango Vhett,’ she calls, not slowing her stride in the least.

Jango grinds his teeth and goes after her, jogging a little to catch up with the Munit’videk. He keeps his silence as they make their way through the length of the research facility, to the other end where Nala Se and her scientists are based.

The other Munit’videke in the laboratory spare him only a bare glance before going back to their work. Jango surveys the room and makes no move to hide his longer than usual study of the empty workstation that is Orun Wa’s.

He sits where he is directed and thrusts his arm up to the lab assistant droid that appears to take his blood.

Nala Se has glided away to check on her team, and Jango watches them titter and thrum away in Kamin’a.

Eventually, she drifts back his way again to check on the blood collected from Jango, absent-mindedly sliding a liquid glucose pack towards him.

‘You got what you need?’ Jango asks, staring intently at her face and trying to ignore the urge to scratch at where needles are embedded under his skin.

She hums and taps the collection cylinder. ‘Almost done,’ she assures him.

‘Tell me about the clones,’ Jango suddenly says, surprising even himself. ‘The other clones, I mean. The next batches.’

Nala Se blinks at him slowly.

‘You are very invested in the clones,’ she notes. ‘Why is that?’

‘They’re made of me,’ he needlessly reminds her drily, indicating his arm with the needles. ‘They’re made from my blood; of course I’m invested.’

She hums lowly, studying him with a contemplative look on her pale face. Then Munit’videk withdraws, and Jango thinks she’s just going to ignore him, but instead, she goes to find a stool and sets it in front of Jango. She settles herself upon it, and then tips her head at Jango.

‘What do you know of my species, Jango Vhett? Do you know how we reproduce?’

Jango frowns and blinks back at her. ‘Tell me,’ he says.

‘You know my name in Basic to be Nala Se,’ she says. ‘That is the part that is audible to you. Kaminoan names have ordinal suffixes.’

She pauses a beat, and then gives him her full name. She’s right; Jango can only clearly discern the first part while the other half is a jumble of subharmonics and clicks.  

‘The ordinal suffix attached to my name functions as a unique identifier for myself,’ she tells him, gesturing to herself with one long limb.

Jango takes a long moment to stare at her, trying to understand what she’s saying.

‘Are you telling me,’ he says slowly, ‘that there are other Nala Se’s out there?’

Nala Se hums a negative, reaching out towards Jango’s arm to remove the needles. Her movements are quick and deft, and she even takes the time to dab a little bacta on the spot.

‘Before my emergence, there were six of us that were identical.’

‘What happened to the others?’ asks Jango steadily, despite the cold rising dread he feels.

She cocks her head at him.

‘They were terminated before emergence,’ she tells him simply. ‘There were some minor defects or deficiencies with the others, so I was the one chosen from my clutch.’

Jango swallows hard. ‘But… why?’

‘This is the Kaminoan way,’ she says patiently. ‘A sponsor may select for emergence only one new life. However, it is up to the sponsor and their budget to determine the size of the clutch.’

She leans in a little closer to explain further, peering intently at his face as if to gauge his reaction. ‘I am made from my sponsor’s blood, her genetic material. She had specified for some enhancements, yes, but she is my base template. Her name was Nala Se.’

The suffix she produces after the sponsor’s name is probably different to the one she says is her own, but Jango has no ability to tell them apart.

‘How many successfully emerged Nala Se’s have there been before you? Do you know?’ he asks somewhat faintly, reeling from the revelations.

‘Of course,’ she says. ‘That is exactly what the ordinals are for; I am the eighty-seventh of my line. Admittedly, my line is considered to be quite young, created from splicing the genetic material from three different contributors. There are others who can trace their lineage further back, all the way to our planet’s ice age.

‘We – quite literally – reproduce ourselves,’ she says with an amused hum.

He stares at her in mute disbelief.

‘Everyone?’ Jango manages. ‘Taun We? Kina Ha?’

Nala Se’s expression immediately darkens at the mention of the smaller Kaminii. ‘Yes,’ she says, tone clipped. ‘It is a similar process for everyone.’

‘For Kina Ha too?’ Jango can’t help but press because there is definitely something there.

‘Kina Ha,’ hisses Nala Se coldly, ‘is an abnormality.’

The Munit’videk stands abruptly and gives Jango one last look, before turning away in dismissal.

Jango pushes himself to his feet and sways unsteadily, feeling a dizzying moment of vertigo. He grabs the glucose pack and rips into a corner with his teeth.

That was quite a lot of blood they had taken from him today.

He briefly wonders at what sort of testing the scientists are up to now, and the kind of enhanced clones they hope to create from it.

Jango forcibly swallows down his nausea along with the sickeningly sweet rehydration solution.

He is a little late, by the time he makes it to the mess hall. The children are already seated with their trays. They have saved him his usual spot, with his tray already prepped. The food on their own trays are untouched as they seem to be waiting for him.

The tight feeling in his chest eases to see the children again and he huffs out a small breath of relief. He detours a little to exchange a brief brokar’ta and a few quick words with the Kaminii sitting at the next table over, and to check on the sleeping Bob’ika strapped to her chest.

‘Din’kartay?’ he asks, when he reaches the children’s table, exactly the same time as N-11, and Jango chuckles a bit before giving the ad a warm smile.

Jango slides into his seat, making sure to thank them for getting his meal. The second he is fully seated, N-6 nudges his own tray towards Jango’s, a silent question on his face that makes Jango huff. He answers by pushing his own tray towards the ad, letting him swap for whatever flavour the ad wants.

‘Everything went well. Jate an,’ he answers N-11’s question, assuring them, tapping the dadita code out deliberately on the tabletop. The children observe sharp-eyed and Jango gives them a small nod, pleased. They are very fast learners. ‘What about your morning? Did you give Kina any trouble?’

N-7 gives him a mildly affronted look. ‘Of course not. We completed all our assignments early, so Kina instructed us to do individual research on any notable figures of our choosing.’

Jango makes a sound of interest as he receives his tray back and reaches for his multitensil. ‘That sounds interesting. Who did you pick?’ he asks N-7, intending to ask the same for the rest of the group.

Curiously, N-7 flushes bright red and the others start snickering into their food.

The boy mumbles something barely intelligible before hurriedly stuffing food into his mouth.

‘Tion meg?’ asks Jango, his attention and interest piqued now.

N-6 gleefully digs an elbow into his brother’s side in encouragement as the boy squirms.

N-7 throws a ferocious glare around the table at his brothers, which does nothing except make them laugh openly at him. The boy turns to Jango who looks at him expectantly with eyebrows raised. N-7 clears his throat and then tips his chin up.

‘I chose to research about Jayd Mereel.’

 Jango eyes the rest of the children as they all devolve into sniggers.  

‘Jayd Mereel, the Al’verde from the story you told us?’ N-7 rushes to remind Jango, sounding a little desperate and strained, and his face is red to the tips of his ears.

Jango quells the rest of them with a look and then nods encouragingly at N-7, ‘Lek, I remember. The story with the Xan Du war stratagems.’

‘She is amazing!’ pipes up N-5, from the other end of the table. ‘Kandosii’la!’

Jango twitches, snapping his attention to N-5, even as the other boys start laughing again.

‘Did you know that before Mereel joined the Empire, she was a pirate? She had thousands of ships in her command!’ N-5 gushes, a mischievous glint in his dark eyes as he darts a look at N-7.

Jango glances between the two boys then slides his attention more to N-5; not so much as to the content of his words – because the ad is still enthusiastically chattering away about Jayd Mereel – but to the shape of it, to the tone, the inflections, the hand gestures, and the body language. Jango cocks his head as he studies the ad for a few moments, because the boy is definitely doing an uncannily accurate impersonation of N-7.

N-7, who is starting to look a little upset at the teasing.

‘Alright, that’s enough. Stop teasing your brother,’ Jango says firmly, and N-5 immediately stops mid-sentence, and Jango notes the subtle change to the slope of his shoulders when the boy drops the impersonation.

He gives one last quelling look around the rest of the table. One or two of the ade look chastened but the others seem boldly unrepentant and Jango swallows down a sigh.

‘Jayd Mereel is amazing,’ he tells N-7 and the boy fidgets under his attention. ‘Did you know she is the founder of my House?’

‘Lek!’ N-7 enthuses loudly, straightening in his seat excitedly and actually reaches out to grasp at Jango’s sleeve with both hands, and Jango hides his surprise because it is a very rare thing for any of the boys to initiate physical contact with him, especially so boldly.

But apparently N-7’s new obsession has eclipsed even his normal reticence and he actually shakes Jango’s arm in his excitement.

‘Bal gar Ad’be’Mand’alor Mereel, lek?’

There is a painfully squeeze around his chest, even as he directs a small smile at the excited child. ‘Lek,’ Jango confirms, voice a little uneven just thinking about Jaster at this moment. ‘Jaster Mereel ner buir; kaysh ba’buir gar.’

N-7’s eyes grow huge and round. ‘Kandosii’la,’ the boy breathes and Jango huffs out a small laugh despite himself, eyes a bit watery.

‘He would have loved all of you,’ Jango tells them earnestly. ‘So much,’ he says in a softer tone, and runs a light touch, forehead to chin, down the boy’s face, like Jas’buir had always done for Jango and his vod.

N-7 blinks up at him.

‘Buir,’ he says hesitantly.

Jango hums questioningly as he combs his fingers through his ad’s hair, trying ineffectively to tame the curls.

N-7 has a frown between his eyes and his bottom lip juts out, making the very same face he did when he was working through the introductory improvised explosive device training module.

‘Tion ner gai N-E’tad Vhett?’

Jango stills, then drops his hand to the boy’s shoulders.

This is one of the important things that Jango has wanted to address but has no idea the angle with which to approach the subject, without distressing any of the ade. The ade have been raised by Munit’videke, whose entire culture and society – according to Nala Se – seems to be based on cloning, and to them, having a serial number to their own names is a norm.

But these children are not Munit’videke. And unlike the Munit’videke who allow for only one emergence per clutch, there are six children here, made from Jango’s blood. Seven, if he counts Bob’ika. The thought that there will potentially be millions more on the way still makes Jango feel a bit faint if he dwells on it for too long, so he pushes that thought away.

Still, Jango is doing his best to raise these children in the Mandalorian ways, to be Haat’ad.

‘Gar ner ad. My clan name is yours, if you want it,’ he says firmly.

‘Your name…’ he says, pausing a little after the emphasis, ‘is yours.’

As much as it brings up conflicted feelings in him, the designations that were given to the children are all they have known, and the children lack the broader context of why Jango thinks their serial numbers are wrong.

What right does Jango have to name these children? They are their own persons already, and it’s a joy and an honour, to witness their hidden quirks and personalities slowly emerging under his steady guidance.

Jango is trying his best to provide for them a safe space to break away from the strict Munit’videke conditioning of conformity, and - 

- he thinks about the countless slaves Dral’Mandalor has freed in the Empire’s expansion, and the stories they have shared –

- and he feels the bitter weight of the collar around his own neck.

Choices. He is trying to give them small freedoms, wherever and whenever he safely can.

If the Eyayade must all wear the same face, then they must have something that gives each of them their own identity, something that they can own. And names are an important thing to own.

‘Like the kar’ta bal manda of a beskar’gam, a name must reflect you,’ he tells them, after a long moment that only functions to sharpen their attention on him. ‘Names have power and meaning, ad’ike, and it is yours to claim.’

The children mull this over in silence for a few minutes and then N-7 shifts and straightens.

‘I want a name,’ he says fiercely, dark eyes flashing, and Jango’s heart jumps in his chest. ‘And,’ he boys says with a challenging look around at his brothers, ‘I want to be called Mereel.’

Oh, thinks Jango somewhat faintly, with a terrible lurch of emotions. The ad does not want to carry my clan’s name.

It is not that unusual for an ad to not claim the clan of their adoptive buir; Jango himself chose to keep his clan name, as did Arla. But to hear such a rejection from the ad feels like taking a blastershot to the chest, and Jango manages to school his expression when the ad turns to tip his face up to meet Jango’s.

‘Mereel is a good name,’ the ad explains, as if he has to justify his choice to Jango. Which he doesn’t; and Jango knows exactly the power the name carries. And Jaster being the boy’s ba’buir, it’s not as if he can’t claim the clan.

‘Jayd Mereel united a thousand pirate clans under her banner. Jogen Mereel held off invading Sith ground forces with only three hundred ori’ramikade in the Battle of Trandosha. Julian Mereel dismantled forty-three enemy encampments by himself,’ N-7 says, listing them with his fingers. ‘Mand’alor Jaster Mereel, Mand’alor the Reformer.’ Here N-7 stumbles on his words a little and then rallies, tipping his head up proudly.

‘He was buir to my buir,’ the boy says, holding Jango’s gaze firmly. ‘And I want to carry his name next to yours.’

It takes a fraction of a second and then-

Oh, thinks Jango unsteadily, and this time his emotions swing wildly to the other end of the spectrum.

It’s not exactly conventional, but Jango doesn’t care. It feels right. The boy wants to be named, so it must be right.

He reaches out to pull the boy closer and then presses their foreheads together in a gentle mirshmure’cya. Jango squeezes his eyes shut tightly and takes a few seconds to breathe deeply. ‘I wish he could have met you,’ Jango tells him softly, voice rough with emotion. ‘Ni kyr'tayl gai sa'ad, Mereel Vhett.’

Mereel beams back, wild and happy, and Jango drags the ad into his chest and into a tight hug. Jango closes his eyes and pulls in a deep breath.

‘Ner ad. Ner ad Mereel,’ he reaffirms. He places a kiss on the top of the boy’s head and releases him.

Jango sniffs, his eyes damp, and then turns to the other ade who are watching quietly. There’s wonder openly writ on their faces, as if the thought of having a name was something unattainable until now.

‘Gai ra gaigotalur, vode an,’ he says to them, voice still a little hoarse. ‘Name or designation, brothers all.’

Chapter Text

Nala Se summons Jango a further eight times in the following three tendays, each time drawing more blood from him. And after every session, he chases down the dry and bitter iron supplement tablets she gives him with the glucose packs, and then forces himself to wait a few minutes until he feels steady enough on his feet before staggering back to his quarters.

She might be harvesting too much, too fast though, because this time on his way back, the floor beneath his feet tilt alarmingly and he sways to a stop in the middle of the hallway, trying to keep himself from toppling over.

He closes his eyes and grits his teeth against the fatigue tugging at his limbs, trying to will himself to move. Between Bob’ika and the early mornings and the training and Nala Se’s demands, Jango feels like a hyperspace jump gone wrong, his atoms smeared across half the galaxy.

He tries to hide his tiredness and his worry from the ade, but they’re too kriffing observant and they say things like ‘We can run drills by ourselves today, alor’ and ‘We would like to request more strategy simulation sessions’ in a blatant effort to give Jango some time away from strenuous physical activities.

Jango cannot afford to fail any of the ade; the price is too high. He cannot bear to think of Bob’ika sealed away again in a case, surrounded only by soundproof transparisteel and uncaring scientists. Or the other children placed under the supervision of Orun Wa or Ko Sai. He’s not going to allow any of them to be taken away from him.

There’s a faint whirring of servos near him and Jango peels his eyes open to find a security droid right up in his face. He is too exhausted to even startle, so he just blinks blearily at the droid.

‘What?’ he grunts at it and receives in return a nonsense string of binary beeps. He frowns at it, decidedly not in the mood to decipher corrupted binary when the droid beeps at him again.

Pare sol, he thinks, squinting at it. The rhythm of the beeps is not binary; it is dadita.

[BUIR] the droid beeps, much to Jango’s bewildered consternation. [ME’VAAR TI GAR?]

‘…Naas,’ he mumbles in reply, eyeing the droid.

Somehow, he feels like the silent regard he receives in return is heavy with scepticism and exasperation.

The droid slowly lifts a servo and pokes at Jango’s forehead, nose, and chin.

Ohhh.

Slow comprehension must show on his face because the ad hijacking the controls of the droid makes it take a step back. [KE’SLANAR MHI, BUIR. HUKAAT’KAMA.]

Jango starts moving, shuffling slowly down the hallways.

[SOL’TAAB T’AD’TAAB] the droid beeps encouragement at him in its monotonous tone, and Jango huffs a tired laugh.

‘Anade jate?’ he asks, trying to distract himself from the long, long walk back to quarters.

[AN JATE] the droid answers immediately. [ORI’JATE. ANADE JATE.]

That is one too many reassurances, and Jango slants a suspicious look at the droid.

‘Ad,’ Jango says warningly. ‘Me’bana?’

[NAAS, BUIR. HAAT.]

Jango groans and tries to make his body move faster. ‘Do we need a baar’ur?’ he asks, half-serious.

[PAR MHI? NAYC. PAR GAR? RET.]

‘Cheeky brat,’ Jango grumbles under his breath, but has no choice but to slow his pace when a wave of dizziness hits him, and he stumbles. The droid catches him around the elbow before Jango can tip over, tugging him upright.

[MHI TAYLIR GAR, BUIR]

Jango pets the droid’s servo as he sways in its grip. ‘Vor’e, ad,’ he tells it.

The droid shifts and then bodily rearranges Jango so that it is bearing most of his weight, ignoring Jango’s protests. They march back to quarters, Jango’s feet dragging along the floors, but Jango supposes at least he is spared more indignity than if the droid had actually carried him back.

The droid ignores Jango trying to break free of its grasp to fumble his way into his own private room. It hauls him directly instead to the ade’s and the door slides open to reveal a horde of faces scowling in worry.

‘I’m fine, ad’ike,’ Jango tries to assure them, pulling himself upright.

N-5 looks singularly unconvinced. He holds Jango’s gaze as he mashes a button on the pad he’s holding and the droid shoves Jango none too gently into the room. The ade after that are hardly any gentler, grabbing and tugging him insistently into the living area and shoving him down onto the spread of prepared bedding.

Jango sinks tiredly into the cushions and gives up, lets himself be manhandled by them and be checked over by N-12. He falls asleep between one medscan and the next, listening to the low murmuring of his ade around him.

The room is dark when he wakes up, a heavy blanket tucked around his shoulders. He turns his head and shifts and as his vision adjusts, he can make out various lumps of the ade curled up around him, fast asleep. He sits up slowly and then starts, catching sight of an ad who is wide awake and sitting across from him.

N-11 stares back, bright-eyed and alert.

Keeping watch, Jango realises.

He rolls carefully to his feet and picks his way out of the pile of sleeping ade. Jango smiles a little, seeing Mereel wrapped around a sprawled out N-10, both of them snoring softly at the foot of Boba’s buycika. He tucks their limbs back under their blankets and then peeks into Boba’s buycika to do the same for the ik’aad.

He turns to catch N-11’s eye. He jerks his head, indicating the pantry area and N-11 slips from his post to join him.

‘Me’vaar ti gar?’ the ad asks him, voice low as to not disturb the others.

An automatic quick assurance is on the tip of Jango’s tongue, but he stops himself, seeing the sharp expression on the boy’s face. Jango sighs and rubs a hand over his face.

‘Ne’jate,’ he admits quietly, watching N-11. The boy jerks his head in acknowledgement.

‘We cannot continue this way for much longer,’ N-11 observes, looking tense and unhappy.

Jango sinks tiredly into a seat at the table and remains silent, but he doesn’t disagree. He’s not sure how much longer he can hold out in this fashion. But he will endure it. He must.

N-11 opens his mouth to say something more, but a low sound coming from the living area has the both of them pausing to listen. Jango makes to stand but N-11 is already darting past him, waving at him to remain seated. He reappears a moment later with Boba in his arms, the ik’aad wide awake.

Jango watches them quietly as N-11 pets the smaller child affectionately. There is a rare small smile on N-11’s face and he bends his head to whisper softly to Boba, even as he carefully makes his way closer to Jango.

N-11 passes Boba to him, and then takes a seat at his elbow. They sit in silence for a few minutes. Jango tilts his head and catches sight of the tight and worried expression on the boy’s face and hums in concern.

‘Are you alright?’ he asks, pitching his voice low.

His lips are a grim slash on his face and N-11 turns to Jango to answer, ‘We overheard the Munit’videke today, in a holo call to Coruscant. They are already midway in production on what they’re calling the Alpha class clones.’

Jango goes still, feeling a chill run down his spine at hearing those words. Somehow, even with Nala Se requesting him to report to the labs with such frequency lately, he had not stopped to consider that the scientists have already started with their production. He was a fool to assume that they were still only peering and poking at his DNA through their equipment, teasing out enhancements. He curses under his breath and then frowns as another thought appears and he turns carefully to N-11 sitting beside him.

He doesn’t think the ade were summoned to attend the holo call, and if they had, Jango or Kina would have known about it. Nala Se and her team of scientists have not had any direct contact with N-11 and his brothers since they had been entered into Jango’s care and training program, but Jango wonders now if the Munit’videke have suddenly regained an interest in them.

‘Did any of the Munit’videke approach you or your vode?’

N-11 shakes his head and Jango’s frown deepens. ‘How did you get close enough to overhear their conversation?’ he asks, and he feels the boy immediately go stiff beside him.

Slightly alarmed, Jango turns more fully towards the boy. ‘N-11?’ he prompts.

The boy doesn’t answer or look at him, pressing his palms flat onto the surface of the table and keeping his eyes locked onto the back of his hands. Moving slowly, Jango lays a hand over both of N-11’s, giving the ad a reassuring squeeze.

‘Please talk to me, ad. Gedet’ye. I promise I won’t be angry.’

N-11 remains quiet and Jango patiently waits him out, watching the boy’s face. A few long minutes pass and then something shifts in N-11’s expression, and the downward slash of his mouth eases. Still, he remains silent, but now he looks thoughtful, rather than cornered. Jango has kept his hand covering the ad’s. N-11 shifts their grip so that Jango’s hand lays palm up on the table, and N-11 lightly clasping Jango’s much larger hand with both of his own.

With a start, Jango realises that the ad is tracing the white scars on his palms, the ones he had gotten tearing that droid’s plating apart when it had attacked the ade on Ko Sai’s orders. N-11 draws in a quiet breath, seeming to settle into a decision.

‘Before you…’ the ad begins and then stops, swallowing. He keeps his eyes firmly on their interlocked hands, on Jango’s scars. ‘When it was Orun Wa with us,’ N-11 says jerkily, ‘…it was only us.’

Jango keeps his silence despite the deep twist in his chest, letting the ad work the words out.

‘We only had each other. And even then we couldn’t… -not in front of Orun Wa or any of them, really. They didn’t like it when we were… -we didn’t know how they wanted us to behave, exactly, but they seemed to prefer it when we didn’t talk or interact with each other outside of a training capacity.’

N-11’s lips twist.

‘It was hard,’ the boy says quietly, pained. ‘We could never do anything perfectly like they wanted.’

He pauses, swallowing hard, and then runs his fingers lightly over the raised ridges on Jango’s hand, over the callouses formed on his skin from handling blaster and beskad.

‘We would try to find out what their test parameters were, what their assessment was based on, so we could score better. It was like doing recon field work before a battle, gathering intel.’

N-11 releases him then, and abruptly turns to face Jango.

‘N-10 is the best at hacking systems,’ he tells Jango bluntly, as if he is giving a briefing. ‘He’s actually much better and faster than what the Munit’videke think he can do. He’s been careful to hide it, though.’

The ad hesitates for half a second. ‘He’s been teaching Kina a few tricks,’ he admits and Jango jerks in surprise. Then he barrels on before Jango can say anything.

‘And the droid that was sent to help you back here?’ the ad prompts and Jango nods in return, very easily recalling the large security droid that beeped in dadita, and how N-5 controlled it with his datapad.

‘That’s Prudii’s work. He’s good with droids. He has a host of cleaning droids roaming around the place.’

Jango sits up straighter. ‘Pare sol,’ he cuts in. ‘"Prudii"?’ he questions, and can’t help but throw a glance at the darkened living room where the ade are sleeping.

N-11 flushes and then stammers a little, and then bites his lip and stays stubbornly silent. His wide eyes track Jango’s every movement, tense. Jango deliberately relaxes his frame and dips his head in acknowledgement.

‘So, his droids have been listening in on the Munit’videke?’ Jango clarifies, steering the conversation back and N-11 nods, looking faintly relieved at Jango’s easy tone.

Jango sits back, digesting the information, his heart thudding in his chest.

Another ad has named himself.

Jango will make himself be patient and wait for the ad to come and tell Jango himself – if he chooses to – because Jango will not presume to be allowed to use the name.

And there is another thing to think about here, of N-11’s slip when he revealed his brother’s name to Jango. Jango will not press on it, will not test that trust.

Not when N-11 is already choosing to lay bare so many other things at the moment, letting Jango in.

If Jango can strip away the emotions that rises from just thinking about it, this droid information gathering network is something that the children have built in secrecy. It was in an effort to gain more information and control of their situation. It was to protect themselves from the Munit’videke.

That N-11 shares this with him now demonstrates their level of trust in Jango and it shakes him to his core.

And, Jango notes with a warm twisting feeling in his chest, unlike the droids that the ade have sent to follow after the Munit’videke to watch them, Jango’s droids were to watch over him, to make sure he was able to safely return to them.

‘Vor entye, ad, for sharing this with me,’ he tells N-11 solemnly.

N-11 bites his bottom lip briefly and then darts a look at Boba and then back up at Jango.

‘We are aliit,’ the boy says, looking surer than he sounds, and then he reaches out to drag a finger down the centre of Bob’ika’s face and Jango’s breath hitches. N-11’s dark eyes flashes and he holds Jango’s gaze steadily. ‘And you’ve protected us by beskar, blood and bone… buir.’

The last word in the sentence catches a bit, but then N-11 only tilts his chin up higher, not looking away.

Jango smiles down at the ad, his heart feeling light, and he reaches to gently tug N-11 a little closer. The ad comes willingly and Jango drops a kiss into his hair and then presses their foreheads together, the words of the gai bal manda spoken softly, but with no less conviction.

‘Drashaar Dralshy’a,’ Jango says solemnly, the words of his clan, and N-11 breathes it back, awed and reverent.

Aliit Vhett had humble beginnings as farmers in the fields of Concord Dawn, and their clan was almost decimated in a raid that the Republic condemns as unsanctioned, but Jango knows otherwise, was there in the shelter of Arla’s arms when everything else around them was reduced to ashes.

Drashaar Dralshy’a. Growing Stronger.

From ashes, great things can grow. As Dral’Mandalor itself had grown from the Dral’Han. Jango knows with patience and careful nurturing, his aliit will flourish again.

He settles back into his seat, tucking both his sons closer to the warmth of his body and closes his eyes. They sit like that for a long time, quiet and content. He is still tired, but his mind is alight and busy working to temper things into shape.

Finally, he nudges at the older child. ‘Ke’nuhoy, ner ad,’ he urges N-11 and catches the small, startled smile that flashes across the small face at being claimed as Jango’s ad. ‘Go to sleep. I’ve got the watch.’

N-11 yawns suddenly, jaw cracking, and then he nods. He moves to stand and Jango gives him one last squeeze before dropping his arm.

‘Morut’yc ca, buir,’ N-11 says, rubbing his eyes, and then it is Jango’s face that brightens with a smile. The boy wanders back into the other room to wriggle into the pile of sleeping vode.

Jango follows after, finding a seat on a clear space on the floor and leaning back on some cushions, a drowsy Bob’ika draped across his chest.

His eyes adjust easily to the dark and he settles in for the watch, listening to the soft even breaths of his sleeping sons around him. Boba’s hold on the collar of Jango’s tunic remains fast, even as the ik’aad drifts into sleep. By his side, the ad who calls himself Prudii tosses fitfully in his dreams, and Jango soothes him with a few quiet words in Mando’a.

In the quiet, Jango starts to turn the information N-11 has given him around in his mind – of the Eyayade and the droids – and he considers all the pieces he has collected in his hands and tries to fit them together into something that he can work with.

The Munit’videke underestimate the children and their capabilities.

They think they have secured Jango’s obedience.

That is their mistake and their undoing.

Munit’videke nu draar haa’taylir ori’sol aru’ike taabir haatyc.

Chapter Text

The Munit’videke, it seems, are on schedule; they will be decanting the first half of what they’re designating the Alpha batch today and Jango plans to be there, even if he hasn’t exactly been invited. With the Munit’videke, he finds it is better to assume liberties until denied them.

When they hear of his intentions, the ade try their best to convince him to allow them to accompany him, but Jango stands firm, immovable.

‘Nayc’, is all he says, when they ask again, tone flat and face hard like stone.

Kina takes one look at his expression and hums in concern.

‘Be careful, Jango,’ she cautions softly. The ade watching them turn to look at Jango, mutiny and worry on their faces.

‘Stay here. Ibac ke’gyce,’ he tells them firmly, before they can start protesting. ‘Mereel, I leave you in charge of your brothers.’

The boy straightens and nods, lips pressed together unhappily.

Jango sees the children dart quick glances at Prudii, who stares unblinkingly back at Jango with a look on his face that has Jango mentally sighing and apologising to Jas’buir. He has no doubt that he has inflicted that exact same stubborn expression on his buir.  

Kina nods at him, when Jango slides a glance at her. Jate. She will help keep a close eye on them.

Despite what the children might think, Jango is not in danger. No more than usual anyway, in this haran place. Kina’s warning is not so much because she worries for his safety, but because she worries after what Jango might do when he witnesses the decanting process himself.

Taabir kotep, he tells himself, as he turns and leaves his aliit. Kina and his sons will be safe here. There are other children that need him now.

He takes a corner and nearly trips over a cleaning droid. The cleaning droid zips around his feet and then bumps aggressively against the back of his boots and Jango sighs but doesn’t stop or slow his stride. It’s not like he has forbidden his ade from sending droids after him.

He hurries across the vast facility, ignoring the Munit’videke he sees. There has been more of them in the past few tendays, many new faces that Jango and his aliit haven’t had a chance to tag and identify yet, gliding sedately through the white hallways. Some of them direct curious looks at him, or at his ade, but none have yet approached them directly.

It takes him a few minutes to reach the observation room, and Nala Se is the only one that looks up from her console, when he slips into the room. She tilts her head at him as he makes his way to her side. Jango’s eyes are immediately drawn to the large windows that gives them the view of the vast chamber below.

There are enormous tower-like structures, each ringed with dozens of transparisteel pods and laden heavily with wires and tubing and monitoring devices. The towers fill the entire chamber, hundreds of them, farther than the eye can see.

All of the towers are currently unpowered, cold, and dark, except the two that are the nearest to the observation room. Those two towers pulse brightly, lit by the glow from the pods encircling their cores. And in each transparisteel pod, floating suspended in the nutrient rich fluid, is a tiny ik’aad.

Jango tears his eyes away from the sight, drops his gaze to the floor instead and takes a steadying breath.

Pressed against the side of his boot, the cleaning droid whirrs quietly, still.

When Jango straightens to speak, his voice is even, calm.

‘How are things?’

Nala Se hums and Jango meet’s her scrutinising gaze head on. Jango doesn’t know what she’s looking for, but after a few moments, she clicks softly to herself and blinks.

‘All is going well so far, Jango Vhett. We are running some final checks before the decanting process will begin.’

Jango’s gaze is dragged to the activated towers once more and he stares, entranced as droids bustle around the tower on the left, tugging cabling and adjusting tubing. The tiny forms floating in pods on this tower are markedly bigger than the other tower, and Jango pushes away the strange feeling twisting in his chest, swallows hard, when he sees the tiny bodies twitching and wriggling in the pods.

So many tiny lives, about to emerge into a world that promises only war in their future. A life filled only with flavourless rations and endless training. Jango hopes to soften the blow, somehow, by being here now, and by being there for them later as they are growing.

But…

The scope of the Jetii’s order for an army built from Jango’s blood utterly terrifies him.

And Jango cannot help but feel the first flickers of hopelessness at the situation, the carefully suppressed panic that he constant feels trying to rise up to the surface to overwhelm him.

The quiet bustling in the observation room shifts, the scientists turning their attention to the towers and Jango shoves away his feelings for the moment, turning also to look down below.

There is a moment of anticipatory stillness, and then all at once, starting from the very top, the liquid in the pods begins to drain. Quickly after that, the droids and machinery work to decouple the pods from their ports and pluck out the squirming lifeforms within, and then handing them off to another set of droids who clean and flicker a scan over each baby.

Jango watches, a buzzing in his ears that grows steadily louder, as the babies are placed in stacked trays, and then carted off out of sight. He twitches, torn between staying to finish watching the decanting process, and chasing after the babies that have been taken away.

All around him, the Munit’videke are conversing with each other, their subharmonic vocalisations rattling his ribs and making his teeth hurt, and it’s hard to breathe all of a sudden-

A hard bump at his boot startles him, and the cleaning droid flashes its lights silently at him.

[M’VR T GR?]

And Jango stares back at it for a moment, mentally filling in the missing vowels and then reminds himself to start to teach his ade battlesigns for faster communication. As it is, he pulls his gaze away to glance around the room, even as his fingers carefully tap out a reply on his thigh, in clear view of the cam Prudii had rigged into the droid, to reassure them.

The scientists all look pleased, the crests on their heads proudly flared and clicking animatedly at each other. Nala Se is in the centre of it all, congratulating her team.

Jango clenches his jaw and turns to look back out to the cloning chambers, trying his best to ignore the demagolkase in the room with him.

By now, the droids are more than halfway done with their tasks. The transparisteel separating them is soundproof, but Jango can see each tiny red face scrunched in displeasure and he can almost imagine hearing their squalling cries.

They look just like his Bob’ika, only much tinier, more fragile.

He turns sharply away from the window, bile pushing up the back of his throat.

A number of the scientists have detached themselves from their discussion cluster, some of them drifting back to their data stations while others file out of the room.

He spots Nala Se and Ko Sai among the group leaving, and he jerks, hurrying after the Munit’videke. None of them pay him any attention as he trails after them, cleaning droid close at his heels. They take a few turns and then slip through another doorway and Jango follows after, only to stop abruptly after crossing the threshold.

He hadn’t expected to walk straight into what appears to be a nursery.

There are already a dozen ik’aade in the room, with a steady stream of droids bring in more.

The scientists stroll leisurely between the aisles, peering down with interest at each ik’aad sealed in their own individual tray. Some of the demagolkase have scanners in their hands, scanning and typing things down on their datapads as they make their way around the room.

The ik’aade are crying in their trays but all Jango can hear is the quiet whirring of the droids at work and the warble of Kamin’a.

One of the demagolkase leans over a tray, their long fingers tapping insistently on the cover to gain the attention of the crying ik’aad inside.

Jango has already taken a few quick steps forward towards them before Kina’s words of caution rises in his mind and he falters to a stop, feeling torn, fists clenching at his sides, blood rushing to his ears.

He swallows thickly and then adjusts his stance to something less confrontational. Liser parjir akaan miite nu mareve. Some wars are won with words and not fists.

He keeps his head facing forward, but he can’t help darting his eyes from side to side, gaze sliding off one tiny identical face to another, as he makes his way to Nala Se. He keeps a measured pace and a more or less placid expression plastered on his face.

‘Jango Vhett,’ Nala Se greets, catching sight of him. She turns away from her group to speak to him, clasping her hands in front of herself. ‘What do you think of the decanting process? No doubt it is far faster and neater than the biological births of your species.’

Jango cants his head in acknowledgment, using the motion to carefully mask his real reaction.

‘It seemed very… efficient,’ he settles on saying, after a few seconds of internally wrestling his words together.

She cocks her head at him. ‘However?’ she prompts, clicking at him.

And Jango can’t help but grimace a little.

‘However… it all seems rather… traumatic,’ he says carefully.

Ko Sai, who has been listening in, scoffs loudly and rumbles in Kamin’a, looking annoyed but she falls silent when Nala Se turns a mild look at her.

‘Kindly elaborate,’ Nala Se says to Jango, waving her hands at him encouragingly.

He takes a breath, trying to fit words together in a way so that the Munit’videke will understand.

‘I don’t know how your people… emerge,’ he admits slowly, feeling his way carefully around the subject. ‘But the decanting… well, humans need gentler handling.’

Ko Sai makes a disparaging noise, but both Jango and Nala Se ignore the scientist.

‘Boba and the Null batch were decanted in similar ways, and they have all survived the process,’ she points out.

‘“Survive” implicates that it was not an easy thing,’ Jango points out calmly, despite his heart kicking wildly in his chest, and he tamps down hard on the swell of fury he feels.

Nala Se hums, neither agreeing nor disagreeing and Jango bites down hard enough on his tongue that he tastes blood.

They will not be swayed from the efficiency of their process, he realises grimly. For them, it is framed only in data and statistics, numbers and designations.

For all that Nala Se has been patient with Jango’s presence and his questions, he is not the only one gathering information from their exchanges. She is sharply intelligent; she would not be the head of the cloning program is she wasn’t-

-and that’s the thing. She has a clinical approach to things; her actions are not actively malicious, but her methods certainly lack any form of empathy.

How can Jango forget the first time he laid eyes on Bob’ika, alone and terrified, encased in a transparisteel pod in her lab and stuck with needles. And the thought that his other sons had suffered the same, and for the entirety of their infanthood, makes Jango feel a cold rage.

Miite nu mareve, Jango reminds himself, locking his anger down and burying it deep. He cannot make an active enemy out of Nala Se.

If he cannot convince them from their decanting methods, perhaps there is another thing he can ask for instead.

His eyes are drawn again to the columns of trays of babies, their bare bodies wriggling behind transparisteel.

‘Blankets,’ he says to Nala Se. ‘Give them blankets.’

‘Their pods are heated,’ Ko Sai says, before the other scientist can say anything. ‘Blankets are unnecessary.’

Jango ignores her, speaking only to Nala Se. ‘Newborns need to be swaddled,’ he tells her, ‘It soothes them. Keeps them calm.’

Again, Ko Sai speaks, tone factual, ‘Mild infanthood stressors hardly affect their growth or development.’

‘They don’t need stressors,’ Jango bites out, ‘they’re babies. They need to be kept calm and comfortable.’

He looks up at Nala Se. ‘Please,’ he says softly, bitterly. ‘I’m asking for a little bit of kindness for them.’

Nala Se stares at him for a long moment, black eyes unfathomable.

‘Thank you, Jango Vhett,’ is all she says.

It is a polite dismissal.

Ko Sai warbles something in Kamin’a and Nala Se nods, clicking back a reply, her gaze never leaving Jango’s face.

Jango turns away, a clenching feeling in his gut and bile in back of his mouth.

His skin prickles from the attention of the Munit’videke watching him, but he makes himself walk all the aisles, counting the trays in his head as he visits each baby.

She’eta ik’aade.

Manda.

Jango stops beside a tray, feeling suddenly overwhelmed. He bends over it, almost draped over the pod, fingers scrabbling for purchase on its smooth surface, as he struggles to draw breath. His vision has gone blurry, throat tight, and there’s tears dripping down his nose, splashing onto the transparisteel cover. He sucks in a deep breath, holds it until his lungs burn, and then releases it slowly. He draws another breath and does the same again. Again and again, until his shaking calms a little. His forearm is resting on a pod, and his head is pressed into his arm, and below his face, just a few inches away but separated by transparisteel, lays a Eyayad’ika blinking up at him blearily, eyes unfocused in the way new-borns are.

‘Su’cuy,’ he whispers to the baby, voice hoarse and choked.

He stays there for some long minutes, just staring down at the baby, tracing with his eyes the shape of their face, so alike Bob’ika that it hurts his chest to know he cannot provide for them the same degree of protection and comfort he gives his sons.

‘Taabir kotep, ad’ika,’ he tells them and then draws away, pulling himself upright.

He finds Prudii’s droid a few steps away, tucked out of sight and keeping watch over the rest of the room.

There is nothing else Jango can do here.

Not without risking everything.

So, he turns his back on the Munit’videke, on the Eyayad’ike, and makes himself walk away.

His feet takes him across the facility, not back to his waiting aliit, but to the observation room above the training hall Kina had once shown him. He finds a set of stairs that will take him down to the training level. He’s taken two steps before the cleaning droid that has accompanied him the entire time starts flashing its lights at him frantically, skittering back and forth on it treads at the edge of the stairs.

[BUIR] it signals at him, revving its engines. [NU’SHEKEMIR]

‘Stay here,’ he tells his ad controlling the droid.

The droid revs in agitation but Jango shakes his head and then continues down the stairs by himself.

The hall seems even bigger from the ground level and his footsteps echo across the cavernous space. He wanders across the hall aimlessly and eventually finds himself standing in the middle of it, mind dull and blank. He’s dimly aware that he’s feeling cold, his fingers are freezing, goosebumps pimpling his skin, his breaths shortening to shallow constricted gasps.

It feels like Galidraan. Like Taun We’s stasis pods.

‘Jango,’ a voice calls him softly from behind and he jerks around, not realising his eyes has slipped closed. His chest is heaving, his body shaking.

‘What are you doing here?’ he pants out, his heart pounding, teeth chattering.

‘The ade sent me. They are very worried.’ Kina looks at him with concern. ‘As am I.’

Jango looks away, struggling to even his breathing, locking his hands together to chase away the chill.

‘Me’vaar ti gar?’ she asks softly, and Jango did not realise that she has stepped closer.

‘You shouldn’t be here,’ he says, instead of answering. ‘You should be watching the ade.’

‘They have Prudii’s droids running perimeter,’ she tells him, but it doesn’t ease his worry at all. ‘And I am told that there are other measures in place.’

Jango closes his eyes. Ah, yes. The traps and silent warning systems.

It is amazing and slightly alarming what lessons the ade think to glean from the children’s stories Jango tells them when he puts them to bed at night.

‘Still,’ she says, drawing his attention juddering back to the present, ‘we should not leave them unsupervised for long. They were planning to retrieve you themselves and Mereel can’t hold them back forever.’

He doesn’t reply, gazing out at the empty hall around them, mouth pressed into a grim line.

‘Jango,’ Kina says, tone infinitely kind and soft and she gently wraps her larger hands around his, stilling his fidgeting fingers. Her normally cool touch feels warm against his skin. ‘Let’s go home, Jango.’

There is an awful tearing sensation in Jango’s chest, a dark gaping ache, and his eyes feel prickling hot. He ducks his head, a broken sound escaping his lips despite his best efforts.

He wishes he could.

This is not home. Can never be home.

Jango wants to go home. Back to Manda’yaim, back to the time before Galidraan when his aliit and his vode were still alive.

He doesn’t resist when Kina warbles softly and sweeps him into her hold, movements careful as if he is something brittle and easily broken. She is much taller than him, and her limbs are long and thin, and it feels nothing like the solid bulk of Jaster or Montross wrapped tightly around him, or the crushing hugs that Arla gives, but Jango still draws comfort within the folds of her arms, pressing his forehead into her shoulder as she thrums comfortingly and strokes the back of his neck.

‘Ven’jate an, Jango,’ she murmurs soothingly. ‘Ni taylir gar.’

Chapter Text

Jango has seven sons.

And, Jango frowns in thought, they’re growing up so fast.

N-16 is tinkering industriously with a disassembled datapad before him on the pantry table and Jango eyes the hem of his son's sleeves which are now baring inches of his wrists. Jango is sure that at firstmeal that morning, the sleeves were of the correct length. He’ll have to file in with requisitions again.

In the sitting area, he can hear the other ade chatting and laughing as they sit together and solve recreational puzzles.

The older ade don’t play, not really. It’s like they don’t quite grasp the concept, and it stumps Jango even as it breaks his heart. Every activity needs a metric to measure success or failure, or a lesson to be extracted and analysed.

Jango smiles a little when the children erupt in laughs and jeers, punctuated by a loud indignant cry from N-10, ‘Nayc, Boba! I am your favourite!’

Bob’ika is a blessing. The older ade dote on him, spoil him shamelessly. And while Boba thrives in the attention, it is heartening to see the easy smiles and quick laughs he draws from his ori’vode.

Bob’ika is growing quickly too, and Jango is starting to miss the days where he can just tuck Boba into a birikad and the ik’aad would be quietly content to snooze. Those easy months had fooled Jango, had lulled him into a false sense of confidence in his own parenting abilities.

His little limbs are stronger now, and he’s learned to crawl, and he is surprisingly fast.

One of the ade whistle sharply to alert Jango and N-6, and then a second later Boba comes scrabbling into the pantry, squealing gleefully as he evades his brothers and makes directly for Jango. Jango gives a return whistle in acknowledgement and bends over to scoop Boba up and then deposit him onto the table. The group of ade peek into the pantry to confirm that Jango has taken custody of Boba, and when Jango raises his eyebrows at them and tilts his head in invitation for them to join him at the table if they want to, only Prudii steps forward to sidle into the seat next to N-6 and the rest return to their games in the other room.

‘Have you been tormenting your vode, Boba?’ he asks the ik’aad, running an affectionate finger down Boba’s small nose. He gets a giggle and some babbling in reply. ‘Jate.’

‘Buir!’ whines N-10 from the next room, and Jango chuckles.

He plays with Bob’ika, and tells stories as his other sons listen in. This is something that the ori’vode never had a chance to experience in their early childhood and so Jango is determined to make up for it, projecting his voice to be heard clearly even from the sitting area.

Prudii sits quietly at his brother’s side, watching as N-6 carefully work some of the wires together, a frown of concentration on his face. N-6 nudges over a programming chip over to Prudii with his elbow, and his brother quickly seizes it and sticks it into his own datapad, immediately immersed in its code.

Now both of them are making identical frowning faces down at their projects, and Jango bites back his smile at the scene before him. He doesn’t know what they are up to, and he’s not exactly sure he wants to know.

It is a quiet evening, and Jango cherishes the moment to sit in the company of his sons.

The datapad in Prudii’s hands chirps and he ejects the chip. N-6 doesn’t even glance up, just holds his hand out to his brother who drops the chip into his open palm. N-6 slots the chip into place among the mass of parts he has splayed out on the tabletop, connects a few wires together and powers it up. His eyes dart around the components of the disembowelled tech, tracing circuits and wires, and then something beeps and the screen flickers on, displaying a wall of dense text that Jango presumes is coding.

N-6 makes a small sound of satisfaction and flashes Prudii a quick “Vor’e” in battlesign.

The sight makes Jango’s heart squeeze a little, a ball of complicated feelings lodged in his chest.

Once, that battlesign cant had been a familiar and comforting sight, when it meant Jango was surrounded by his own ori’ramikade, protecting and protected. His Grunts have marched away on Galidraan, and there isn’t anyone left but Jango that know their traat’joha.

Teaching it to his sons gives him some comfort in knowing that the Grunts’ legacy lives on, nu kyr'adyc nu digu. Not gone, not forgotten. It does not entirely sit well with him that the ad’ike are learning battlesigns, not when the tops of their heads just brush his lowest rib. But in this place, where the only friend and ally they have is Kina, Jango will utilise anything that can give them an edge over the Munit’videke.

The Munit’videke are keenly intelligent, but they are also – until their contact with the Jetii in the last decade – isolationists. They are a highly insular species that have lost touch with the galaxy at large, no longer able to weave an understanding in the gap between them and other different societies and cultures. They lack cognitive empathy for sentients that are other to them, and that makes them callously apathetic.

Kina has told him that all Kaminoans are Munit’videke, that they are all of the same species. Jango has never before heard of such absolute homogeneity in a people of a planet, and it astounds him.

The galaxy is old, and it is a large, large place. Hundreds of thousands of inhabited planets, moons, asteroids and spacestations. Billions of peoples. With millennia of trade, commerce, migrants, and refugees fleeing the battlefronts of the Endless Wars… No census of any planet can claim to be made of only one people. Even in Hapes there is diversity, in spite of their long isolation from the rest of the galaxy.

To hear this of Kamino is troubling.

Kamino is the opposite of everything Jango is familiar with; Dral’Mandalor spans dozens of sectors, ever growing, ever evolving. Mando’a may be the main language spoken in the Empire, but most Mando’ade Jango knows speak at least two other tongues fluently. To be Mandalorian is a way of life. A Mando’ad may hail from Krownest, one of the stronghold planets of Dral’Mandalor, or they may be from an inhabited asteroid tumbling around on the outer edges of the Empire. If they swear to the Resol’nare, it didn’t matter. Vode an.

Montross had worn his Bloodstripes down the sides of the legs of his kute, and Kol-Wa had a fearsome line of akul teeth embedded across the dome of his buy’ce, and Jango is honoured to have fought beside them and to have called them his vode.

Nala Se tries. She comes at it as a scientist would, asking many questions from many angles, but her understanding is still stunted by her own views, and the rest of her team are too engrossed in their research and their testing and chasing after genetic perfection, to care.

But that is a good thing. Let them be occupied with their data and genetic sequencing.

Munit’videke nu draar haa’taylir ori’sol aru’ike taabir haatyc. Jango and his sons and the Eyayade might be right in front of them, but they will never notice the danger until it is too late.

‘Buir?’ calls N-6 and Jango blinks rapidly. Both of the ad’ike sitting across from him are looking at him with expressions that tells Jango he’s been quiet and still for far too long, has trailed off into silence halfway through his story.

Jango clears his throat and gives them a small rueful smile.

‘Ni ceta, ad’ike,’ he says, pulling Boba off the tabletop to sit in his lap proper. ‘Where was I?’

N-6 sits back in his seat and frowns heavily at Jango. ‘You never finished telling us about what happened to Hum-Di after he fell off the fortress wall,’ he prompts, before looking down at his project again and reaching for a small multitool.

‘Ah… Lek. Vor’e,’ he says, and then bounces Boba on his knee and continues the story. ‘Hum-Di’s armour was not beskar, and it broke apart into many pieces when he crashed onto the ground. And though they searched everywhere, the Mand’alor’s ori’ramikade could not find all of the pieces. Seeing that Hum-Di no longer had a full set of armour, the ori’ramikade brought him to their goran.

‘“But I am not Mandalorian,” Hum-Di protested.

‘“You are,” the ori’ramikade told him. “You have fought by our side in battles. You are our vod.”

‘And they gave him a kom’rk as his first piece of beskar’gam.

‘“This is a Mando’ad’s first piece, when they have faced battle and emerge as a warrior, born from the trial of heat and fire. Verde sa akaan nau tracyn kad.”’

Boba starts fussing, suddenly deciding he wants to get down from Jango’s lap. Jango transfers him to the floor, and he is immediately off, crawling to the other room. Jango whistles a heads up and gets a chorus of whistles in reply from the sitting room.

One day he may regret teaching them that, when they’re older and decide to be sneaky behind their buir’s back, but it is habit that Jango and Arla used to have between themselves, when they were being sneaky behind their buire’s backs back on Concord Dawn and then on Manda’yaim with Jaster. It is another small legacy to pass to the ade.

Jango turns back to N-6 and Prudii sitting across from him in time to see N-6 click together the pieces of tech he has in his hands. Dark eyes flick up to Jango sharply and then something small is tossed across the table at him. Jango catches it easily and then peers down at it in interest, turning it this way and that to study it more closely.

A mic, a speaker, a receiver-transmitter node - it is one half of a small crude 2-way communicator, rigged together from cannibalised parts from droids and datapads.

It vibrates between his fingers and then N-6’s tinny voice comes from the improvised device.

‘Su’cuy, buir.’

Jango snaps his head up to stare in incredulous wonder at his son. There is a smile spreading across the ad’ika’s face, slow, smug, and sharp.

Jango has fifty Eyayad’ike.

And with their coded accelerated ageing, they grow quickly.

No matter his schedule, Jango makes it a point to visit them in their nursery every rotation, peeking in to check on every baby in every pod, and he is always startled to see that their bodies have lengthened by inches every visit.

He has not thought that Nala Se would acquiesce to his request, but he is beyond grateful that the scientist has allowed each child a blanket. The blankets are thin and plain and white – nothing like the thick, colourful ones Kina had given to his sons – but it is something.

The scars on his palms itch and Jango fold his arms across his chest to stop himself from reaching out to try prying open the transparisteel covers of the trays; they’re all locked tight, needing one of the nursery droids to open, and he doesn’t need agitated nursery droids summoning their security counterparts again.

So, he grits his teeth and tucks his hands under his armpits, and slowly makes his rounds while Prudii’s droids dart around the room.

Tomorrow, the Munit’videke will be decanting the other fifty Eyayad’ike. He has known of their planned schedule two tendays ago, because of the careful surveillance work of Kom’rk and Prudii, but it is a surprise to have Nala Se tell him herself, after collecting yet more blood samples from him.

‘The other batch will be ready for decanting soon,’ she says, putting away her needles and it’s the first thing she’s said to him since he walked himself into her research lab.

Jango eyes her and says nothing.

She turns to look at him and Jango thinks she looks expectant, curious, as if she is measuring his reaction.

‘Then I will be there,’ he says firmly.

She hums to herself, sounding pleased, like Jango has responded in a way she has comfortably predicted.

Jango keeps his expression blank, calm, and swallows down the sharp words that instinctively rises up.  

Jango has only ninety-nine Eyayad’ike, when there should have been a hundred.

He’s double and triple checked, has paced the rows and columns of the nurseries himself and he knows there is one missing.

‘There is one missing. Where is he?’ he asks the nursery droids, but they beep in negative, moving around him when he blocks their path.

‘All units are accounted for.’

Jango knows otherwise, has checked each serial tag attached to each pod, so he goes straight to Nala Se, finding her in her office.

‘Where is 99?’ he demands, heart jumping in the back of his throat.

She glances up from her datapad to look at him and there is something in the way that she tilts her head when she looks at him that makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up, as if Jango has again done something exactly as expected and Jango twitches and then stills, clamps down hard on his agitation.

‘Greetings, Jango Vhett,’ she says calmly, instead of answering his question.

He bites his tongue and waits, eyes fixed steadily on hers.

‘Unit 99 is in Ko Sai’s station,’ she says eventually, when Jango offers no greeting of his own. She watches his reaction with interest.

Ice floods his spine and Jango straightens in alarm, no longer caring if his reactions are being analysed. ‘What? Why is he with her?’

He spins on his heel, intending to rush away to Ko Sai’s lab but a loud harsh click from Nala Se arrests him. He snaps around to face her again, kal’ika already dropping into his palm in readiness in case of an attack. Nala Se never bothers to have security droids in attendance when they meet, but Jango will not be caught unawares.

‘Why do you insist on interfering in our research and development, Jango Vhett?’ Nala Se questions him, and though her tone is patient and mild, she is also emitting a low warning thrum.

Jango tilts his head up, eyes flashing in challenge.

‘I am Jango Vhett and I am Haat’ad,’ he tells her. ‘I will always protect them.’

Nala Se stares hard at his face, eyes narrowed, and then quite suddenly her warning rumble stops. There is a brief silence before she thrills softly, looking thoughtful, and then she picks up a datapad to type something.

Jango doesn’t dare to blink, doesn’t ease from his own tensed posture, just keeps a careful watch of her hands as it moves across the keypad. He doesn’t forget that there still is a shockcollar wrapped around his neck, and that she could activate it at any time. Her eyes flick up to him and she looks cool and calm, which only raises Jango’s hackles even more.

‘A curious trait,’ she comments, fingers flying over the keys as she continues to type as she converses. ‘Do you think it will be an advantage, if we were to maintain such a protective instinct in future clones?’

‘What the kark are you talking about?’ he snarls quietly, voice dipping low, dangerous and sharp.

She clicks and tilts her head. ‘Your behaviour is hampering our progress,’ she tells him. ‘The constant disruptions are slowing our research development, and however invaluable I find your response data to be, I cannot allow your actions to interfere with my work with the clones.’

She taps the screen of her datapad and Jango glances down at it, and then back to her face. Whatever she has written, it is all in Kamin’a glyphs.

‘You’re collecting data? On me? For what?’ he hisses, mind racing. ‘A psychological profile?’

Nala Se hums in an affirmative note. ‘Your response to the clones is surprising; we did not anticipate you to immediately bond so strongly with them. It is a trait we are currently considering in the clones.’

Cold rolls over the whole of Jango, rage and horror and fear. Every move he has made has been recorded and analysed by the team of scientists, every action dissected for his motives and its merits debated for implementation in the Eyayade. He cannot trust anything in this shabla place, can never allow himself to let his guard down again.

‘Is this some kind of game for you?’ he demands harshly. ‘To pick and choose what traits you want to tweak? Playing at creation?’

She blinks at him, gaze briefly falling on the blade glinting in his hand.

‘Of course not, Jango Vhett,’ she says placidly, still blastedly calm and unafraid. ‘I take my work very seriously and will do my utmost in ensuring the client is satisfied with their product.’

They stare at each other for long minutes, neither moving.

Jango is the first to break, forcing the words past his clenched teeth.

‘What is happening to 99?’ he grates out, and steadfastly tries to ignore the way Nala Se adds more notes on her datapad.

‘They are working to stabilise its condition at the moment. Something has triggered a sudden aggressive rapid aging response.’ 

His heart skips at her words and Jango sags, all fight leaving him.

‘Is he alright?’ he asks her hollowly, after a long moment, and he forces himself to hold her gaze despite the terrible twisting feeling in his gut.

‘Ko Sai is conducting further testing and will review its genetic code,’ she replies. It is not an answer.

Jango swallows hard, feels his throat clicking uncomfortably. ‘Will he be alright?’ he asks, his voice sounding weak to his own ears.

‘The clone is defective,’ she tells him, tone mild and factual. ‘It will not be able to be a combat unit. Once Ko Sai is able to trace the instability in its codes, it will be decommissioned.’

A part of him had expected the answer, but hearing it still steals all the air in his lungs.

‘He can be trained for other things. An army is more than just combat personnel. There will always be need for logistics teams, analysts, support staff-’ Jango tries, desperate, but Nala Se is already shaking her head.

‘Alpha-99’s condition is degenerative; it will be beyond its capabilities to serve in the GAR. It will be nothing more than a liability.’

‘He could serve here!’ Jango cries, seizing desperately for something, anything. ‘He could help around here, surely. As an assistant to one of the scientists. To you. Or I can train him as an adjutant.’

‘You have done nothing but make bargains for the clones, Jango Vhett,’ Nala Se observes. ‘Your blood for Boba, your offer of training for the Nulls. And now yet again, you offer to personally train another clone – a defective one – to save it from decommissioning. Can you tell me why? What drives you to make such bargains?’

Her fingers are poised over her datapad, ready, and Jango twitches hard, snapping his mouth shut. Miite nu mareve, Jango tries to remind himself, tries to calm the hot rush of desperate fear and anger, even as his fingers tighten around the handle of the kal’ika. Tries not to dwell too long on how she refers to 99 as “it”, lest he loses his temper and actually uses the weapon in his hand.

Miite nu mareve, he repeats to himself, a mental mantra.

Nala Se is a known entity; one he doesn’t understand fully, but he’s working on that. If he kills her now, they will only replace her and it is guaranteed then that he will lose all access to all the ade, and his sons will be taken from him.

His eyes are fastened on the datapad in her hands, and the profile that she is building on him.

‘Do you have children?’ he asks her abruptly, before he remembers what he has been told about how the Kaminoans reproduce, and hastily stumbles to add on, ‘I mean, have you… commissioned the next of your lineage? The next Nala Se?’

She blinks in surprise. ‘No,’ she replies slowly, clearly trying to follow his line of questioning. ‘But you did not have any progeny before the clones, Jango Vhett.’

‘Maybe it’s not a Kaminoan thing because of the way your people clone yourselves to maintain your population… but in the wider galaxy, and to Mandalorians in particular, children are precious.’

He draws in a breath and then meets her eyes.

‘We don’t unravel our genetic codes to chase perfection; we work with what we have. We find the potential in ourselves, and we nurture it in our young. Life is so much more chaotic – wilder and more unpredictable – than the confines of what cloning achieves here in this facility.

‘We know that children are our future. We love them and teach them to find connection with others, to rejoice in discovered similarities, and to work to find understanding in differences. Our bonds are stronger for it, family is more than blood. This is the Way of Mandalore.’

Nala Se says nothing for a long time, does not type any further notes on her datapad.

When she does move, it is to put her datapad down and rummage in her drawers for a moment. She takes out a pack of sterile wipes, a needle, and an empty vial. She places the items on her desk and looks at him expectantly.

Jango turns his head away, can’t bear to look her any longer, can’t stand to entertain any more thoughts of blood or needles or clones.

‘You’ve just collected my blood yesterday,’ Jango mutters wearily, low and defeated.

Nala Se remains in her seat, quiet and patient, needle in hand and Jango thinks of Bob’ika, and forces his legs to move, to round the table and present his arm to the Munit’videke. The skin at the crook of his elbow is clean and unblemished despite the repeated punctures, every needle mark soothed away by a little bacta application after every turn. Sometimes, Jango wishes they wouldn’t, that he should keep the marks, the bruises, and the pitted skin, as a testament carved into his skin to what is happening here on Kamino.

‘Yes, I’ve collected those samples for the project,’ she agrees, and hums soothingly when he flinches slightly at her late reply.

She pulls the needle out and Jango watches as she unloads its contents into the vial. She makes a small, discontented sound when Jango tugs his arm away when she moves to apply bacta, but she does not press the issue.

’If 99 stabilises within the next two rotations, I will have it transferred back into the nursery,’ Nala Se says, putting away her things. Jango listens, quiet and still, his heart beating fast in his chest.

She continues speaking, ‘99 will be cared for, same as the rest of its batch. Once the others start their combat training, 99 will have an alternative education.’

Jango’s eyes slide to the vial of his blood on her desk. It’s only a small sample she’s taken, compared to the usual. She wants this for something else. Jango bites his tongue, does not ask her what it is for, feeling at once somehow both glad and resentful.

What is another bit of blood, if it can buy a life? For Jango, the price of anything on Kamino so far is paid for in blood. He’s been keeping a careful tally in the ledgers of his Cuy’val Dar and he knows there will be a day to collect the debts owed. Mando'ad draar digu entye.

Chapter Text

Boba’s barely learned to crawl before he’s already trying to run, following after his ori’vode on unsteady chubby legs, shrieking happily and drool dripping from his gummy mouth. When he tumbles to the floor, one of his brothers will be there by his side in a flash, observing to see if he has hurt himself, or to lend a hand to help him clamber back to his feet if he needs it. Then the chase would continue again, the group scurrying from room to room, weaving in between the furniture, sometimes over or under it.

Jango is sitting at the pantry table, meticulously putting together lesson plans and training schedules, and reading translated reports on the Eyayad’ike. Kina sits quietly opposite him with her own pile of paperwork and reports in front of her. Their table is a little oasis of calm in the whirlwind that is the playing children burning off their boundless energy.

There is a headache slowly starting in the space between Jango’s eyes, but he pushes on, determined to get this done and out of the way. He doesn’t realise he’s how hard he’s clenching his teeth against the building pain until Kina touches his hand and he startles and feels the muscles in his jaw spasm.

‘Me’vaar ti gar?’ she asks him quietly, mindful of attracting the attention and worry of his sons.

He grimaces and kneads a knuckle at his throbbing temple. ‘Headache,’ he mutters and Kina’s eyes narrow.

The ade come scampering into the pantry and she waits until they’ve made their round around the table and back out of the space before she speaks again.

‘Nala Se has been summoning you too often,’ Kina says, and there’s something sharp in her tone, protective.

‘I’ll be fine, Kina,’ he tells her tiredly, and winces when he feels the pain in his head spike and his mouth suddenly turns dry.

‘I will speak to her,’ Kina promises, and there is a low growl of Kamin’a threaded through her words. Jango wants to protest, but the Kaminii is already speaking over him. ‘It is my duty to see you hale and healthy,’ she says firmly.

‘I will speak to her,’ she repeats, eyes flashing. ‘They need to refine their methods. I am not going to allow them to kill you, Jango. And I will not let you allow yourself to be killed either. K’oyacyi, par ade.’

Jango ducks his head and Kina’s angry rumbling subsidies.

The ade trample noisily past them again with Bob’ika trailing at the end of the pack.

‘Di’kut,’ Kina clicks at him, still sounding annoyed and Jango huffs out a breath. Jango remains slouched in his seat as Kina stands and rounds the table to stand by his side. When she brushes her fingers over his head, Jango imagines that some of his discomfort is soothed away under her cool, feather-light touch.

‘Ke’nuhoy,’ she tells him, curling her hand around his shoulder to give him a small squeeze. ‘I will watch the children.’

Jango doesn’t protest, just lifts a hand to tap an acknowledgement on hers and then stands. He makes to leave for his own quarters, but Kina is there bodily blocking his way with a frown on her face, so he sighs and blearily turns to crash in his sons’ sleeping room instead; the ade hardly sleep in there anyway, preferring to sleep in a pile in the sitting area.

‘Buir? Are you alright?’ asks Mereel, appearing suddenly at his elbow and peering up at his face in concern.

Which of course leads to all of his sons to assemble around him with identical faces of worry. Jango huffs and flicks a negation in traat’joha at N-12’s signed [Baar’ur?] and staggers a little when his littlest one crashes into his legs.

‘Boo boor brr!’ babbles Boba, hitting Jango’s knee with his fists.

‘I’m fine, ad’ike,’ he assures them. ‘Just tired.’

Jango doesn’t miss the fact that they glance over at Kina for verification. He sighs out an exasperated breath and pretends not to see the battlesigns Kina carefully forms with her long fingers, awkward and unpractised, telling them she’s got the situation handled. They nod in acceptance, flicking acknowledgment in return with their hands.

Kina bends to picks up Boba, cradling him in her arms.

‘Ke’nuhoy, Jango,’ she orders him again and Jango would roll his eyes, except that would make his headache worse. Instead, he grunts at her and pats his sons on their heads.

He pauses at the doorway and turns to look over his shoulder and sees his aliit conspiring together in rapid-fire traat’joha.

‘Please don’t do anything stupid,’ he says warily.

‘Lek, buir,’ the children chorus.

Jango shifts his gaze to frown at Kina suspiciously while she stares solidly back at him, a determined set to her lips.

‘Kina,’ he sighs, but he’s in too much discomfort to scold effectively, the throbbing in his head getting worse with each passing second.

‘I am just going to file some paperwork,’ she tells him and Jango sighs deeply again. He knows exactly the kind of chaos paperwork can stir up; has shamelessly used the tactic himself against the other clans on Mandalore. He’s not ungrateful for it – far from it in fact – but it has to be noted that it was Kina and her reports that had kept Jango from just being stored frozen in stasis, only taken out and thawed for his blood before being shelved again. And that her actions then had caused a not insignificant amount of tension between Taun We and herself.

It doesn’t help to ease Jango’s worry that N-10 trades looks with the Kaminii, full of determination and meaning.

Jango decides he’s better off not knowing and retreats, stepping into the dark sleeping area. He navigates the space with the ease of familiarity and crawls gratefully between the cool sheets. He just needs to rest his eyes for a bit. Just for a few minutes.

It is hours later that he awakes. The room is still dark, and he doesn’t hear any sounds from the other room, so it must be the night cycle and the children are asleep. The lack of pain in his head is a blessed relief and he lays there in the dark for a few minutes, luxuriating in the calm, before the need to lay eyes on his sons moves him and he rolls to his feet.

Prudii has the watch, perched in the lit the pantry area with his notes spread before him on the table. He looks up when Jango approaches.

[Din’kartay?] he signs silently at Jango.

[Jate] Jango replies easily. [Anade?]

[An nuhoy]

Jango still needs to check for himself, needs to do a headcount, and he moves to the siting area, dropping a hand on Prudii’s dark curls as he walks past the boy.

When he returns to the table, Prudii glances up from his reading to slide over a datapad to Jango. Jango looks at the screen for a moment, watching as the feed rotates through the cams from Prudii’s flock of hacked droids.

- The hallways outside their quarters are deserted.

- There’s a maintenance droid around the corner from Kina’s quarters replacing an overhead lighting panel, but it’s already been tagged and is being observed for any deviations in its tasks.

- The droid tucked into the low vent outside Taun We’s place is stationary, cams turned to her doorway and alert for any changes.

- Ko Sai, too, has already retired for the night, her workstation dark and unoccupied.

- There are not any Munit’videke in the clone creches at this late hour, only nurse droids to tend to the Eyayad’ike.

- Nala Se is awake in her lab, poking away at something at the display in front of her.

Jango draws in a deep breath and then releases it slowly, carefully putting the datapad down. He turns his head to watch Prudii, watching as the boy frowns down at the equations he’s working on.

Prudii and Kom’rk are his quieter sons, more comfortable to fade into the background and letting the others draw attention. The others play their parts, running interference so the pair can work unnoticed.

The stylus stills in Prudii’s small hand, as he becomes aware of Jango’s study, and the boy raises his head to meet Jango’s eyes with a questioning look on his face.

[Naas] Jango signs at him, with a slight shake of his head and a smile curling the edges of his mouth. Then Jango nods at the scattered flimsiplast Prudii has before him. ‘Need any help with that, Prudii’ka?’

The boy cocks his head, eyes scanning the sheets in front of him before he shoves some of it across the table at Jango and then moves to take the seat beside him.

‘I don’t understand this part,’ Prudii admits, tapping at one section of the astronav calculations he has to solve.

Jango hums and peers down at the problem, dropping one arm around Prudii and the boy tucks himself more comfortably into Jango’s side.

‘You’ve solved the tertiary astro functions correctly,’ Jango says approvingly, checking over the working. ‘For the next step, you’ll need to take into account the spatial density in that route,’ he prompts, reaching for the flimsiplast with the sector map. He draws the sheet closer towards the both of them and points out the relevant hyperspace lane for Prudii.

Prudii’s eyes follow the swoop of Jango’s finger and then he sits up, face brightening with understanding. 'Suvarir!’ he exclaims. ‘And also for the relative gravitational pull of that star.’

Jango grins at him and hands him back the datapad. ‘Kandosii, ad’ika,’ he says as Prudii quickly corrects his calculations.

‘What did Kina and N-10 get up to, whilst I was out cold?’ Jango decides to risk asking, his tone light, but all he gets in reply is a supremely flat look from Prudii.

‘She’s just doing her job,’ Prudii says in their defence, almost, but not quite bristling. He turns back to his work and underlines his astronav answer rather aggressively.

Jango bites his tongue and frowns. Well, yes, Kina is technically in charge of Jango’s wellbeing, but Jango’s coping. He’s fine. He’s worried that Kina has drawn unneeded attention to herself, has endangered herself, and he can’t protect her from Taun We or the other Munit’videke.

‘She’ll be fine, buir,’ Prudii says, as if he can read Jango’s thoughts, bright eyes watching his face sharply. ‘She’ll take care of it.’ She’ll take care of you, is what Prudii doesn’t say but Jango hears it anyway.

Jango sucks in a breath, a twisting feeling behind his ribs and then he pushes away from the table to stand.

[Tabalhar] he signs at Prudii, because he doesn’t think he can squeeze any words past the sudden lump in his throat.

The expression on Prudii’s face is far too knowing for a face that young and Jango looks away to the darkened sitting area instead, pretends he might have heard one of the other ade stirring.

Prudii stands as well and moves to his side. He tugs on Jango’s hand and when Jango turns his palm over, the boy presses two items into his hand: a kal’ika and a cobbled-together communicator. Jango stuffs the latter into the hem of his sleeve.

The blade is familiar, and Jango recognises it as the flimsidoc opener he had stolen and sharpened, had it hidden away behind the wall panelling in his old quarters. He stares down at the metal, turning it this way and that, the light glinting on the sharp edges.

He looks up to see Prudii watching him, dark eyes glittering.

‘Please return that later,’ the ad tells him calmly, as if the kal’ika wasn’t originally Jango’s in the first place, before Prudii had pried it from its hiding place.

Jango rubs at his eyes tiredly and sighs, then bends to tuck the kal’ika into the back of his boot.

‘Sure, ad,’ he says, instead of arguing. He’s an adult. He can accept his fate to be bossed around on this one night.

Prudii makes a noise of satisfaction and then waves him off, as if Jango were a verde to be dismissed and Jango stifles his own small laugh, and instead turns and marches off to patrol.

Technically, since there isn’t an actual planned route or check-in points, it is less a patrol and more of a chance for Jango to rid himself of his restless energy. He paces the white halls of the facility, his bootheels clicking loudly in the silence of the late hour. Every now and then he crosses path with one of Prudii’s beskar’ade and they flash their lights in an all clear signal to him.

As usual, his wanderings eventually brings him to the nurseries. Here, his attention is focused as he takes his time to walk in between the aisles, checking on the ik’aade. He can’t help but compare their rapid growth to Boba’s, and feel troubled.

The ik’aad in the next tray he checks is wailing, tiny face red with the effort, and Jango’s hands ache to reach out, to pick up the baby to soothe them. Instead, he makes himself step back when a nursery droid appears to unseal the pod, his arms crossed over his chest.

He watches from a few feet away, impotent and useless, as the droid tends to the crying ik’aad. He has not been permitted to hold a single one of these ik’aade, and the security droids that are stationed nearby and the collar around his neck remind him not to attempt it again.

Jango may be stubborn, but he isn’t stupid; he knows each infraction is reported to Taun We, something else she can potentially use against him. So, he stands rigidly aside, eyes locked on the shrieking ik’aad, hands gripping tightly to his opposite forearms.

The droid is perfunctory; cleaning the ik’aad and changing their soiled wrappings, and then it deposits the ik’aad back into the tray and the room is quiet again when the pod is resealed. Jango moves immediately to the tray and places his hand on the transparisteel.

The ik’aad is crying still. His hope that the child would somehow sense his presence and be soothed is a wishful thing, because they continue to cry for the many long minutes Jango stands vigil over them.

Jango can do nothing for them.

He draws back.

He moves on.

Sol’taab t’ad’taab, he counts silently. One step, two steps, to each ik’aad in their little pods, two paces apart. He pauses a moment by 99’s pod, cold and empty as it had always been, but the sight of it is hard to bear even after weeks.

After the two rotations that were promised by Nala Se, Jango had haunted the aisles between the trays, checking the tags and recounting all the Eyayad’ike himself, but 99 never made it back to the nursery.

‘I am sorry, Jango Vhett,’ the scientist had said, when Jango had went to hunt her down for answers, heart fluttering in his throat with trepidation. ‘99’s condition did not stabilise.’

Jango has added Alpha-99 to his Aay’han.

Jango walks the last few paces, finishes his inspection, and leaves the nursery. He takes a moment for himself in the hallway outside, closing his eyes and dragging a deep lungful of air into his tight chest.

Then he finds the communicator tucked in his sleeve’s hem and clicks on the tiny button to transmit.

‘Utrel'a. Yaim' dab'ika,’ he reports to Prudii, voice steady and calm, and turns to head back to his ade.

Chapter Text

‘Ke’tug’yc!’ Mereel says and the group begins again, moving through the set in unison, practicing their footwork as they step and turn, the sweep of their arms controlled as they move through the intermediate forms of Ram’atin.

Jango walks between the training ade, dropping a light touch here to correct an over-extended limb, and a nudge there to adjust foot placement. He assesses their progress on their open-hand skills and notes that he might actually be able to introduce them to the weapon-based techniques sooner than he has anticipated. They pick up the moves fast, easily memorising the steps. But simple knowledge is not enough; it has to be drilled in, ingrained into their muscle memory, until it becomes instinct and fluid.

The Munit’videke have had them training in the hand combat styles the Republic army favours; Jango had taken one cursory look at it and had discarded the idea of continuing that module with a derisive snort.

There is a reason the Jetiise and the Darjetiise fear the ori’ramikade of Mandalore.

Mandalorian Ram’atin is quick, dirty, and efficient. It is a utilitarian martial style that has evolved through the centuries, as enduring and as adaptable as its people. Mando’ade believe that the best defence is a strong offense and a solid enough foundation in Ram’atin can ensure that anything can be a weapon, even a Mando’ad’s bare hands.

He reaches out and taps N-11 thrice on his shoulder, a signal to fall out of formation and the ad immediately drops his arms and follows after Jango, who leads them a few steps away. There is no sign of anxiety on the ad’s face, only calm curiosity as he waits for Jango’s instruction.

N-11 has sprouted up an impressive handful of inches in the last few tendays – they all have – but N-11 has also grown more confident and more settled in the months since Jango had gotten them all out from under Orun Wa’s supervision.

Warmth suffuses his chest when Jango look down at N-11, so proud of his progress, and he tells N-11 so.

N-11 flushes, still unused to receiving praise, although that’s something Jango gives out easily where it is earned, but he doesn’t duck his head away shyly.

‘Vor’e, alor,’ N-11 says.

‘You are ready,’ Jango tells him gently, holding his eyes, and N-11 doesn’t pretend to not understand what Jango is talking about, and he gives a quick glance back at his vode, and then forward again, meeting Jango’s gaze.

‘Lek, alor,’ N-11 says, sounding firm and sure, and Jango nods at him, feeling a smile curling the edges of his mouth.

N-11 salutes him, fist to kar’ta and Jango honours him in return, and then they both turn to face the group, waiting for them to complete their set.

When they do, they hold position, awaiting further instruction and Jango flashes them a series of battlesigns which they track easily. Mereel brightens and grins at N-11, gladly seceding leadership back.

N-11 steps forward towards his vode, returning to their ranks.

‘Ke’tug’yc!’ N-11 says, and his vode follow.

Jango watches them start through again from the beginning, and already whatever minor adjustments he had pointed out previously have been corrected. He joins in with them, footwork sure as he pivots and twists through what would be blocks and blows if he were facing an opponent.

It feels good to drill in moves that are as familiar to him as breathing, to remind his body of what it is capable of, of what it can endure without breaking. He keeps a sharp eye on the ade moving with him, careful to not let them overexert themselves, and despite himself, Jango finds himself a little envious of what their enhancements allows them to do, for despite their young age, enhanced though it is, they keep up with him easily.

And when he sees out of the corner of his eyes the subtle way Prudii flicks his wrist, as if he were brandishing an imaginary kal’ika in his hand, Jango decides that maybe he’ll start them on integrating some bladework tomorrow. Better for the ade to pick up the correct techniques from the beginning, rather than having to correct their bad habits later.

But first, he’ll see how well they’ll do in a spar against him. He steps, pivots away from the group, traat’joha flicking from his fingers and the ade immediately clear the area. The air buzzes with their anticipation.

‘N-10,’ he calls and the ad steps forward, almost bouncing on the balls of his feet with excitement. ‘Tion tsikala, ad?’

‘Tsikala, alor!’

They salute, arms crossed over their chest, fist to their hearts, and Jango matches N-10’s wide grin with a flash of his own teeth.

The holo recording is sharp and clear and he feels like if he just reaches out, he could touch her. And he wants to, so badly. Wants to brush away the lines of pain on her face, pull her close and crush her tight into a hug and never let go again.

‘Dral’Mandalor a’den mhi,’ Mand’alor Vhett swears vehemently, eyes dry despite the grief cutting deep on her face, and her voice is sparking bright with anger.

Jango doesn’t dare the blink, tracing the lines of Arla’s face, the grim slash of her lips as she promises vengeance on the galaxy, her armour’s karta bal manda a burning blaze of gold with their buir’s mark on her shoulders.

‘Aru’ese, Mandalor nu draar digu. Aruetyc talyc runi’la trattok’o. Haat, ijaa, haa’it.’

The holo winks out and all Jango can do is stare blankly into the air at the space where Arla’s image had been projected.

He has known, of course, that his vod has been made Mand’alor, has heard snippets of news from the wider galaxy that Kina sometimes sneaks around the information censor program they have for him. He’s not even sure why the Munit’videke bother, because it’s not like Jango can be kept in the dark for long. Especially not now anyway, when he’s in charge of putting together the education modules here, and he’s hungrily chased after any byte of information he can pull.

Jango has been able to wring out bits here and there, but he has to be cautious to not trip the system because every byte sent or received within the facility’s network is monitored, and any outgoing messages or calls are bounced through a myriad of security relays before being tight-beamed across space. There is no way for Jango or Kina to send a message out for help without it being immediately flagged and intercepted and bring Taun We’s cold wrath crashing down on all their heads. It is frustratingly secure and Jango can admire the design of it if it wasn’t being actively used against him to hold him here against his will.

He finds his hands drifting of their own accord to the holo controls, and projector light flickers and then consolidates and Arla is there again before him, angry and in pain. The recording is only a few minutes long, only containing her short message for the galaxy, the hours long Aay’han preceding it has been cut from this particular file.

Jango’s half-glad for that; he doesn’t know how he’d feel to hear his name in her Remembrances when he’s still alive, still hasn’t marched on, but he is trapped in a Republic plot, trapped on Kamino.

He pauses the recording and just stares at Arla, takes in the dark circles under her furious eyes, the determination in the set of her chin, and recalls the things he has read of her blood-filled reign and the Kyr’tsad that she’s let loose from even their nominal leash.

We, the wrath of Mandalore, the provided Basic subtitles translate, at the bottom of the projection. Dral’Mandalor a’den mhi.

Arla is known as Mand’alor Vhett the Avenger, and she is feared.

Jango startles when a small hand slips into his and squeezes tightly. He glances down to find N-12 staring up at Arla. When N-12 briefly casts a look up at Jango, his face is solemn.

The other ade remain at their desks, and there is an expression of great sympathy on their faces and Jango belatedly feels the wetness on his cheeks, which he brushes away with his free hand.

‘That’s your ba’vodu,’ Jango tells his sons, voice hoarse around the edges, and N-12 squeezes his fingers again, but the ad doesn’t look away from Arla.

‘She must miss you a lot, too,’ N-12 says quietly and Jango swallows hard and gently tightens his hold around his ad’s hand, squeezing back.

The rest of the lesson is quiet, dark heads bent over datapads and consoles as the ade study recent Mandalorian history and the geopolitics of the sector, stylus scratching away as they complete their essays.

The holostill of Mand’alor Vhett remains, her image and her words still hanging in the space. The room is quiet, but the mood is not the peaceful sort of calm. It is the kind hush that rolls over and compresses, filled with distilled focus and discipline, anticipatory, like the forced calm of before the ambush springs on the unsuspecting target.

Jango casually leans his hip against his desk at the front of the room, tapping his fingers on the surface of the table with an absent look on his face. His hand is out of view of the cameras.

His ade listen intently, but their faces and forms give nothing away as they decrypt on the fly. It is good practice for the ade, whenever Jango drums out dadita for them to catch randomly, like a game, and they chase after his meticulous tapping to guess the next word.

[Taabir] Jango taps, and Mereel is already quickly tapping [kotep] in reply before Jango’s even halfway through.

[Munit] is the next word, and he gets more than one [videke] in reply, but it’s not the answer he seeks so he waits and eventually N-11 taps [tome’tayl], to which Jango predictably prompts with [skotah] which gets him the easy reply of [iisa] from all of them.

And it is very likely today’s lesson topic and seeing Arla again, even if it is just a holorecording more than a decade old, it stirs up a firestorm of feelings and memories, and Jango finds himself tapping out [Dral’Mandalor]. Seeing her alive, knowing that she is still alive, that she has survived their buir, survived him, survived Korda 6… and that she is Mand’alor… that knowledge settles like the comforting weight of beskar’gam across his chest. Arla lives. The Mand’alor still lives. Greater Mandalore is eternal. Mand’alor su’cuyi. Dral’Mandalor darasuum.

It is N-12 who taps the tip of his stylus on his desk, tapping out his answer.

[A’den]

Jango pauses, eyes flicking up at the holostill of Mand’alor the Avenger. The ade’s attention sharpen on him despite them still looking like they’re engrossed in their studies.

[Lek] he raps out after a few seconds before the ade try another answer. [A’den mhi]

N-12 looks up and meets Jango’s eye. The ad tilts his head, and there is a contemplative look on his face, as if he knows that that wasn’t quite the reply Jango was seeking originally. Then the ad ducks his head, refocusing on his studies again and Jango exhales slowly, eyes catching once more on Arla.

‘Ret’urchye mhi, vod,’ he says softly to the projection, not in farewell, but in the ember-burning hope he stokes deep in his chest. ‘May we meet again.’

Jango does a turn around the room, the need to move itching under his skin and making him restless. The classroom is only so big, just enough to fit his half dozen students and himself, so he finds himself pacing the borders of the area. His restlessness is obvious, and when he makes his third pass past Prudii, the ad’s fingers twitches at one of the datapads on his desk. Jango slides it into his palm and stalks to the front of the room, glad for a distraction, and taps in the keycode to unlock it.

He is careful to tilt the screen away from the cams in the room as he brings up the cam feeds from their own network. He checks on Kina and Boba first, directing the small cleaning droid away from its post by her door to venture deeper into her office.

He finds them quickly and has to quell the grin that tugs at his lips when he takes in the scene. The Kaminii is seated on the floor, long limbs folded carefully under her, as Boba wriggles about in place before her, gripping her hands in each fist for stability.

The fond smile on her face slides into attentiveness when she spies the droid. The charms on her headpiece catch the light when she tilts her head, and she absently dodges away from Boba’s clumsy attempts at grabbing for them.

Jango taps quickly, sending an assurance in shorthand dadita which the droid relays and watches as Kina relaxes with a nod. He watches them play for a moment longer, and then reactivates the sentry protocols on the droid before moving on to the next feed.

He’s not sure why he torments himself with making rounds around Ko Sai’s empty workstation, but he does. He makes the droid circle the space several times aimlessly. 99 has marched on, and Jango has never laid eyes on the ik’aad even once. He relinquishes direct control of the droid and switches channels, displeasure curling uncomfortably in his gut.

The doors to Nala Se’s lab remain closed and Jango checks the logs of the droid. He frowns when he studies the timestamps that show the scientist has been spending increasingly longer hours sequestered in her domain. He types in a quick observation in her file, highlighting the change in routine and requesting the ade to keep a closer eye on her.

He checks their other notes, but there hasn’t been any chatter about the scientists setting a date to start their next production. Jango has been summoned a few times to the labs for his blood, but the amount they draw from him hardly matches the quantities they were harvesting during the production of the Alpha batches. Whatever had happened with 99 has them concerned that it would impact future batches, and their production has stalled for the moment.

He taps to the next feed and feels his lips press together with discontent. He watches for only a few minutes before turning off the datapad and tossing it onto the desk. The ade pause at the clatter, looking at up him and Jango waves them back to their assignments. He angles himself away from the ade, doesn’t want them to see his face.

Jango pulls in a slow steadying breath.

The Eyayad’ike are so small, tiny, and defenceless in their little pods, and he cannot help but be reminded of Bob’ika in each one of them, remembers how Boba was once sealed in his own soundproofed pod in a lab.

Bob’ika has Jango, now. He has his ori’vode, and he has Kina.

The Eyayad’ike only have droids and demagolkase.

He aches to be able to hold even just one of them, but he is only allowed to observe and orbit from a distance, and he can do nothing more for the ik’aade but to send hacked droids to watch them. He can only mark their milestones from the nursery droid logs and notes.

The ik’aade are growing at a truly frightening pace, and will surpass Boba in development in a few short tendays, and Jango hopes, he prays that the demagolkase will then stop keeping the ik’aade isolated in their own pods, kept separated from even their own vode.

‘Alor.’

Jango starts slightly. He smooths out the grim lines of his face as he turns to face the ade. They’re all looking at him, their faces mild and placid but there’s concern shining in their eyes. N-11’s gaze snaps to the discarded datapad, the corners of his mouth sliding into worried frown.

[Utrel’a] he taps out the assurance and he sees more than one tense shoulder drop slightly.

‘Are you all done?’ he asks, mindful of the cameras in the room, crossing his arms across his chest and locking a tight grip on both of his forearms. ‘Jate. Send in your assignments and put away your things,’ he instructs.

He gathers his own things and his datapad chimes with the incoming files from the ade and he absently glances down to check the screen and then pauses to reread the name attached to one of the files. He turns to the ade and finds N-12 blinking back at him with a nervous look on his face. Jango nods once at him and receives a somewhat shy smile in return, a small fleeting thing that flashes and then is quickly tucked away.

‘Ke’slanar mhi,’ he tells them, and when they move to file pass him with N-11 in the lead, Jango reaches out to the ad who lingers at end of the line, a quick brush of his fingertips from brow to chin.

A’den flashes him a bright grin, fairly vibrating in place and the ad grabs Jango’s hand in both of his to give a quick squeeze, and then the ad is gone, falling in with his brothers.

Jango follows last, bringing up the rear of their little group as they step into the hallways and make their way to their next lesson.

They pass a few Munit’videke wandering around the hallways and the way the ade subconsciously draw slightly together as they near makes Jango tense in protective instinct, fists clenching at his sides. He clenches his jaw and tries to keep the expression on his face as bland and as non-hostile as possible, which is a difficult task when he can feel the weight of their lingering curiosity and see the way their eyes trail over his ade.

Chin up, eyes forward, and footsteps clipped, N-11 leads them steadily through the doorway of the range. Jango punches the controls a little harder than necessary, and the doors slide shut. On the other side, in the hallway, indicator lights above the doors turn red. They can’t lock the doors, but it should be warning enough to stop anyone from interrupting the ade’s training.

The ade are waiting for him in the centre of the room and Jango moves to the weapons locker tucked against the side wall, jerking his head to indicate the ade follow him. He punches in the keycode, and they all wait for the few moments it takes for Taun We to remotely authorise their access, and then the ade are reaching in and pulling out blasters.

Mando’ade ba'juri verde, he tells himself, watching them collect the charge packs. Jango himself was probably about their developmental age when he was first handed a blaster to train with. Jango watches them keenly as they check over the weapons in their small hands, their movements swift and sure. Still, he goes through their line, double checking everything as he goes.

‘Jate,’ he says, when he is satisfied and then he directs them to the firing lanes.

They are very good shots, certainly much better than Jango when he was their size. Their shooting forms are perfect textbook GAR; that is something Jango wants to move them away from. Mando’verde have to move differently to take their armour into account and Jango will not entertain any thoughts that his sons will not be one day clad in beskar’gam.

The ade run blaster drills, Jango carefully reshaping their forms to a more Mandalorian slant. It is small adjustments here and there - the framing of their arms slightly wider, the shift of weight on their feet – and Jango can already start to see the Haat’ade his sons will be one day.

Jango steps back from the firing line, keeping them all in his view as they continue their drills and soon the air starts to smell comfortingly of blasterfire. His eyes trail over his sons, marking their stances and their scores, and thinks he’ll find a way to give them their first pieces soon.

They may be young, but for a Mando’ad, beskar’gam is earned, and these young ade have survived and surpassed the trials of any verd’goten. They are mandokarla and Jango will see that acknowledged by all.

Chapter Text

‘Your services are not yet needed for the Alpha batch,’ Nala Se tells him, when he successfully times his invasion of her office space and catches her there, seated at her desk. She is a hard one to track down these days, despite the droid detail they have on her. ‘Their current needs are being handled by the nursery droids.’

He opens his mouth to argue but she cuts him off. ‘Go back to your sons, Jango Vhett,’ she croons, her words interlaced with tonal Kamin’a and she blinks her wide eyes at him. Jango’s heart skips a beat. ‘They need you.’

Jango twitches despite himself, and ice courses through his veins, because although she may not be vindictive, may not actively be seeking to do harm, Nala Se cannot be trusted. And she has made mention of his sons. He locks gazes with the scientist, wonders if her words are a reminder or a warning.

‘How is Boba?’ she asks, and Jango breaks and looks away first, pressing his lips together.

‘He’s fine,’ he bites out, the choking fear making him angry.

Nala Se hums consideringly, looking thoughtful. ‘According to the data available on your species, he should be speaking his first words by now.’

She’s right, he is, but Jango will not be sharing anything about Bob’ika with her. She weathers his dark glare easily, and does not press for an answer when he stays silent and the moment stretches too long.

‘Please report yourself to the labs later this afternoon, after the meeting with Taun We,’ she instructs him absently, her attention already drifting back to the scattered flimsiplasts on her desk and Jango straightens.

‘You’re starting production again?’ he asks, and he’s proud of how his voice remains level and calm. He shifts to tuck his suddenly trembling hands at the small of his back, squeezing them into tight fists.

She hums distractedly and Jango thinks she looks tired, her pale skin wan. But if she’s been caught up with pre-production, it’s not a surprise that she’s been logging in so many extra shifts in her private lab.

She glances up at him and there’s an expression on her face that he can’t read. Then her expression and tone slides into mild irritation when she says, ‘Don’t worry, Jango Vhett. We will be implementing a more refined approach with your genetic harvesting.’

Ah, Jango thinks. That is Kina’s work. And N-10’s.

Jango worries at how they had accomplished this, but his aliit have remained stubbornly silent, closing ranks on him. Still, he can’t argue that it isn’t one less worry that he will end up a dried husk by the time the scientists have collected enough of his blood for this run.

Prudii and the others will be able to dig up more intel about the next batch from chatter from the scientists, and Jango doesn’t want to linger in Nala Se’s presence longer than necessary. So, he dips his head in a shallow nod, expression bland, and sees himself out.

He strides down several corridors before he ducks into an alcove out view of the security cams and brings his wrist up to put the communicator close to his lips.

‘Ade,’ he says, his voice low and urgent. ‘Check the droid logs and keep an eye on the labs. See if you can catch anything.’

His instruction only takes a few seconds to relay, and then he releases the transmission button and steps out into the corridor again, footsteps unhurried.

Nala Se did not exactly confirm that the demagolkase were planning production, but Kina has told him that the scientists were coming under increasing pressure from Taun We to meet their delivery date.

He reaches Kina’s office, and his hand barely brushes the controls before the door slides open for him. Jango automatically swoops down with his arms already out-stretched, fingers just managing to snag the back of Boba’s tunic as the ik’aad makes a break for freedom. He hauls the giggling child up to eye level.

‘Su’cuy, Bob’ika,’ he greets and chuckles when Boba grabs for his face with a loud and exuberant ‘Buir!’

‘You been good for Kina?’ he asks, giving Boba a gentle shake and eliciting happy squeals and Jango laughs. He tucks the ik’aad under one arm and steps further into the office, Boba content to hang limply in Jango’s grip, his little arms and legs swinging with Jango’s motion.

Kina’s watching them with a bright smile on her face and she nods in greeting at Jango.

Her office isn’t secure, and Kina faces as much suspicion and surveillance as the rest of the aliit, so they only exchange small talk, and anything urgent is relayed by surreptitious traat’joha. Everything else will be briefed in person in the ade’s more secure quarters after latemeal.

‘Vor’e, Kina. Ven’urcir,’ he nods at the Kaminii, drawing an end to their exchange of light pleasantries that is providing a cover for their more serious discussion in battlesign.

‘Ret'urcye mhi,’ she replies, inclining her head at him.

Jango turns and prompts Boba by jiggling him and Boba’s voice is bright with laughter as the ik’aad offers the Kaminii a, ‘Ret’, Nana!’

‘Ret’, Boba,’ Kina says, her own tone warm and amused.

Jango stalks the hallways with Boba tucked in the crook of his arm and a cleaning droid zipping by his feet. Boba babbles in the childish mindless way young children do, more incomprehensible sounds than actual words. Jango makes appropriate noises and talks to the ik’aad as if they’re carrying on a proper conversation and ignores the looks of consternation the Munit’videke give them as they pass.

Boba chatters on in mangled Mando’a, not noticing when Jango’s steps slow and his words become stilted and peter out as they near the Eyayad’ike nurseries. Jango takes a steadying breath, and then another and then punches the controls for the doors and steps into the room before he can second-guess himself.

Dozens of tiny identical faces turn to look at their entrance and Jango sucks in another breath and carefully deposits Boba onto the floor. Bob’ika squeals and immediately makes for the group of ik’aade, arms flung open in excitement.

‘Su’cuy!’

He crashes into the group and takes a few others down with him in a tangle of limbs and happy screams and babbled greetings in Basic.

Something in his chest eases and Jango’s shoulders drop. He backs away until he hits the wall and then slumps, sliding down to sit on the floor. His eyes are fastened onto Boba, the only child clad in blue in a sea of red kutese.

The Alphad’ike are only months old, chronologically, but they’re fast catching up to Bob’ika’s developmental stage. They will very quickly outstrip his son.

Nursery droids patrol the edges of the room, their sensors trained on the ik’aade. One of them crosses in front of Jango and it turns its helm to him before evidently dismissing him, continuing its survey of the hundred toddlers in the hall. As long as Jango doesn’t approach the Eyayad’ike or interfere with the droids, they will ignore him.

It’s just Jango too; the nursery droids aren’t programmed to react aggressive with any of the ade. Not even when A’den had decided to ambush a droid in the hallways and test their reaction to him clambering up to a droid’s frame and digging open its circuitry with a kal’ika. A’den had cut more than just a few of the droid’s wires; he had severed a couple of years off Jango’s life at the same time with that jare’la act. The boy had not even been the slightest bit repentant even after Jango had handed out punishment detail. The same punishment was also swiftly handed out to Prudii because Jango had witnessed the two of them exchanging covert high fives and Prudii mentioning something about “programming response confirmation”. Jango may be a buir now but he’s too young for white hairs.

It's impossible to count the number of children tumbling about on the padded floors, but Jango tries anyway, eyes flitting over the mass of clumsy little bodies in their numbered kutese, his ears ringing with the sheer noise young children can generate.

‘Buir buir buir!’ cries Boba happily, wriggling out from a cluster and then barrelling straight for Jango. He smiles for his son, and hopes the expression isn’t as brittle as he feels, because he can see some of the other ik’aade trying to follow in Boba’s wake but are stopped by the droids and are herded back to the centre of the room. Their faces crumple with confusion and disappointment, the shape of their lips forming the question, ‘Why-?’

‘Lek, Bob’ika?’ he murmurs, letting Boba crawl into his lap.

Boba laughs, mouth wide and happy, blunt baby teeth flashing and Jango endures having his nose mashed in by small hands for a few moments. Then he plucks his son up and points him towards the other ik’aade and gives him an encouraging nudge. Boba doesn’t need much more encouragement than that and hurls himself back into the crowd to play.

Jango watches the room from his seat against the wall. The automatic urge to attack the droids every time one of them wades into the writhing mass of toddlers to pluck out an ik’aad is tempered by the knowledge that they are adhering to caretaking protocols. It is something that Jango, Prudii and N-10 had confirmed, when they had lured a droid away and then pulled it apart, torn through its list of protocols, every code and command vigorously scrutinised, before they agreed that the droids are not a threat to the young ones.

A half hour later, a soft chime rings out across the space and the door opens for a droid that leads in a train of hovercarts. Jango rolls himself to his feet but stays at his spot by the wall and watches as the droids begin to corral the ik’aade, scanning the number on their kutese as they begin to load the ik’aade onto the carts.

Boba sidesteps the reach of the droids, eyes wide and uncertain as he turns this way and that, searching for Jango. Jango whistles, sharp and piercing, and Bob’ika’s head whips around – along with countless other faces of the Alphad’ike – looking relieved when he spots his buir.

The droids let him slip pass after a quick scan and Boba tumbles against Jango’s shins. One or two of the Alphad’ike try to follow, but are quickly swept up and scanned, before being deposited into the carts. One of them starts crying from being thwarted in their efforts, face quickly turning red in frustration. Jango clenches his jaw and drops his gaze to Boba.

‘Tion birik?’ he asks and Boba lifts arms in reply, so Jango crouches down to pick him up, slinging him up to perch on a shoulder.

They wait and it only takes a few minutes before the hall is cleared, the last ik’aad scanned and loaded and carted away. The silence is deafening after the ninety-nine Alphad’ike and their droids have gone, leaving only Jango and Boba.

The Alphad’ike are headed for a flash training session. Boba’s unenhanced; those holographic flashes will do nothing for him, except maybe give him a headache. Jango’s seen his older sons at those sessions – he is even the one to put together those lesson modules now – and it still staggers him to know that these children have the ability to absorb knowledge and information at such head-spinning speeds. Jango’s not uncomfortable to admit that Prudii and N-10’s skills in hacking and coding are as good as his own, maybe even better, because those ade can work karking fast.

Bob’ika is a comforting weight on his shoulder, balancing on his high perch with Jango’s help and he chirps a cheerful “Su’cuy” at anyone they pass in the halls, droid or Munit’videk.

His older sons are already at their customary table in the mess.

‘Buir. Bob’ika,’ N-10 greets, a wide grin on his face and already reaching up pluck Boba from Jango’s shoulder.

Jango takes his seat, one hand moving automatically to slide his tray over to Kom’rk for the ad to pick at.

‘How did things go?’ N-11 asks, starting on the food on his tray. N-11’s question is purposely vague enough so Jango can choose the direction of their conversation. Jango hums in consideration, absently noting as he receives his tray back after it has made its way around the table, that he’s left with all the undesirably bland flavours.

He decides on an innocuous, ‘Boba had fun today. He’s still bigger than the Alphad’ike, but that’ll soon change.’

‘Can we visit them too?’ N-10 fairly demands, leaning across the table.

Jango hesitates slightly, a spoonful of protein paste halfway to his mouth. He doesn’t want to bring further scrutiny down on any of the ade, should the Munit’videke decide that his older sons are negatively influencing the behaviour of the Eyayad’ike. Boba is roughly of the same developmental age as the Eyayad’ike at the moment, and they would all benefit from socialising with each other. In a few months though, when the Eyayad’ike are bigger, Jango is under no illusions that he might have to pull Boba from that activity, at least with the Alpha batch. Who knows if Nala Se and her team will have another batch decanted by then?

He has agreed to train all the ade that the Republic has commissioned, if only to protect them from the shabla training program the demagolkase had going on. But he is only one Haat’ad and there will be so many ade.

On Mandalore, a verd's training takes an aliit.

Here, most of aliit Vhett is seated at the table with him, still ade themselves, still growing up, still growing stronger. Drashaar Dralshy’a.

‘Buir?’

Jango blinks rapidly and looks around the table. N-10 and N-11 are frowning at him, and the heads of his other sons are bent over their trays as they eat, industriously pretending not to listen.

‘Lek…’ says Jango slowly, mind racing.

‘So, we can visit?’ N-10 asks brightly, his excitement doesn’t waver when N-11 digs an elbow in his side.

Jango shoves the spoonful of food he’s holding into his mouth, grimacing a little at the texture before swallowing.

‘Not just yet,’ he says, and N-10’s expression falls, ‘but… perhaps soon. I need to talk to Taun We about something first.’

At the mention of the Munit’videk, all of the ade tense up subtly, hunching over their trays.

[Ven’jate an] he raps out on the tabletop, assuring the ade.

The bland meal before him is eaten quickly, his thoughts already on the upcoming meeting with Taun We and the reports and paperwork he has armed himself with. When he is done, he collects his tray and stands and the ade look up at him in surprise, only halfway done with their own meals.

‘Finish your food, ad’ike,’ he tells him, waving his free hand to indicate they should continue eating when it looks like they are going to abandon their unfinished meal to follow him. A’den still makes to get up and Jango drops his hand onto the top of A’den’s head and ruffles the boy’s hair and looks meaningfully at the half-eaten food before him. ‘K’epar. I’ll just be at the next table over sorting out some things.’

He drops his tray at the receptacle and settles himself at the table with a clear view of the doors and pulls out his datapads. The ade’s table is soon filled with sounds of the scrape of cutlery and quiet chatter and the occasional burst of laughter.

Jango has time enough to rework sections of his report and jot down some notes. He checks the chrono and then gathers his things, the ade taking that as their cue to also clear their table.

‘Kina will be supervising your lessons for the rest of today,’ he reminds them, as they walk briskly to the flight sim deck. ‘Stay close to her and I’ll see all of you in a few hours.’

‘Lek, alor,’ N-11 says, firm and serious.

A small cleaning droid joins their group around the next corner, trailing behind Jango and he throws a quick sign to Prudii in battlesign acknowledgement for the escort. Kina is already waiting for them, and Boba is transferred into her arms as the rest of the older children file into the training room.

As expected, a pair of security droids turn up when Jango’s summoning the turbolift to take him to the administration levels, deactivated electro staffs in their servos. Jango steps into the cabin with the armed droids, and the beskar’ad darts in just before the doors of the turbolift closes.

Jango bites the inside of his cheek, the only outlet of apprehension he allows himself as the cabin rises. Taun We will not be taking his debriefing in her office as usual, and Jango is not comfortable with the change in routine.

He sees Nala Se about to enter the meeting room ahead of him, and she dips her head in a nod at Jango before she steps through the doors. Jango’s eyes dart around the space as he walks in, assessing the occupants and the room itself. There’s Taun We and Nala Se, and a male Munit’videk he doesn’t recognise. Probably one of the new consultants they’ve got recently. The male is in conversation with Taun We, but his frame immediately straightens with interest, and he turns to face Jango when he sees him.

Jango stares back coolly, studying the Munit’videke as he is studied in turn and his wariness is sharpened when he takes in the way the male is dressed.

The long-sleeved tunic and pants the newcomer wears is in the same style favoured by the Munit’videke, but rather than the usual soft fabrics, Jango can see the particular sheen of the material under the lights. Thermal armourweave. A silver gorget encases his upper torso – lightweight durasteel, not beskar.

It’s the first piece of armour Jango has seen on a sentient on Kamino.

His footsteps do not falter, even and measured, as he draws closer, but his eyes flicker over the tall sentient, coiled tension seething under his skin. Jango scoffs inwardly at the fact that his long neck is wrapped only in armourweave and not in something sturdier; there is no protection against applied blunt force.

It is not arrogance to know that Jango will be able to kill this new Munit’videk if he becomes a threat to Jango’s aliit. Beskar, tal bal taakur.

‘Akan Ye,’ greets Nala Se, gliding past Jango to speak to the Munit’videk.

 Akan Ye tears his gaze away from Jango to return the scientist’s greeting with a warble of Kamin’a.

Taun We is watching Jango carefully, eyes narrowed. He carefully smooths down the aggressive set of his shoulders, and the awareness of the blades he has hidden on his body is a steely comfort.

‘Have you met the Template, Akan Ye? This is Jango Vhett,’ Nala Se says, and she turns to beckon Jango closer to her side. ‘Jango Vhett, this is Akan Ye. He is from the Kamino Defence Force, and he has been brought in as a consultant to the project.’

Taun We bristles with annoyance but doesn’t interrupt when Akan Ye hums a greeting in Kamin’a to Jango, the fin on the top of his head flaring. His voice is deep and smooth when he speaks, ‘Greetings, Jango Vhett. You have been a source of great inspiration for my work here.’

Jango frowns heavily, but Taun We cuts in before he has a chance to ask.

‘We will hear your report now, Template,’ she commands, clicking irritably and Jango notes the way Akan Ye tilts his head slightly at the aggression in Taun We’s tone, and how he glances at Nala Se who only blinks back at him serenely.

‘Of course,’ Jango acquiesces, tone mild and he starts his debrief immediately. His professionally dry tone only seems to heighten Taun We’s inexplicable agitation and Jango almost stops himself from speaking further. It is not wise to anger the Munit’videk, however unknowingly, but to refuse to deliver his report would be an excuse for her to enact petty revenge.

‘You have been modifying the clone’s combat training to lean more towards the Mandalorian techniques?’ Akan Ye asks, taking the opportunity during a short lull in Jango’s report to speak. Jango turns his full attention to him and wonders what consultant role Akan Ye has here, considering that the being seems comfortable wearing some form of protective armour.

‘Yes,’ Jango replies shortly, a hint of challenge in his tone.

The Munit’videke body-type is unsuitable for melee fighting; all spindly limbs and narrow torsos and long necks. If they have any fighters at all, they will be ranged fighters or pilots. Jango will absolutely start something physical right here and right now, should the Munit’videk try to meddle in Jango’s training regime. If Akan Ye thinks he can provide better close quarters combat training to his sons, he will have to prove it to Jango.

Akan Ye thrums deeply and cants his head, the frills on his head undulating. ‘That is fortuitous to hear,’ he says, sounding almost excited. Jango blinks at the unexpected response. ‘I was concerned that the GAR training standards might be incompatible with my proposal.’

No one protests when Akan Ye moves to the holoprojector in the centre of the room, clearly intending to present his own project. Jango is quite content to have his own debrief cut short and steps to the side so he can see the holoimage that Akan Ye produces.

Jango freezes, feels the blood drain from his face and staggers back half a step.

Rotating slowly in the air is a rendering of a full suit of armour. It bears a more than passing resemblance to beskar’gam, from buy’ce to cetare. The visor is similar in design too, despite the way the reinforced transparisteel strip in the middle splits into two where the wearer’s mouth would be.

‘Me’bana?’ he snaps harshly, Mando’a sharp on his tongue as he takes in the blasphemy on display. He turns slowly to Akan Ye.

Akan Ye clicks at him, not understanding the language and seemingly unaware of Jango’s cresting rage. ‘As I have said, Jango Vhett, he says, gesturing proudly at the rendering. ‘You were the main source of inspiration in the design of the clone trooper armour. We have even used some of your own armour colours in the design.’

And Jango can’t help but look again, eyes drawn back to the bastardisation of beskar’gam, of the sheer ignorance and audacity of these ge'hutuune. They have used his kar’ta bal manda, the exact shade of the blues and the greys are obviously copied directly from his own beskar’gam and kute. They have even appropriated the paintjob of his buy’ce, the vibrant stripe of blue across the visor and down the middle.

He feels sick, just looking at it, thinking about Arla having to fight an army wearing the face of her dead kih’vod, killing them, and how it would be a thousand times worse if they were wearing his kar’ta bal manda too.

‘Do you not think the colour scheme would cause confusion in the battlefields?’ Nala Se is asking, tilting her head as she studies the holoimage more closely. ‘The Mandalorians tend to have colourful armour themselves. It might lead to some of our clones getting caught in friendly fire, if they are not easily recognisable on the field.’

Taun We hums in consideration. ‘Perhaps if we were to use the GAR colours? Their officer uniforms are an olive green, and their troops wear a light grey.’

Jango wants to scream. It is obvious that this caricature of beskar’gam will very likely be approved for the Eyayade Jango will be training, for his sons – despite the fact that armourweave and durasteel body plates are GAR standard issue.

An army wearing the face and colours of a dead Mand’alor would easily make any Haat’ad hesitate to pull the trigger.

‘White,’ Jango says, a bit too loudly, interjecting himself into the discussion. He ignores the way Taun We narrows her eyes suspiciously at him. He tries to keep his tone from giving away too much of his feelings when he goes on to expand, ‘You will have a clear visual distinction then between the officers, the regular troopers, and the clone troopers.’

There is a short pause before Akan Ye warbles thoughtfully in Kamin’a and he turns to adjust the render on the holoprojector. The Munit’videke click approvingly, the new colour scheme likely appealing to their own austere aesthetics. Even Taun We looks reluctantly accepting of the changes.

Jango stares up at the rotating model of the proposed armour, now rendered in simple white, and sends a desperate prayer to the Manda.

Let Arla and the Haat’ade see that the Eyayade in their blank armour are not Jango Vhett.

Jango hopes fervently that the Empire will never face the Eyayade in battle. He hopes, but he also plans for the worst. The Eyayade may wear his face, but they are their own persons, their own individuals, full of potential and promise, and so very young for all that they are forced into maturing into adults – into soldiers - much too fast.

He can only give them this; a tenuous message he hopes the Haat’ade will understand, painted across the armour of children raised to be soldiers. A plea for the Mando’ade to not judge the Eyayade for the sins of the Republic.

Cin vhetin.

Chapter Text

Dral’Mandalor ne’nau’ur kad solus tuur.

That is what Jango tells himself when he starts to doubt his course, when he tells himself he is still Haat’ad, that he is trying to save the Eyayad’ike.

Greater Mandalore was not forged in a day.

It becomes an oft repeated mantra that he keeps trapped behind his teeth, a grim reminder that he must bow his head and bid his time.

Dral’Mandalor ne’nau’ur kad solus tuur, he tells himself as he sits on the floor, A’den’s foot in Jango’s lap and he tends to his son’s badly twisted ankle. The swelling is atrocious, the skin deepening with an impressive bruise, and despite the painkiller Jango has administered, he knows it hasn’t quite taken effect yet and A’den must be suffering. But A’den is still smiling, still laughing at his brothers’ jokes, even if he’s very careful not to jostle around too much. He has a hand curled casually on Jango’s shoulder, tapping assurances in dadita because he can no doubt read the worry on Jango’s face.

He understands now why his own buir had handed off his training to Montross and the other ori’ramikade; it is difficult to see your ade struggling, and then have the strength to push them further past that because you know they have not yet reached their limits. And it is not an easy thing to see your ade in pain, even when injuries from training accidents are bound to happen.

Ordo is sitting by Jango’s side, a frown etched between his brows as he watches Jango apply a compression wrap. ‘That was really jare’la,’ he tells his brother bluntly. ‘You’re lucky it is only a sprained ankle. You could have been seriously injured.’

A’den rolls his eyes. ‘I misjudged the distance, is all,’ flapping a hand unconcernedly at Ordo.

Ordo frowns harder and then before Jango can deflect his hand, moving as quick as a vexis, Ordo reaches out to slap A’den's ankle.

‘Ordo!’ scolds Jango, but it is drowned out by A’den’s yowls of pain.

‘Buir! Buir! Did you see what he did?’ cries A’den, dramatically aggrieved.

‘You are a di’kut,’ Ordo tells him, tone flat.

A’den growls in offence and tries to launch himself across Jango to get at his brother and Ordo tries to meet him halfway.

‘Alright, alright! Settle down both of you! Ke’gev!’ Jango shoves his palms into their faces to keep them apart.

Ordo pulls away first, muttering angrily about idiot children and glaring at his brother.

‘You’re barely older than me!’ squawks A’den, flashing some very rude handsigns at Ordo and then shamelessly using Jango as a shield when Ordo bares his teeth in threat.

Jango sighs internally.

Outwardly, he gives a warning look at A’den and then slides his attention to his other son. ‘You shouldn’t hit your brother, and you shouldn’t have called him an idiot,’ Jango lectures and Ordo meets his eyes mulishly. ‘And you,’ he snaps, turning to A’den and catching the trail end of more rude handsigns directed at Ordo. ‘Watch your language!’

Jango ignores the stifled laughter from the other corner of the room where his other ade are watching the drama.

‘Now apologise to each other.’

A’den turns to his brother, eyes wide and too contrite. ‘Vod, I’m sorry I called you a –’ and then he flashes a long series of handsigns that Jango is absolutely sure actually contains more impolite words in creative combinations than the original transgression.

His other sons howl with laughter and Jango slaps A’den’s hands down. ‘A’den! Not in front of Boba!’

Ordo rolls to his feet. ‘You are a di’kut,’ he repeats, almost hissing in anger. ‘Did you even stop to think what would have happened to you if you had been seriously injured? If you had landed wrong and irreparably damaged your back? What do you think Taun We would have done then?’

Jango recoils, staring at Ordo’s pale face and too bright eyes. At his side, A’den flinches and falls silent, ducking his head. The laughter and jeers in the room die immediately, plunging the room into cold silence.

‘Ordo, it was an accident,’ Jango says quietly, the crush of guilt and fear stealing his breath. It happened under his watch. ‘It was my fault. I am the ba’juir; I should have ensured the safety of the training exercise. Ni ceta.’

‘Nayc, buir,’ Ordo snaps, eyes boring down on A’den. ‘A’den is a di’kut.’

There is a slight pause and then, ‘Lek, I am a di’kut,’ agrees A’den, quiet and subdued. ‘I was being stupid and reckless. I am sorry. I won’t do it again.’

‘Nayc,’ Ordo says, tone easing slightly. He huffs a soft breath. There is still anger in his expression, but there is also a wry twist to the set of his lips. ‘You will do it again. When you’ve healed, you will do it again and practice until you’ve got it right. You’ve got more talent for wire work than any of us here and you should work on it. But you can’t just throw yourself off ledges without a spotter, vod. That is di’kutla.’

Ordo turns to regard Jango then, and Jango’s next breath catches as he looks up at his son, finds himself straightening under the attention.

‘You have to dikutproof everything,’ Ordo tells Jango firmly, locking his eyes intensely on Jango’s. ‘Every exercise, every procedure. There’s six of us now, but when the next batches start training, we can’t afford anything going wrong and we can’t assume there won’t be di’kute trying jare’la stunts.’

Everyone hears Kom’rk mutter of, ‘One in six is a pretty high statistic for stupidity, if we’re the control batch.’

Ordo snorts, amusement tugging at the edges of his mouth.

‘We’ll help, buir. Mhi ba'juri verde tome,’ he says, turning serious again. ‘Beskar, tal bal taakur,’ promises Ordo, the vicious Mandalorian oath of protection delivered steadily.

It is the same oath Jango had sworn to his sons.

Jango can do nothing but jerk his head in a nod, pushing away the feeling of uncertainty. He is only one person; he cannot train an army on his own. Jango had been careful in his wording and in his report to the Jetii, outlining the future expansion of the training program for the Eyayad’ike. With the curtly worded endorsement of Dooku behind him, it had not taken much more to get Taun We to approve of his plan to allow his sons to assist in training the later batches.

Jango exhales slowly and then rises to stand before Ordo. He reaches out and pulls his ad in to press their foreheads together, his palms wrapping around the back of Ordo’s neck and his fingers threading through the thick curls of his hair. Ordo reaches back the same way, pressing closer. Jango is still taller, of course, but his ad has grown bigger now, and the difference in the height between them doesn’t make it uncomfortable to hold the position for a long minute.

‘Vor’e, ner ad,’ says Jango, voice thick with a myriad of emotions.

He is humbled by the man his son is growing up to be, and he tries to press that feeling and pride and affection through the mirshmure’cya and in his touch as he drops his hands onto Ordo’s shoulders. Jango nods at him.

‘Alor’ad,’ Jango says, and steps back and salutes Ordo with his fist over his heart.

An expression of pure surprise flashes across his face and Ordo blinks at Jango.

The rest of the ade scramble to their feet to offer their own salutes, A’den rolling upright rather neatly, despite his injured foot.

‘Alor’ad!’

Even Boba squeaks an approximation of the word and copies the salute.

A second or two passes and then Ordo manages to overcome his shock and he straightens and honours them in return. ‘Kote Dral’Mandalore.’

Jango has never had to explicitly instruct his sons to avoid mentioning anything that might bring them the suspicion of the Munit’videke and their Jetii client. He doesn’t have to; his sons are clever and have been forced to practice their own form of subterfuge from the day of their decanting. Hiding secrets from the Munit’videke comes naturally to them.

Kote Dral’Mandalore. Glory to the Mandalorian Empire.

Here, sequestered in their own quarters where it is secure and it is just their aliit, and they can display their true sentiments and loyalties.

The Eyayad’ike they will train in the cycles to come will first learn a different rallying cry; For the Republic.

Aliit Vhett will have to move slowly, be extremely careful to never reveal their hand as they fold more vode into their plans. Jango knows it’s impractical to reach all the Eyayad’ike; it will be impossible to keep a secret from the Munit’videke if 3 million people know of it. He hopes to be able to reach enough Eyayad’ike.

Dral’Mandalor ne’nau’ur kad solus tuur, and the Resol’nare is the core of the Empire.

Ba’jur bal Beskar’gam, Ara’nov, Aliit, Mando’a bal Mand’alor.
Education and Armour, Self-defence, Clan, Mando’a and Mand’alor.

He has given his sons everything he can. Some things though, are beyond his current means.

It is with that in mind that Jango goes to request a meeting with Akan Ye. It isn’t easy to speak to him –resentment is a thing that is a constant low burning companion to Jango now, wrapped around his chest and in the curls of his fists – but… Akan Ye is not demagolka. His transgression of appropriating the image of beskar’gam pales in comparison to the other crimes of Kamino.

So, he speaks with Akan Ye, offers to help him refine the design of the eyayad’gam. A closer study of it reveals that although it looks very much like beskar’gam at first glance, the protective plates of this design covers almost every inch of the wearer, and the kute beneath is almost completely hidden. Jango is no Goran, by any means, but he is Mando’ad, and he knows armour better than any aruetii. More importantly, he knows the strengths and limitations of it, and he uses that knowledge now.

The Munit’videk seems delighted at Jango's assistance, swaying his long neck and clicking excitedly in Kamin’a. Jango is patient with his questions, stands still and docile as Akan Ye takes multiple scans of his body.

‘This is good data,’ Akan Ye trills, as he swipes through the scans. ‘Nala Se predicts that the clones will be of your height at full maturity, within a small degree of variation. It will make the fabrication of clone armour a simple thing to mass produce.’

Jango pauses at that, then turns to Akan Ye. ‘They will only be kitted out when they reach maturity?’ he asks and Akan Ye looks up from his datapad to blink in mild confusion at Jango.

‘When the Jedi come to collect them, actually. They will be given armour before their deployment. There is little point in giving them armour to wear in Tipoca when Kamino is not at war.’

Jango can’t help but stare at the other being, frowning in consternation.

‘I would recommend that the clones be introduced armour as soon as possible,’ Jango says slowly. ‘And that they wear their armour during training, and also out of it, to get used to the feeling. A soldier who is unfamiliar or uncomfortable with their gear will very quickly be a dead soldier.’

Akan Ye clicks agitatedly to himself as he thinks and Jango tenses as he eyes the way the other’s headcrest flares. He cannot predict how the Munit’videk would take his words, if he would be offended with Jango’s advice.

Jango takes a chance and gestures at the gorget Akan Ye is wearing. ‘When were you issued your armour?’ he asks.

Akan Ye’s hand drifts up to brush against the durasteel. ‘Kamino is not in hostile conflict with anyone, so there is no need for our Security Defence Force to be fully kitted on-planet. Our armour is only worn when we need to conduct orbital patrols around Kamino.’

Jango thinks over the information carefully. ‘So, you only wear armour for space patrols?’

‘Yes. Kaminoan biology doesn’t react well with cosmic radiation, I am afraid.’

Jango narrows his eyes as he looks over Akan Ye’s armour again. ‘Did you come to Tipoca straight from patrol, then?’ Jango thinks that is unlikely.

The Munit’videk freezes and makes a tiny warble, and Jango can’t stop a smile from sliding onto his face, sharp and mean. He remembers himself and wipes it away quickly and steps back, posture deliberately casual and relaxed.

The crest on Akan Ye’s head is stiff with wariness, and his white pupils are dilated in fear as he stares at Jango.

Definitely not a melee fighter, Jango thinks with a derisive mental snort.

When Jango doesn’t do anything more aggressive than just blink back at the Munit’videk, Akan Ye slowly uncoils the tension winding through his limbs, and it is several moments more before he speaks.

‘…Your reputation precedes you, Jango Vhett,’ is all he will say quietly, warily.

‘Lek,’ Jango agrees mildly, because he doesn’t see the point in denying the fact that he’s killed just short of a dozen Munit’videke since he’s been brought here. ‘They also call me the Jedi Killer,’ he can’t help but offer – granted, it’s not a particularly remarkable feat for a Mando’ad, but Jango was just a year past his verd’goten when he had killed that assassin Vosa with his own bare hands.

Akan Ye doesn’t look anymore reassured.

And then because he really just can’t help himself, Jango taps at his own neck and then gestures at Akan Ye’s thermalweave wrapping. ‘None of your armour would protect you from a close quarters fight. If I wanted to kill you, you would already be dead,’ Jango tells him, darkly amused. If I could kill everyone here, I would have already, would be more accurate, but Jango thinks he’s rattled the Munit’videk enough, so instead he spreads his arms slightly out to the sides like he has seen Kina do when she’s trying to appease Taun We or Nala Se and says, ‘Peace, Akan Ye. I am not here to fight with you. I want for us to work together on this project.’

‘Why?’ Akan Ye asks, head tilted suspiciously.

Jango huffs a sarcastic laugh. ‘Has Nala Se not told you? I’m obsessed with the clones,’ he says drily, and he’s not sure if Akan Ye understands the heavy mocking tone – somethings don’t translate well to the Munit’videke. ‘I want to keep them safe and giving them good armour keeps them safe.’

Akan Ye blinks at him, clearly unsure. Jango sighs and runs a hand through his hair.

‘You’re the consultant Taun We’s brought in to design the clone’s armour – do you know what you’re doing?’ he asks brusquely, too impatient for anything more delicate. It’s obvious to Jango that Akan Ye is out of his depth with this project and Jango’s not sure what he would do if Akan Ye rejects his advice, whether from fear of Jango or from just plain bad decision making.

Fortunately, Akan Ye dips his head slowly and admits rather hesitantly, ‘We have never had a project like this before. Your assistance and your knowledge would be invaluable, Jango Vhett.’

‘You have it,’ Jango says quickly. ‘I am training the clones; I don’t want to see them killed as soon as they step off a transport.’ He pauses, then adds in a tone that is calculated to be perfectly neutral, ‘And I don’t think the Jedi will be impressed by that either.’

The reminder of their client’s brief for a fighting fit army seems to give Akan Ye resolve and he clicks in the affirmative, straightening his posture.

‘Then let us proceed,’ Akan Ye says. ‘You were saying that the clones be familiarised with the armour before deployment. When do you recommend integrating that into your training?’

Jango feels a flash of sharp satisfaction. It is a relief to have the Munit’videk steered into agreeing.

‘Start them young but start them slow. Armour should be introduced in pieces, to get them used to the weight and feel of it,’ he tells Akan Ye, who listens attentively. ‘On Mandalore, vambraces are the traditional first pieces, presented to the wearer when they reach their species’ equivalent of puberty.’

‘Why vambraces? Why not a helmet or something that protects the wearer’s most vulnerable areas?’ Akan Ye questions, his hands drifting up absently to touch his own armour covering his chest.

Because ade are kept safe and sheltered within the protection of their aliit, and do not need such armour yet.

Because ade on the cusp of adulthood are trusted with more freedoms and are equipped with kom’rke so they can comm their aliit in case of an emergency when they inevitably do something di’kutla.

‘Because of the tech that is integrated into the vambraces,’ Jango says instead, tone even and factual. ‘It is basic things at first, comms, databases, network connection… We learn to be familiar with using our vambraces which will eventually combine with our use of our HUDs to access more advance controls for weaponry, encryption, reconnaissance, targeting…’ Jango trails off with a wave of his hand.

Everything he says is true, but it is not the true meaning of kom’rke – of beskar’gam – to a Haat’ad.

He carefully doesn’t think of Arla’s first kom’rke, painted a bright defiant scarlet and earned on Concord Dawn, and how she had sat in a corner of their new home on Manda’yaim, eyes overbright and stubbornly dry as she repainted them in a darker shade with shaking hands.

He doesn’t think about the countless times he has exchanged burcyan’rok with other squad leaders in the cannon-torn fields, with the lash of Republic blasterfire flying above their heads, clasping forearms and bringing their kom’rke together for a brokar’ta to exchange comms and intel via their encrypted near-field communications tech, the way the info on his HUD would update and light up with friendlies, the bolstering of his battle-tired flagging spirit to know that another squad of ori’rami’kade are here to lend beskad and blasterfire in support.

More than any part of his beskar’gam, Jango misses his kom’rke the most. His forearms feel uncomfortably bare, bereft. He’s self-aware enough to acknowledge he’s developed a self-comforting habit of crossing his arms across his chest, curling his palms around that empty space on the other forearm, trying to find something grounding.

Akan Ye clicks in understanding and then beckons him over to his workbench. There’s a few pieces of prototype armour scattered across the surface, and Jango drifts closer, intrigued. Akan Ye makes no move to stop him from picking up the nearest piece. He turns the bes’mabur around in his hands, inspecting it closely, and then he reaches out for a rerebrace, putting them together to see their fit.

Jango makes a dissatisfied sound and turns to the Munit’videk watching him. ‘These are no good,’ Jango tells him, shaking his head. ‘The lowest point of the pauldron would constantly catch on the other piece; the shape needs refinement.’

Akan Ye thrums in agreement, his fin on his head fluttering with his interest. He pulls out a datapad and gestures to the rest of the pieces.

‘Would you care to try it on for me? Your feedback would be immensely helpful since the clones are designed to your specifications.’

Jango jerks hard, almost dropping the pieces in his hands, blood rushing past his ears. This is not beskar’gam; it is a facsimile, 3D printed in prototyping plastide, the material light and thin in his hands and would probably break if he breathes too hard in it, and it is such a deep insult to his Haat’ad sensibilities he almost growls out an aggressive negation.

But-

He carefully puts the pieces down before he snaps them in his hands.

But this is the armour that will be assigned to the Eyayade. He needs to make sure that blasterfire won’t easily slip in between the plates, that it has enough mobility to confront those who wield kad’ause. He needs to make sure his Eyayade don’t just become cannon fodder for the Republic.

He turns to Akan Ye and tilts his chin up to meet the other’s gaze, heart pounding hard in the cage of his ribs, and he crosses his arms. ‘You got a bodysuit for me?’ he asks, and he is proud of the way his voice doesn’t shake.

His fingernails are digging painful furrows into the flesh of his forearms.

Chapter Text

The next time Jango walks into Akan Ye’s fabrication workshop with a beskar’ad trundling along close to his heels, it is the Munit’videk who brings up armour for Jango’s sons.

‘It is the ideal time to introduce armour to the Null batch,’ Akan Ye says as a greeting the moment he sees Jango.

Jango stops and the droid collides into the back of his legs.

‘The medical scans have confirmed that the Null batch’s next significant growth milestone has already started,’ continues Akan Ye, not registering Jango’s sudden wariness.

When Jango still remains silent, Akan Ye tilts his head and blinks at him. ‘You did recommend that the clones be given armour as soon as possible,’ he reminds Jango. ‘The Nulls are entering their puberty cycle, and you had said that your people traditionally started armouring your young at that milestone. Am I wrong to assume the same for the clones?’

The question is in earnest, but it still makes Jango want to bristle defensively.

‘No, you are not wrong,’ Jango makes himself say, after a too long pause that touches on the edges of awkwardness. He take a deep steadying breath and steps closer, and Prudii’s droid leaves his side to dart quietly under the workbench. ‘They have progressed to more advanced combat and physical training. It is the appropriate time to start them wearing armour too.’

Akan Ye emits a low pleased thrum, his headcrest undulating gently.

‘Excellent. I understand that you are their primary handler; would you mind sending for one of them to come here? We will need to run some scans for their measurements.’

Jango twitches, his eyes sliding quickly to the droid tucked under the workbench and then back to Akan Ye’s face. Slowly, he nods, pulling out his datapad with one hand, his other hand out of Akan Ye’s sightline and flashing traat’joha for the droid to relay.

[Morut’yc] he assures his ade; he will let no harm come to them.

He sends a short message, requesting one of them to come up to Akan Ye’s level and then he tucks the datapad away.

The Munit’videk quickly draws him into a discussion on the basic functions they would want to incorporate into the first set of vambraces, Jango barely keeping himself from making a face when the droid rapidly flashes [TRACYN’PEH’UUR] in dadita with far too much enthusiasm.

[Nayc] he forms firmly with his fingers, his hand signs sharp. Absolutely not. No kriffing flamethrowers.

And then he has to quickly appease with a signed “Not yet”, the muscle beneath his eye jumping, because the outraged strobing of lights coming from under the desk will surely attract Akan Ye’s attention.

Fortunately, the Munit’videk’s attention is drawn by the sound of gentle chimes, and he goes to the door to investigate. Below the desk, the beskar’ad makes a soft tone, low enough to be out of Akan Ye’s hearing and Jango turns at the sound of the door opening, knowing that it is one of his sons.

Ordo stands just beyond the threshold, posture stiff and face blank. Jango spies another beskar’ad parked just around the corner beyond.

‘Sir,’ Ordo addresses Akan Ye, tone flat. He catches sight of Jango behind the Munit’videk and there is a small flash of relief on his face before it is quickly masked into bland indifference.

Akan Ye glances down at the blocky print on Ordo’s tunic. ‘Come inside, N-11,’ he says, waving him in.

Despite the open call Jango had sent when he had forwarded the summons, he knew Ordo would be the one to answer; Ordo would never send a brother to go where he himself would not. Jango knows his son, can read him easily, and he can see that Ordo is wary – not fearful – of this new Munit’videk, would clearly rather be anywhere else but here right now. And yet he still came, has trusted in Jango, and has presented himself.

Ordo steps in and quickly makes his way to Jango’s side, and Jango find himself sliding forward, putting himself a half-step in front of his son.

Akan Ye goes to a scanner deck and spends a few minutes calibrating the controls before turning to look back at the humans in the room with him. ‘I will need to scan you, N-11. Please stand on the deck.’

Ordo obeys instantly. As he brushes past Jango, Jango feels his ad slip him his kal’ikase, and Jango palms the blades, smoothly tucks them into his own sleeves. Ordo is straight-backed and his footsteps are clipped as he crosses the room, and he steps up upon the scanning plate. Akan Ye is peering at the console in front of him, making some last minute adjustments. Ordo meets Jango’s gaze, eyes a little too wide, fists clenched at his sides, and Jango nods at him, flicks him assurances in battlesign.

[Hukaat’kama]

Jango takes his own measured paces to stand beside Akan Ye, glancing reflexively down at the control panel but finding the screen covered in Kamin’a glyphs and not for the thousandth time does he wish he could read the script. Kina has tried to teach it to him, but the complicated looking knots apparently have hundreds of permutations per character.

Ordo’s breath quickens as the scans start, shoulders tensing, eyes locked a little desperately onto Jango’s.

The scan is over in seconds and Akan Ye immediately busies himself with the data, chirping absently as he settles himself at the drafting projector. Ordo steps off the scanning plate, his steps deliberate and very pointedly not in any hurry as he returns to Jango’s side. Still, he takes the side that is furthest from the Munit’videk, putting the bulk of his buir between them. Jango hears his small shaky exhale and takes the step to close the distance between them, draping an arm over his ad’s shoulders and pulling Ordo flush against his side.

Akan Ye briefly glances up at them and then goes back to his work, clicking to himself as he manipulates the holorendering of a pair of vambraces before him.

Jango can feel Ordo’s faint tremors under his hand, and he gives his ad a squeeze.

[Ke’slanar mhi] he taps onto Ordo’s shoulder, and when Jango moves, the boy moves with him completely in sync.

‘What do you think?’ Akan Ye asks, gesturing at the holorendering and Jango steps nearer, Ordo still pressed against his side.

The first thing Jango notes is the shape; the shape is streamlined, far sleeker in form than the utilitarian and more brutalist Mando’ade aesthetics. There is a control panel on the left vambrace containing a small row of buttons.

‘What sort of tech are you going to be integrating?’ Jango questions, looking at the list of specs but finding it written in Kamin’a.

‘Shortrange comms and access to the local network and databases here on site,’ Akan Ye says and Jango nods; the shortrange comms is a surprise. Any communication will likely be monitored though. Jango and his aliit will still have to use for their own comms network for anything they don’t want the Munit’videke to be privy of. As for the local network and database access, he is not really expecting anything different than the clearance level they already currently have on their datapads.

‘Think we could have embedded cams and holocomms capabilities?’ he asks and Akan Ye hums, tilting his head as he considers the rendering before them.

‘Yes, that can be easily supported,’ Akan Ye replies after a few moments and Jango tamps down on a flash of satisfaction. Having more tech kibble for Prudii and Kom’rk to work with is always better.

Akan Ye turns to Jango, ‘I feel this is a good starting place to start testing out the prototype. We can refine the design further once we have some feedback from the Nulls.’ The Munit’videk pauses and then slides Jango a thoughtful look. ‘Perhaps we should fabricate a large version that would fit you, so that you might also provide more experienced feedback.’

Jango jerks his head in a nod, not trusting himself to speak because he has not yet managed to completely reconcile himself with cladding himself with armour that is not beskar’gam.

The Munit’videk trills, looking pleased, ‘Excellent. I will send the files to the fabrication forge. I estimate that the pieces should be ready within two rotations. I will send for you and the Nulls then.’

It is a clear dismissal and Jango keeps his arm hooked around Ordo’s shoulders as he steers them out of the workshop. Below Akan Ye’s console, the beskar’ad quietly tucks itself into a corner to continue to monitor the Munit’videk.

Ordo steps away from Jango’s side the second they are in the hallways and Jango lets him, the both of them very carefully not looking up at the holocam watching them.

‘Sir,’ Ordo says, giving Jango a brief salute, touching the blade of his hand to his temple, eyes locking with Jango’s. Jango pushes away his rising alarm at the Core formality and Ordo’s steady demeanour falters for a moment.

‘What is it, captain?’ Jango asks calmly in Basic, even as he feels his pulse quickening.

‘Taun We instructed me to relay that she would like to speak with you at your earliest convenience.’

Jango finds himself frowning. ‘I didn’t get any notifications from her,’ he says, pulling out his datapad to check for any messages and finding none.

Ordo nods, an expression of disconcert flashing across his face that has Jango straightening his own shoulders in response, ready to dispense violence on behalf of his ad if it is needed.

‘She stopped me on the way up here, asked me to pass a message,’ Ordo explains. Jango runs his eyes quickly over Ordo, subtly checking him over.

‘I see,’ he replies, his hand on the side that is hidden from the view of the holocam forming signs. [Me’vaar ti gar?]

His son flicks back a subtle and reassuring [Naas] and the vice around Jango’s chest eases a little for a moment, only to crush tighter when Ordo continues, ‘Sir, she wants me there with you.’

Jango hisses a sharp breath, his heart racing. He makes himself nod.

‘Then it is best that we don’t keep her waiting,’ he says tightly, and then turns on his heel to lead the way to the nearest turbolift, Ordo following at his left shoulder. Ordo’s initial beskar’ad escort falls in behind them.

[Prudii] Jango signs to the beskar’ad as they step into the turbolift. [Din’kartay? Me’bana?]

Jango’s heart drops when Ordo reaches past him to hit the button for the floor level. He turns slightly to his ad and sees Ordo grim-faced, lips pressed together tightly. The light indicator on the droid starts flashing and Jango parses the dadita as the cabin descends to the lower levels of the facility.

[KAYSH TI EYAYAD’IKE] the droid signals, confirming Jango’s fears. [TI JA’HAILIR NU'KART'AD]

Jango resolutely doesn’t react. Ordo looks up at Jango questioningly, trepidation in his dark eyes.

A holo-drone accompanying Taun We does not sound like a good thing.

[Ke'tsikador] he tells his sons. Be ready.

They fall silent after that, moving through the facility.

‘Taabir kotep,’ he says softly, lips barely moving and only for Ordo’s ears when they are standing at the threshold of the nursery. He hears Ordo’s sharply indrawn breath. Jango brushes close to his son, to give comfort and to return the ad’s kal’ikase.

Jango finds he has automatically braced himself for the usual squall of ninety-nine ik’aade gathered together in one place and his steps falter when the doors open and instead there is only quietness. The skin on the back of his neck prickles in a terrible sense of foreboding. He sweeps his gaze around the nursery hall, noting first the half-dozen security droids standing along the wall, and then the fact that the hall is empty except for a squad of twelve ik’aade assembled before Taun We and a holo-drone. The hovering drone is making a circuit around the grouped ik’aade, holocam pointed at the children.

The ik’aade are arranged four to a row in three columns and they stare silently up at Taun We, curiosity and uncertainty on their tiny faces.

Haar’chak.

Jango has an extremely bad feeling about this.

Taun We’s head swivels to watch Jango and Ordo enter the hall, her black eyes unblinking in her pale face.

‘And here is the Template and Null-11,’ Taun We says, and the holo-drone turns to them. There is a tiny red light blinking on its dome, indicating it is recording. ‘The Null batch are entering their maturity cycle and their training is progressing satisfactorily for the moment. It is expected that they will start advanced battle sims soon,’ Taun We reports.

Jango grits his teeth and keeps his silence, tries to calm the pounding of his heart. He stops a few steps into the hall, Ordo just behind his left shoulder, and he meets the Munit’videk’s gaze as she continues to narrate for the recording.

‘The training scheme proposal submitted by Jango Vhett certainly has merit. Of course, we need to do our due diligence to assess the feasibility of Jango Vhett’s proposed training structure, and to judge the training progress of the Null batch. I have selected the squad leader for today’s assessment.’

Taun We shifts her gaze to Ordo and Jango fights the instinct to block him from view.

‘Come here, N-11,’ she commands, and Ordo immediately obeys, posture military straight.

‘Sir!’ he salutes.

The holo-drone floats on its repulsors nearer to Ordo, circles him closely as Taun We continues to speak.

‘The Alphas have already received flashtraining on the introductory forms two rotations ago. Intellectually, they are already familiar with the forms. N-11 is here today to ensure that the lessons are effective.’

Jango jerks a half step forward in alarm and Taun We pins him with a cold look.

‘The Template is here to assess N-11’s capabilities to provide training to the newer clone batches. Should today’s assessment fail, we will re-evaluate the need to revert to the original training program utilising training droids.’

Suddenly, Jango finds it hard to breathe. The holo-drone swoops around him and he locks down every muscle twitch, the rush of blood thundering in his ears.

A second passes, and then two, and then Jango moves, putting one foot in front of the other until he is a few paces away from the ik’aade. Their faces brighten when they see him approach, clearly recognising him. Jango folds his arms tightly across his chest and firms his jaw.

Taun We watches him sharply, neck swaying as she tilts her head.

‘You may begin, N-11,’ Taun We tells N-11, and her gaze lingers for a moment longer on Jango before sliding to the Eyayad’ike.

‘Yes, sir!’ Ordo salutes again and then turns on his heel to face the ik’aade, tension winding tight about his shoulders.

Ordo eyes the group, and they watch him in return. The ik’aade remain in formation, though they sway a little in their places, their small bodies not yet used to holding rigid military forms.

‘Attention!’ Ordo snaps out and the ik’aade startle before straightening up, eyes wide.

Ordo’s eyes are sharp and his mouth grim as he threads his way between the ranks of the ik’aade. He stops once or twice, to prod an ik’aad into the correct posture, and then he makes his way to the front again.

He flicks a glance at Jango, too quickly to exchange any sort of meaning in the darting look.

This is Ordo’s assessment, and he can’t afford to seem hesitant or nervous, not with Taun We monitoring him so closely and the holo-drone recording everything.

He takes the ik’aade through a simple drill, the most basic of moves. He gives them a demonstration of the full set before breaking it down into simpler footwork and hand framing for the ik’aade to follow along.

The trepidation winding Jango’s muscles tight slowly eases as he watches Ordo guide the ik’aade, his son’s voice steady and patient, and Jango feels a warm curl of pride at the way Ordo has calmly and competently managed this trial put before him. His words and corrections are firm, but not ungentle, and the ik’aade are quick to learn.

Again and again, he gets them to repeat the set until they are to his exacting satisfaction and the ik’aade are trembling faintly with tiredness.

Finally, Ordo nods and steps back.

‘You did well today,’ Ordo says gruffly, looking a bit awkward when some of the young ones give him tired gap-toothed smiles. He dismisses them and most of the group promptly plant themselves down onto the ground to rest.

Ordo presents himself to Taun We, snapping out a sharp salute. ‘Sir! The Alphas have completed their drills,’ he reports succinctly, eyes fastened at a point beyond Taun We’s shoulder.

Taun We thrums very, very softly, the low vibrations rattling through Jango’s teeth and a terrible ominous feeling curls nauseatingly around the pit of his belly.

‘Yes, that is evident, N-11. You may continue,’ Taun We tells Ordo, and the holo-drone circles the two of them, recording their exchange.

Ordo’s blank façade falters for a split second before he marshals himself, hiding his confusion. ‘Sir, the Alphas have done their drills,’ Ordo says, finding a different way to say the same thing. ‘The training session is complete.’

Taun We slowly draws herself taller to loom over Ordo, who resolutely holds his ground and reveals nothing more about his unease except for the slight tightening of the corner of his eyes. Jango himself is not so restrained, heart in his throat and a kal’ika already in the palm of his hand.

The half dozen security droids in the room stir from their stand-by state, activated by Jango’s aggression. They blatt warningly at him, electrostaffs humming dangerously in their servos and they move to encircle him. Most of Jango’s attention remains on the demagolka and his son, but Jango manages to spare a fraction of his attention to the droids; one of them moves just slightly out of sync with the others – that one is Prudii’s.

To attack Taun We would bring untold disaster.

But to do nothing if she harms Ordo is impossible.

Taun We must be aware of Jango bristling with barely restrained rage – of the commotion of the security droids readying to subdue Jango – but she ignores him completely, deems him a non-threat without even bothering to spare him a glance.

[K’udesii] Ordo signs at Jango subtly, his back still ramrod stiff as he stands at attention for the Munit’videk staring coldly down at him.

‘Continue, N-11,’ Taun We commands. ‘Training spars.’

Jango spits curses, low and vicious, but he doesn’t move from his position. A droid steps nearer to put itself bodily between Jango and the demagolka, the indicator panel on its front flashing in dadita.

[K’UDESII K’UDESII] the beskar’ad signals urgently and Jango stares back into the depths of the holocam lenses – sees his own pale and desperate face reflected – and suddenly understands, though the realisation only brings the feeling of slow crushing dread.

This is a test, for all of them.

Jango has pledged to train the Nulls, to shape them into something the GAR can put to use and be assured of their obedience and their loyalty. And if the Nulls are to be trainers themselves, they must show themselves capable of the position, and here on Kamino, the training starts when the Eyayad’ike can manage to stand upright on their feet.

Ordo is frozen in disbelief, staring up at Taun We and Jango knows that the next words out of his son’s mouth once Ordo gathers himself would be to vehemently reject Taun We’s order. He cannot allow that to happen.

‘Ordo,’ Jango cuts in, cracking the silence. Ordo’s dark eyes slides to meet his over the shoulder of the beskar’ad. ‘Do as she says.’

Ordo rears back as if struck, actually taking a half-step away.

Taun We remains silent, but now she shifts and cants her head, so she has Jango in her field of view as well. The Eyayad’ike are quiet as they watch the exchange uneasily.

‘Buir,’ Ordo starts, voice low and sounding lost and uncertain, eyes flicking from Jango to Taun We and her hovering holo-drone and back to Jango. ‘Buir, val sosol ti Boba.’

And Jango knows that; the Eyayad’ike are Boba-sized, pudgy limbed and round-faced, with dimpled cheeks, but-

‘Nayc, Ordo,’ he says, pained and desperate and trying to hide it in his harsh tone, trying to make Ordo understand, trying to save him from failing this terrible test. ‘Val nu sosol ti Bob’ika.’

‘Nu sosol ti Bob’ika?’ Ordo repeats softly, slowly, his face shuttering and becoming hard and angry. ‘A val sosol ti Naasade, buir? Sosol ti ni?’

‘Ad. Gedet’ye,’ Jango pleads, fists clenching helplessly at his sides, acutely aware of holo-drone recording everything and of Taun We’s prickling cold silence as she observes. Jango ruthlessly swallows the bile rising up the back of his throat and makes his face go blank. ‘Ibac ke’gyce,’ he commands, not to be disobeyed.

Anger and betrayal flushes uglily across Ordo’s face before his expression goes flat. He clicks his heels smartly together and throws up a perfect GAR salute. ‘Yes, Sir!’

Ordo turns to face the Eyayad’ike still resting on the ground. ‘Get up, cadets!’ he barks at them, and they squeak in panic and hurry to obey. ‘Fall in!’

Jango sucks in harsh breath and bites down hard enough on his tongue to taste the coppery tang of blood. The beskar’ad shifts, a minute resettling of gears and pneumatics that pulls Jango’s attention to it.

[VOR’E, BUIR] the droid signals and Jango chokes on a thing that is half a sob and half a scream, because how can his ad thank him for ordering Ordo to do this? [ORDO MORUT’YC. KAYSH VEN SUVARIR]

Ordo might understand, but Jango doesn’t know if he will forgive. That look of betrayal on Ordo’s face had cut Jango deeper than anything. Jango’s not even sure if he deserves forgiveness for what he did, for what he is making his sons do.

This is not the Way.

Chapter Text

There is no place for gentleness in this sparring session, no allowances made for a slower pace – not with Taun We overseeing them and insisting Ordo push the Eyayad’ike harder, faster, again and again and again. Ordo takes his orders unhesitatingly from her, all brusque acknowledgements, sharp salutes, and precise executions to the letter. The spars seem to go on forever, pairs of ik’aade switching out until two full-rotations are complete, and yet Taun We pushes for more. And Ordo obeys.

He doesn’t look at Jango once.

‘Get up, cadet!’ Ordo growls at one half of a sparring pair that had went down and stayed down out of exhaustion. ‘You’re done when I say you’re done,’ he tells the teary-faced and whimpering ik’aad fiercely.

Jango forces himself to watch, silent and still, as Taun We makes Ordo drive the Eyayad’ike into the ground. It is beyond difficult to witness. But he knows the churning guilt and anger and helplessness is nothing compared to what Ordo must feel, what the ad must have locked down, locked away, to carry out Taun We’s orders.

The beskar’ad is a grounding presence in front of him, one that signals him to hold his position when Jango can’t help but flinch whenever an ik’aad cries out at a hard blow. The sparring has long devolved from any kind of structure into a tired flailing mess of children trying desperately to stay upright, stay moving.

An ik’aad goes down hard and doesn’t try to get back up. Their partner is in no better shape, tear-streaked and pale and flagging miserably.

Jango catches sight of Ordo’s face; the brief flash of guilt and anguish before it tightens and Ordo stalks towards the pair.

Jango cannot stand by and do nothing anymore. This farce has dragged on for too long, has gone past being a marginally objective assessment and into a sadistic display of authority. He makes to step past the beskar’ad, an order for Ordo to cease already on his tongue, and the beskar’ad grabs him by the upper arm, hauls him back-

‘That will do, N-11,’ Taun We says calmly, her voice cutting through the room. Jango stops struggling against the droid and sags against it instead, a breath punching out heavily.

[KE’TAYLIR] the droid taps urgently onto Jango’s shoulder. Hold position.

And then the droid shoves him away and Jango stumbles back and somehow manages to get his own legs to hold his weight.

Ordo immediately abandons his vector and straightens. He pivots smartly on the spot to acknowledge the demagolka, ‘Sir!’

Ordo’s eyes are a little too bright as his eyes slide past Jango, still avoiding him, to look over at the group of ik’aade who are still struggling to get themselves upright and back into formation. Tension pinches his mouth into a thin line.

‘All right, cadets! That’s enough. Dismissed.’

The Eyayad’ike collapse where they stand, making tired sounds of muffled misery and the look on Ordo’s face tightens further but he doesn’t go to comfort the little ones. He marches himself to report to Taun We, jaw tilted up and back stiff.

Taun We dismisses him with a small wave of her hand and a pleased sounding hum.

Ordo practically flees the room, and he doesn’t look back.

Jango clenches his teeth and meets the lenses of the beskar’ad.

[K’UDESII] the droid flashes discreetly. [ORDO MORUT’YC. HUKAAT’KAMA]

Jango’s attention is drawn to Taun We when she finally turns to look at him.

‘You have trained him well, Jango Vhett,’ Taun says. It is the first time he’s ever heard her sounding pleased and satisfied when she is addressing him directly. ‘I will admit N-11 has surpassed my expectations. He is very obedient. The Client will be impressed by the progress you have made.’

Jango’s tongue feels thick and clumsy in his mouth, but he forms the words and forces them out past his teeth anyway, ‘My training program for the clones is approved, then?’

Taun We clicks at the holo-drone and it withdraws from where it has been practically shoving its cam obnoxiously into the faces of the ik’aade.

‘It is approved,’ Taun We confirms, and Jango feels a rush of convoluted feelings, of relief and anger and dread all at once. ‘We will of course conduct periodic reviews for quality assurances.’

Jango dips his head in a nod. ‘Understood,’ he says, tone as bland and stoic as he can make it and he holds himself still as Taun We glides unhurriedly past him, her holo-drone following her out of the room.

The moment the door seals behind her, Jango sways unsteadily on his feet. But it is only a split second of vulnerability, of unsteadiness, and he collects himself quickly; there are still cams and droids in the room and the shabuir Munit’videke are always watching him, and he’s probably given away too much already.

The security droids are still surrounding him, their mechanical innards whirring in a standby baseline hum. They make no move to stop him as Jango cautiously steps beyond their circle, and they still do not react when Jango moves briskly towards the ik’aade sprawled on the floor.

His hands are steady when he reaches for the nearest ik’aad, and they remain resolutely steady when the first ik’aad - and then another and another – fling themselves into Jango’s chest and start bawling.

‘K’uur, ad’ike,’ he murmurs, petting the ik’aade soothingly on their backs. ‘Ven’jate an.’

The ik’aade are battered and their arms are already darkening with forming bruises where they had tried to block and defend, and their soft skins are scratched around their faces and necks from clumsy attacks. It is not their fault that they lack technique, and it is not Ordo’s fault, when the ad had tried his best to correct their forms to reduce such injuries. The ik’aade were simply too tired to follow his instructions.

A short beep from the beskar’ad has Jango looking up and half-turning to the door a second before it opens and A’den and N-10 step in.

‘Su’cuy, ad’ike,’ N-10 greets softly when he’s near enough. His tone is low, soothing, but the ik’aade still flinch fearfully.

‘No!’ shrieks the ik’aad holding tightly to the sleeve of Jango’s tunic and tries to bury himself deeper under Jango’s arm.

N-10 remains steady, holding up his empty palms placatingly. ‘K’uur, ad’ika. A’den and I are here to help.’

Jango looks over and sees A’den keeping his distance a few feet away to not stress the ik’aade, a large medkit in his hands and a studiedly neutral look on his face.

‘He has advance medic training,’ N-10 continues, speaking to the group of ik’aade, ‘and he takes care of all my brothers. He even takes care of buir too.’

‘Buir!’ an ik’aad cries tremulously, clutching at Jango and Jango swallows hard, an awful squeezing feeling around his heart. Jango knows A-17 doesn’t know the meaning of the word, just knows that it is a word he recognises and that it relates to Jango because that is what they have heard Boba call him. He jerks a glance up at his sons and finds them watching his face in return.

Jango ducks his head, feeling some unnamed uncomfortable feeling curling around his gut. He sets that aside, tries to concentrate instead on comforting and calming the small children holding tight to him.

‘Ven’jate an, ad’ike,’ he says. ‘Everything will be alright. Just let A’den check you over, lek?’

The ik’aade are fraught and exhausted, and it takes a while, even with A’den and N-10 helping, to calm them enough to begin checking the group through and treat their scrapes and bruises.

‘Me’vaar ti Ordo?’ he asks, leaning in to speak quietly to N-10. The both of them are trying their best to soothe the young ones as A’den applies anaesthetics and daubs bacta. A’den glances over at them, half-listening but most of his attention is concentrated on dispensing medical aid.

N-10 glances up at Jango and then returns his attention to the ik’aad he has in his lap, running his fingers slowly through the ik’aad’s hair just like he always does with Bob’ika.

‘Ne’jate,’ N-10 replies lowly, and he reaches out to smooth down the edges of the bacta patch on A-17’s cheek. His gaze flicks up to meet Jango’s again, his dark eyes steady. ‘Kaysh mirdir gar aruetii aliit.’

Jango sucks in a harsh breath through his teeth, his hands spasming around the small shoulders of the ik’aad he is comforting. He drops his gaze, unable to bear looking at his son’s face.

‘Kaysh serim,’ Jango says dully. Ordo is right; Jango has betrayed their aliit and it leaves a heavy weight sitting in the pit of his stomach.

N-10 hums. ‘Nayc, kaysh nu serim,’ N-10 says simply and Jango looks up to find N-10 looking at him with his head tipped to the side, as though surveying him. N-10 drops his gaze briefly to the ik’aade around them and a flicker of something like resignation crosses his face. ‘Nu jate goyust dayn teh ibic, buir.’

Jango can’t hide his twitch at the last word, his shameful relief that N-10 has not pronounced him dar’buir.

‘Ni kar’taylir,’ Jango says, and his voice hitches but doesn’t quite crack. They will all have to walk this path he has chosen. It is too late to look back now, and there is no room for uncertainty.

A’den closes his medkit with a snap and he gently ushers his last patient to join the huddle.

‘Taabir kotep, buir,’ A’den says, eyeing the group, the slant of grimness set about his lips. ‘We need you to see this through.’

‘Haat, ijaa, haa’it,’ Jango swears firmly, instantly, and both A’den and N-10 look reassured. Which, really, is a humbling thing because they still trust him, will still follow his lead. ‘Sol’taab, t’ad’taab, mhi taabir ibic goyust tome.’

The ik’aade are more than half-way into unconsciousness, limp and loose-limbed and lolling heads, so deep is their exhaustion. Jango deliberates carting them all away, to take them back to their quarters but such plans are interrupted when the beskar’ad still standing watch gives a low two-toned beep to alert them.

[RU’OLAROR. NU’KART’AD] the beskar’ad warns them and Jango and his sons shift subtly, and they all tense slightly at the arrival of the pair of nursery droids that appear at the doorway shortly, a hovercart between them.

One of the nursery droids beep bossily at Jango, reaching for the sleeping ik’aade he has on his lap and Jango can’t stop his twitch, his instinctive need to block those grasping servos. A sharp warning blatt from a nearby security droid has him stilling his hands, freezing all his movements. The nursery droid plucks the ik’aade from his unresisting hold, scanning their numbered tunics and then placing them onto the hovercart.

Jango lets them, remains seated on the floor as the other ik’aade are quickly collected and whisked away. He clenches his empty hands, feels the ridges of the scars on his palms and draws a deep breath to steady himself.

N-10 is watching him solemnly, a tinge of something sad around the edges of his expression, his own hands clasping at empty air.

‘Yaim' dab'ika,’ he says softly and Jango nods, ready to retreat to their quarters. He feels entirely exhausted, but he manages to straighten his spine and tilt his jaw up.

Mando’ade nu draar cetar, he tells himself. Jango knows the day is not over yet. He still needs to track down Ordo, to speak with his son.

As it turns out, Jango doesn’t have to search for Ordo at all. He is waiting for Jango in their quarters, aggressively pacing the length of the siting area. He whirls to face the door with his teeth bared and rage burning bright in his eyes.

‘Shabuir,’ he snarls, the very second the door seals shut behind Jango, A’den and N-10.

Jango spares a small moment wonder why he had ever thought he might have to go looking for Ordo; Ordo is mandokar, has never been one to be afraid to confront anything head-on. Ordo’s anger, Jango can weather, can accept, and can withstand the barrage that will come. It is the hurt and disappointment that lays suppressed beneath that roiling fury that Jango dreads facing, knows it will hurt all of them when he addresses it.

‘Vod,’ says N-10 sharply, moving around Jango to face his brother.

Ordo narrows his eyes and glares at N-10.

His two sons stare at each other for a long taut moment, a whole conversation being exchanged silently somehow, neither of them moving a muscle.

Finally, it is Ordo that breaks the staring match first, turning his head to the side. He is silent and tense, but the aggressive set of his shoulders is lessened by a minuscule amount.

Small hands nudge impatiently at Jango’s back, A’den pushing him further into the room and into a seat.

‘Where’s Boba?’ Jango asks, glancing around, because he sees all his older sons in the room with him, but his smallest one isn’t here.

‘With Kina,’ answers Mereel, perching himself on the arm of the couch opposite him, supplementing that information with traat’joha that tells Jango that there’s two squads-and-a-half of beskar’ade on protection detail.

Taking their cue from Mereel, the others drift closer to take their own seats around the space. Ordo is the only one who chooses to remain standing, a fist clenched at his side.

Jango draws in a breath. ‘Ordo,’ he says, and waits in a long stretch of awkward silence for his son to face him. ‘Ni ceta, ad. The choices I made has taken away your choices. I am sorry for what I made you do.’

Ordo’s angry façade fractures then at the apology, his son scrambling to hold onto the shards of his anger. ‘You made me hurt them,’ he hurls the cutting words at Jango.

‘I did,’ Jango agrees sadly, not defending himself. Jango knows that if he were to face that decision again, he would still order the same of Ordo, of any of his sons.

Ordo stares at Jango’s face, his eyes too bright.

‘I promised – on beskar, on blood, and on bone – to protect them,’ Ordo hisses angrily, and Jango holds his gaze steadily. ‘And you swore to protect us all.’

‘Lek,’ Jango says. ‘Until my last breath.’

‘How can you say that?!’ Ordo explodes, stalking nearer.

‘Ordo,’ says N-10 quietly, before Jango can respond, and his soft voice draws Ordo up short. ‘Taun We would have had you decommissioned. Might even have used it as an excuse to decommission all of us.’ He says it so calmly, but everyone flinches like they have been struck. Jango’s hands twitches hard, and he clenches the fabric of his pants between his fingers.

‘Good soldiers follow orders,’ N-10 continues to say rather ruthlessly, a bitter twist in his lips, ‘and buir had to make sure you followed hers.’

Jango moves to speak but a hurried [Ke’taylir, ke’pare] from Mereel stays him, the ad catching his eye from across the room. Jango frowns in dissatisfaction, which Mereel sees and returns with a small shake of his head, reinforced with more insistent battlesigns to wait.

‘Could you have done it?’ Ordo demands of N-10, turning his intense gaze upon his brother. ‘Kicked their sheb’ike around the salles? For hours?’

‘Elek,’ says N-10, so simply and so plainly, that Jango can’t help his eyebrows from twitching upwards.

N-10 is the one that spoils and fusses over Bob’ika the most. He’s the ad that had insisted on being the one to carry Boba everywhere, until Boba decided he’d much rather get around on his own chubby limbs. Sometimes, N-10’s heightened attentiveness towards the youngest of their aliit makes Jango a bit insecure about being an adequate buir.

The scepticism is plain on Ordo’s face and in his flat tone. ‘Really, vod?’

‘Elek,’ N-10 repeats. ‘Better I kick their sheb’ike around than a training droid. Better that our vod’ike have us, than Orun Wa.’

Ordo makes a strange sound, hastily cut off and swallowed. Then after a moment, he bows his head, shoulders slumped. N-10 goes to him and presses their foreheads together.

‘Ni kar’taylir, vod,’ he murmurs, and Ordo makes another soft pained sound.

Ordo’s eyes are closed, his face twisted in an awful grimace as he whispers, ‘They’re like Bob’ika-’

N-10 cuts him off, presses harder into the mirshmure’cya, ‘Boba belongs to us. Boba is ours. The Eyayad’ike… aren’t. Not really.’

‘Not yet,’ Jango finds himself saying and he stands as well and takes the few steps to the pair. Ordo gently tugs himself away from his brother’s hold and turns his face up to Jango. His face is pale and his eyes red-rimmed, and there is such a depth of weariness on his expression, of sorrow, that it hurts something in Jango’s chest to see. He can’t help reaching out a hand to Ordo – and Ordo doesn’t flinch, doesn’t pull away – and runs a gentle touch over his son’s face, tries to soothe away the lines on that young face.

‘We have to be careful, ner ade,’ he says, casting his gaze around the room and meeting each of his sons’ eyes solemnly. ‘The Munit’videke and their client have certain expectations of the Alphade and we cannot be seen to undermine that, or we would endanger them.’ Jango heaves out a heavy breath and draws another in, his heart is pounding hard as he says his next words, ‘We will train them. Mhi ba'juri verde… and when they’re old enough, mhi ba’juri vode… Mhi kyr’tayl kaysh sa’ad’be’aliit.’

‘Oya!’ says Mereel fiercely, a cry that is echoed by the others.

Ordo still looks a little unbalanced, wrung out; the ad has had a long terrible day. Jango drops a hand onto his shoulder, gives a little tug and Ordo instinctively follows the lead of Jango’s hand. Jango pulls him close, wraps his arms around his ad’s shoulders and hugs him tightly. Ordo goes boneless against him, pushing his face into Jango’s shoulder. He takes in a juddering breath and then just lets Jango take his weight.

Jango draws them both down to sit on the couch, his arms still around Ordo. He realises he’s humming as he cards his fingers through the waves of Ordo’s hair. Ordo is limp in his hold, breath hitching, and there is a growing warm damp patch on the shoulder of Jango’s tunic. He holds his son tighter.

He thinks of Arla, of Gali’Dral’Han, and doesn’t shy away from entertaining the thoughts of the utter destruction he will bring to Kamino for their wrongs against him and his. He and his ori’vod are too much alike sometimes. That is the Vhett in their blood; the kind of people who would not hesitate to set all of their own fields ablaze to destroy any enemy that may be hiding within.

The words of Aliit Vhett is Drashaar Dralshy’a, Growing Stronger.
But it also means Growing Brighter.

Ordo is asleep on his chest now, lulled to sleep by Jango humming the Vode An. Jango looks down at Ordo’s face, at the lines of stress cut deep into the middle of his forehead despite being asleep.

The thing is, Jango thinks grimly, something dark curling inside him, that vengeful Vhett’tal is being used to make an army.

The galaxy will burn, and it will burn bright. Jango and his sons will make sure of it.

Chapter Text

A’den has updated the keycodes to the ade’s quarters that morning; a new code every tenday. Jango would say it’s a good security practice except for the fact that the keys are always generated from the same pool of half dozen numbers, shuffled into a random sequence.

Jango reaches out and inputs the code: 3 8 1 2 4 9

It is a Remembrance of sorts, for the batch-brothers of his sons who have marched away, the Nulls that didn't survive the decanting.

It’s not totally secure, but Jango can’t find it in his heart to tell his ade to change that practice. It is a thing that they all silently acknowledge, that no matter how they may work to fortify their perimeter with beskar’ade and early warning systems, they all know that it all means nothing when they cannot truly defend themselves against Taun We. There is more than just the lives of aliit Vhett at stake now.

He walks inside, carefully stepping over the various forms of his sons sprawled out on the floor as he weaves his way through the space. He spares a nod to Kina, who pauses slightly in her conversation with Prudii to sign a greeting to him. Jango kicks at Mereel’s plastoid-clad shins in annoyance because the ad has the audacity to spread himself inconveniently across the entryway to the pantry area.

‘Where’s my datapad?’ he asks the room, when he sees that it is not on the table where he had left it. ‘Anyone seen it?’

‘Olar, buir,’ calls Kom’rk, twisting from his seat on the ground and holding the device aloft in one hand.

Jango swipes it hurriedly and sees that the device is already unlocked. ‘Ad,’ he sighs, and tries to futilely check what upgrades Kom’rk has decided to bestow on it, running his eyes over the seams of the datapad. He doesn’t think the ad has had the time to pry open the casing for some impromptu hardware upgrades, but he also doesn’t want to assume otherwise.

‘Is this going to explode in my face?’ he asks warily, holding it away from himself, just in case.

‘That was one time, buir,’ says Kom’rk and Jango gives him a supremely flat look that tells him that he has no right to sound as wounded as he does.

Kom’rk huffs out a breath and rolls his eyes, ‘Nayc, it won’t explode. I just added some of my notes.’

Jango brings up the last edited file and scans through the document and then groans, barely keeping himself from slapping a hand to his face in exasperation. ‘Ad. Gedet’ye. Nu tracyn’peh’uur.’

Mereel cackles from his spot on the floor.

‘Why does A’den get to have his rappelling mods, but I can’t get my flamethrowers?’ Kom’rk pouts, ducking a thrown cushion that had been aimed for his head.

Jango taps on his datapad, deleting Kom’rk’s edit, ‘You can get them when you can show me you can be trusted to not to accidentally blow things up.’ Jango pauses and then tacks on, ‘Or accidentally set things on fire.’

‘What about the fire in the engineering workshop yesterday?’ asks A’den. His tone is pure innocence, but his eyes are shining with mischievous delight.

Kom’rk sniffs and waves a hand dismissively, ‘That fire was entirely intentional.’

Jango glares at him. ‘You’re really not helping your case here, ad.’

His son sighs dramatically and flops back onto the ground in a loud clatter of plastoid, and Jango bites down on his amusement.

‘Jate,’ Jango says, scrolling through the file to check for any other dubious requests. ‘Anyone else has any last minute comments to add?’ he asks, before saving the file when his sons shake their heads.

‘Don’t let Bob’ika stay up too late,’ he reminds them as he leaves for his evening appointment with Akan Ye, receiving a roomful of battlesign acknowledgments flashed his way.

Akan Ye and his fabrication forge are poor substitutes for a Goran and their forge.

A Goran is not merely an armourer, which is the word used when it is translated into Basic. “Armourer” lacks the cultural nuance, a term that Jango finds too clumsy, too crass, and too inadequate.

The Resol’nare is a creed for the Mandalorian Way. One is recognised as a Mando’ade, as a Haat’ad, after they earn their first pieces of beskar’gam, after they pledge to follow the Resol’nare, to march the Way. To be Mando’ade is to willingly honour the creed, to never stray from it in the words one says, in the action one does, in the honesty in one’s self.

Haat, ijaa, haa’it.

A Goran’s place in Mandalorian society is a revered and respected one; they are the ones to craft, to create beskar’gam, and beskar’gam is everything that symbolises what it is to be Haat’ad. Gorane are always present at verd’gotene, to play witness to the forging of a new verde when they are given their kom’rke. And they are the ones who would reshape and reforge new beskar’gam for new verde, from the beskar of those who have already marched on.

Ibic haar Manda.

Akan Ye is no Goran. He works with his digital models and renders and moulded plastoid, instead of working with tools in his hands, with flames and forges and casted beskar. The Kaminii might be producing armour, but it is not in the way Jango knows or is familiar with. It is not beskar’gam. It is mass-produced and soulless.

But… it is something.

He knows he’ll never really be fully comfortable with the idea – suspects he will never truly be physically comfortable with it either, when the plating wraps so differently around his body and his limbs, the weight of plastoid so much lighter than beskar… it makes him feel like he’s wrapped in the shade of a sense-memory of his beskar’gam; something that feels almost familiar, but somehow wrong and incomplete.

– But this is what must be done, what he must learn to work with, if he wants to have access to any form of armour at all.

He doesn’t mention his discomfort to his ade. They are so excited, so enthusiastic about the prospect of finally receiving armour. He’s not going to spoil it for them, refuses to burden them with his own personal biases.

It has been a month since Akan Ye had sent the first crates of armour and accompanying accoutrements to Jango and his older sons to test their fit. Jango had shoved aside his own preconceptions and had done what he could with the situation. There was no Goran to preside, and only Kina and Bob’ika to observe the quiet ceremony. The lack of Arla’s presence had been keenly felt and the awareness of the absence of the rest of Jango’s aliit had been a sharp and painful thing for him. Jango wishes Jaster had lived to see Jango’s sons, for Montross to have had a hand in training these brilliant young men, for Myles to be the one to bring them to touch the skies with sen’trase.

It takes an aliit to raise verde.

Jango has done the very best he could.

The fabric of the kute Akan Ye had provided is thick and stretchy, and far more form-fitting than any kute Jango had ever worn, and it covered him from his toes all the way up to the electroshock collar around his neck. He had felt incredibly awkward in it, and he knew his discomfiture showed on his face because Mereel had been grinning widely at him.

Jango’s flat look had only tipped the ad into peals laughter.

He had chosen to ignore the sniggers and worked quickly to kit up, fingers a bit clumsy with the unfamiliar clasps and fastenings, their locations different than from where they would have been on his own beskar’gam. Mereel had fallen silent along with the rest of their small aliit as they all watched Jango put on all the white pieces. Then, Jango had taken a short pull of breath and willed himself into steadiness before he put on the helmet.

He had straightened his spine to finally return their regard, and had found them staring at him with wide eyes filled with awe.

‘That’s so badass,’ Prudii had croaked in dazed admiration and Jango snorted in amusement and had found his body loosening slightly.

It was not beskar’gam, but it was a kind of armour, and it was good to not feel so exposed and vulnerable, to have more than just soft fabric between his skin and the rest of the galaxy.

Then he had reached into one of the crates to pull out a pair of kom’rke and turned to his sons, all of them already clad in their own black kutese. The kom’rke were the pieces of the eyayad’gam that bore the closest resemblance to the beskar’gam they were inspired by, and Jango had turned the pieces in his hands, checking it over and finding himself a little unbalanced by the lightness of the plastoid.

Then he had went to Ordo.

‘Ordo Vhett, ner ad,’ Jango had said, fastening a kom’rk on his son’s dominant hand; a buir’s oath of protection to his ad.

Jango placed the other kom’rk into Ordo’s hand, for his son to don the other piece himself; a verd willing to follow the Way, choosing to be a true son of Mandalore.

‘Ordo Vhett, Haat’ad,’ Ordo had said, kom’rke now wrapped around both forearms, voice firm.

Jango had reached out and tapped his helm to his son’s forehead. ‘Kote Dral’Mandalor,’ he said, and Ordo echoed him fiercely. Jango released him and then had reached out to run his gloved hand down Ordo’s face, brow to chin. ‘Ni ijaat kyr'tayl gai sa ner ad, Ordo.’

Then, Jango had left Ordo with a crate at his feet – the rest of the ad’s eyayad’gam inside – and had gone and retrieved another pair of kom’rke from the next crate. And another and another.

‘Mereel Vhett, ner ad.’

‘Prudii Vhett, ner ad.’

‘Kom’rk Vhett, ner ad.’

‘Jaing Vhett, ner ad.’

‘A’den Vhett, ner ad.’

They are all his sons, and he is honoured to be their buir, to have watched them become verde, Haat’ad.

All of their armour had been white, which Jango had found to be fitting.

This is a new beginning for all of them, for all of us, Jango thinks, as he makes his way now to Akan Ye’s level, a passing beskar’ad flashing a subtle “all clear” signal to him.

The Alphade’s training has officially begun. It’s still mostly flashtraining at the moment; language modules and GAR regulations and Republic law. Jango despises it, but there’s little he can do about that at the moment.

He thinks it will work out in the end though, that the Republic bantha osik propaganda can be unlearned when the ade are older. Ordo and the others had never bought into it, so Jango holds out hope for the younger ones.

The physical part of their training is under Jango’s purview now, and he cannot allow himself to regret the things he had had to do to make that happen. He tries to keep it to simple drills, exercises and basic things that shouldn’t be too taxing on those small bodies that are forced to develop too fast.

He tries very hard not to think about the fact that he’s the one training verd’ikaade now, that he has taken Orun Wa’s role in shaping an army for the Jetii to use.

‘Nu jate goyust dayn teh ibic,’ Jaing had said, and he is right. There are no good paths from here. The only thing Jango can do is put one foot in front of the other and keep going, keep marching. Sol’taab t’ad’taab.

Jaing is the name N-10 solemnly accepts from Jango. He is named after the greatly honoured training master of eons past, and it suits him well. Jango quietly marvels at the young man Jaing is growing up to be; so quick to laugh, so kind, selfless, he wears his heart on his sleeve and an easy smile on his face – so very unlike Jango himself.

Jaing loves his brothers, and he demonstrates this often with affectionate touches and the small snacks he dispenses without restraint when there are no Munit’videke around.

Jaing is good at training the Eyayad’ike, always patient, always calm but he also doesn’t hold back when he trains them, and he pushes them exactly hard enough.

And he loves them, loves being the ori’vod to the entire creche, secretly slipping them sweets after training.

The harrowing ordeal of Taun We’s assessment is many tendays in the past, but the effects still cast a lingering pall over Ordo’s interactions with the young ones.

Ordo will never be as open or as approachable as Mereel or A’den – the ad has seriousness baked into his bones – but Jango never doubts the depth of his care for his brothers and the ik’aade.

Ordo gets tensed and stressed when he’s scheduled to take a training rotation with the Alphade, though he tries very hard to hide it from Jango. His self-doubt and anxiety only makes his expression more severe, pinched lips and a frown etched semi-permanently onto his forehead.

‘I’m fine,’ Ordo says, even though it’s obvious he is really not.

‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ he says curtly, heading off whatever thing Jango wants to say, rejecting whatever comfort Jango wants to give.

Jango respects that and backs off, leaves him be. But only because he has already seen the way Ordo is slowly regaining his confidence as a trainer. He’s patiently working on re-earning the Alphade’s trust.

Jango’s own relationship and interactions with the Eyayad’ike is complicated; Taun We is keeping him on a much tighter leash and he cannot be seen to be anything more than a taskmaster to them. Not at this stage. Everything is still too precarious, too uncertain, and he has to be more than careful. There are too many lives at stake now.

So, he keeps them at a detached distance, merely a trainer. He watches over them from afar and he sends his own sons in his stead to soothe and comfort where he cannot.

With their engineered genetics, the Alphade grow quickly, and he knows they have already recognised that there is something different between themselves and Boba.

Jango is not sure if he should continue to bring Boba to play with the others when Boba’s child-innocence and relatively sheltered upbringing just highlights the difference further. Bob’ika gets things the others do not; the ik’aad who gets to be picked up and hugged by Jango, the kih’vod that gets spoiled by his ori’vode, the one that gets to be carried away to bed by a gentle, soft-spoken Kaminii.

Jango isn’t blind. He knows the Alphade eye Bob’ika with something like envy.

Nu jate goyust dayn teh ibic.

Sol’taab t’ad’taab mhi taabir.

He knows he alone cannot stop the cloning from happening, cannot stop the Munit’videke from making more children to make an army for the Republic.

But Jango can be patient.

Dral’Mandalor ne’nau’ur kad solus tuur. He’s not forging an Empire, but he is building an army.

He is also rebuilding Aliit Vhett. Drashaar Dralshy’a.

His footfalls are silent as he takes that last corridor leading to Akan Ye’s workshop, has learnt the way to shift his body so that the plastoid he wears make no noise as he moves about. There are some things to improve on this armour that he is given – the shape of the plating at the elbows need some refinement to provide a better range of movement, and the chestplate grinds uncomfortably on the abdominal plates in certain positions – and it’s all carefully annotated in the datapad he carries with him now.

Jango has no doubt that there will be many, many iterations of armour before he is even some measure of satisfied. He has pages and pages of notes and sketches from his sons, which he has steadily whittled down to a handful of salient points to present to Akan Ye; no need to overwhelm him with demands for flamethrowers or kriffing shoulder-mounted launchers just yet.

It is a good thing that Akan Ye is so receptive in receiving feedback from Jango and his sons, so bewilderingly enthusiastic to indulge in the addition of the various mods his sons want. Still, Jango finds himself cautiously curating the list of mods and upgrades, because he know Taun We monitors everything, and he is trying to give her the sense that their compliance has been secured; overtly setting things on fire is not going help with that idea.

So. No flamethrowers.

He presses the chime and waits for a few moments before Akan Ye grants him entry.

‘Jango Vhett,’ Akan Ye greets, something like eagerness in his tone as he waves Jango over to his console. ‘I am looking forward to further feedback from you. I have spent the last several rotations looking into the possible types of filter grades to use for the helmets, and would like your thoughts on the matter-’

Jango steps up beside Akan Ye and listens as the engineer prattles on, dredging up lists of specifications and designs. He immediately notices that all the Kamin’a text have accompanying Basic translations. He studies the Kaminii out of the corner of his eyes, his gaze hidden by the helmet he has yet to remove.

Akan Ye is young, he thinks, and passionate about this project. His only motive is to create and design to the best of his professional abilities-

-a trait, Jango notes sombrely, that is also shared with Nala Se and her cloning project.

But here at least, Jango can direct that drive and focus into something that would benefit his growing aliit. He listens intently to the information Akan Ye is laying before him and carefully gives his own advice and suggestions.

It is not… soothing, exactly, to work together with Akan Ye, but it does settle something in Jango’s chest, gives him the feeling like he has a little bit more influence over what will happen, when everything so far that has happened since Galidraan has been out of his control.

He know things will not get any easier from here. Already, his ade have gathered chatter that Taun We is pushing hard for the scientists to start larger scale production on more Eyayad’ike – something that Taun We is designating the Command Class. Jango wonders with a sense of distant trepidation, how deeply he can thread his ideals into the new batches, before its true meaning – and his plans – becomes lost in the wider tapestry of Kamino and in the promises he has made to train an army for the Republic. He has to be very careful of its weaving so that it doesn’t unravel completely even if some threads are cut.

Ordo and the others are helping him train the Alphade, and they are doing it in the way Jango has taught them, in the way Jango himself had been taught, with Jaster’s calm patience and Montross’ firm guidance. Mhi ba'juri verde.

And they are raising the Alphade in the same way Jango was, with warm affection and little stories. Mhi ba'juri vode.

‘Ni partayli ner buir rejorhaa'ir ni, bal ibac ibic… I remember something my father told me, and it goes like this…’ his sons will tell the Alphade. Short simple stories. Stories of three young vode uniting against relentless beroyase, of Hum-Di and his broken armour.

And later, maybe in a year to two, maybe three, when the Alphade actually understand what it is aliit Vhett has left unspoken, when they are bigger and have learnt a little something about discretion and know how to keep secrets from the Munit’videke…

Kaysh ven kyr'tayl an sa kaysh ade. Ade an.

Jango hopes to one day tell them all of Manda’yaim, of their ba’buir and ba’vodu, to teach them Mando’a and traat’joha.

Years from now, here on Kamino, there will be a story that will be shared only in Mando’a, and it will be shared only within the aliit.

It is a story that tells of the beginning.

And it tells of how it will end.

Ni partayli cuun buir rejorhaa'ir mhi, bal ibac ibic:

Ru’ogir verde te Jetiise Mand’alor’gotal
bat vhetin cin’ciri piryc tal be Galidraan.

Ru’ogir Mand’alor te Munit’videk Maan’alor’gotal
bat yamika’demagol cin buurenaar’brokar be Kamino.

Ibac Maan’alor ba’juir’gotal.
Buir’gotal.

Maan’alor cuun sol’yc . A’ Vode kyr’yc.

Sol’taab, t’ad’taab,
Mhi taabir.
Par haran, par tor, par mav’yc,
Mhi akaanir.

Mhi dralshy’a tome.
Kandosii sa ka'rta.
Vode an.

Chapter Text

A/A'/Al – but
A’ Vode kyr’yc – But we (the Brothers) are the end
A val sosol ti Naasade, buir? – But they are like the Nulls, father?
Aay’han – Remembrances Ceremony, where the dead are honoured
Ad’be’Mand’alor – child of the Mand’alor
Ad(e) – child(ren)
Ade an – sons all
Ade cuyir vencuyot – Children are the future
Ad’ika – child (affectionate)
Ad’ike – children
Aliit(e) – Clan or family
Aliit bal beskar’gam – clan and armour [a phrase that carries heavy meaning to Mandalorians, because it is so much of their identity, part of the Resol’nare]
Aliit ori'shya tal'din – family is more than blood
Alor – leader/sir
Alor’ad(e) – captain(s)
Alphad(e) – clone(s) from the Alpha batch
Alphad’ike – young clone(s) from the Alpha batch
Al’verde(se) – Commander(s)
An nuhoy – All alseep
Anade – everyone/everybody
Aruetii(se) – foreigner(s)/outsider(s)/traitor(s)

Baar – body
Baar’ur(e) – medic(s)
Bal gar Ad’be’Mand’alor Mereel, lek? – And you are the son the Mand’alor Mereel, right?
Bal kaysh cuyir cuun kih’vod, lek – And he is our little brother, correct?
Ba'juir(e) – trainer(s) [made up from “bajur” (education) and “buir” (parent)]
Ba’vodu – aunt/uncle
Beroya(se) – bounty hunter(s)
Beskad – curved saber made of Beskar
Beskar – Mandalorian iron
Beskar, tal bal taakur – by beskar, blood and bone (Mandalorian oath)
Beskar’ad(e) – droid(s) (specifically refers to Prudii’s hacked droids)
Beskar’gam(e) – armour(s)
Birikad – baby sling/harness
Brokar’ta – heartbeat [made up of “brokar” (beat) and “kar’ta” (heart)]
Buir(e) – parent(s)
Buir’gotal – Made himself buir
Bui’baar’ika – little baby, an endearment [child of biological lineage(lit.)]
Bui’tsad – biological lineage
Burcyan’rok – Mandalorian greeting of a close comrade or friend, where they clasp forearms/gauntlets. [made up of “burcyan” (friendship/comradeship/close bond) and “kom’rk” (gauntlet)]. The physical action derives from exchanging (contact or other) information on the battlefield via their gauntlets’ secure shortwave.
Buy’ce(se) – helmet(s)
Buycika – crib/cradle

Cabur(e) – guardian(s)
Cetar – yield (in the context of yielding in a training round) [kneel in submission (lit.)]
Cetare – boots
Cin vhetin – fresh start, clean slate - lit. white field, virgin snow - term indicating the erasing of a person's past when they become Mandalorian, and that they will only be judged by what they do from that point onwards
Cuyir jate par Kina, Bob’ika – Be good for Kina, Bob’ika
Cuy'val Dar – “Those Who No Longer Exist” (lit). In canon, the Cuy'val Dar was a group of one hundred trainers summoned by Jango Fett to train the Clones on Kamino. In Dral’Mandalor, it refers to a list of individuals who are on a Kill List; sort of like a “Dead Man Walking” list. The Empire maintains an official Cuy’val Dar for those individuals involved in the Battle of Galidraan (see Manda’alor – The Sovereign) 

Dadita – Mandalorian morse code
Darasuum kote – eternal glory
Darjetti(se) – Sith(s)
Dajun lo'shebs'ul narit – Take his plan and shove it up his ass
Dar’manda – refers to those who no longer follow the (Mandalorian) Way. (opposite of “haat’ad(e)”)
Demagolka(se)– someone who commits atrocities, a real-life monster, a war criminal - from the notorious Mandalorian scientist of the Old Republic, Demagol, known for his experiments on children, and a figure of hate and dread in the Mando psyche
Di’kut – idiot
Di’kutla – idiotic/stupid
Dral’Mandalor – Translates as The Greater Mandalorian Empire [Strong Mandalore (lit.)]
Dral’Mandalor darasuum – The Empire is eternal
Dral’Mandalor ne’nau'ur kad solus tuur – Greater Mandalore was not forged in a day. [Equivalent: Rome was not built in a day]
Drashaar Dralshy’a – Growing Stronger [Clan Vhett’s motto]

(E)lek – Yes
Eyayad(e) – echo(es). Used in reference to clones.
Eyayad’ika/Eyayad’ike – little echo/es (affectionate term Jango uses to refer to the clones)
Eyayad’gam(e) – Clone trooper armour

Gaa'taylir ni – help me
Gai bal manda – Adoption Ceremony [name and soul (lit)]
Gar cuyir ner bui’baar, bal ni kelir cabuor gar ti ner oyay – You are my flesh and blood [“bui’baar” is made up from “bui’tsad” (biological lineage) and “baar” (body)], and I will protect you with my life.
Gar ner ad(e) – you are my son(s)
Gar serim – you’re right
Gedet’ye – please
Gehat’ik ca’nara – story time
Ge’hutuune – criminal that is undeserving of respect
Goran(e) – Armourer(s)

Haar’chak – damn it
Haat – truth
Haat, ijaa, haa'it – Truth, honour, vision; words used to seal a pact
Haat’ad(e) – True Mandalorian(s). A person who holds firmly to the creeds and virtues of the Empire, and follows the Way of Mandalore (opposite of “dar’manda”)
Haran – hell
Hukaat'kama – provide cover/watch my back/keeping watch
Hut'uun – coward (grave insult in Mandalorian culture)
Hut’uunla shabla shabuir – cowardly karked up asshole

Ibac ke’gyce – that’s an order
Ibac Maan’alor ba’juir’gotal – That Maan’alor made himself ba’juir
Ibic haar Manda – This is the Way (Manda here meaning the state of being Mandalorian in mind, body and spirit)
Ik’aad(e) – baby or child under 3

Jate – good (also used like a “starter word” in a spoken sentence to grab attention - equivalent to English “alright”/Spanish “bueno”/French “alors”)
Jate an – It’s alright / All good 
Jate an meh gar ne’tsikala – It’s alright if you are not ready
Ja’hailir’ad – observer/watcher
Jare – risk taking/foolish
Jare’la – reckless
Jariler bal pirunir sur'haaise – (I will) destroy and kill him [wreck and make his eyes water (lit.)]
Jaster Mereel ner buir; kaysh ba’buir gar – Jaster Mereel was my father; he is your grandfather
Jetii(se) – Jedi
Jetii’kad – Jedi lightsaber
Jii – now

Kad(e) – blade(s)
Kad’au(se) – lightsaber(s)
Kal(e) – blade(s)
Kal’ika/kal’ike – small blade/s
Kamin’a – Kaminoan language
Kaminii(se) – Kaminoan(s)
Kandosii – Well done
Kandosii’la – amazing
Kandosii sa ka'rta – We are one indomitable heart
Kar’ta - heart
Kar’ta bal manda – Refers to the colour scheme of a beskar’gam, which have meaning [heart and soul (lit.)]
Kart’alor – Title given to the Second in line to the throne [Heart leader (lit)]
Kaysh gai Jayd be’aliit Mereel – His name was Jayd of clan Mereel
Kaysh mirdir gar aruetii aliit – He think you’ve betrayed our family
Kaysh serim – he is right
Kaysh ven kyr'tayl an sa kaysh ade – He will know them all as his sons
Kaysh ven suvarir – he will understand
Ke’daab – Down (imperative)
Ke’gev – Halt (imperative)
Ke’nuhoy – (go to) sleep (imperative)
K’epar – eat (imperative)
Ke’paru – Form up (imperative)
Ke’pare – wait (imperative)
Ke’rejorhaa'ir ni – tell me (imperative)
Ke’sirbur – say (imperative)
Ke’slanar – Go (imperative)
Ke’slanar mhi – Let’s go [Go we (lit.)]
Ke’taylir – hold position
Ke’tsikador – be ready (imperative)
Ke’tug’yc – again (imperative)
Kih’vod(e) – younger sibling(s)
K’olar – Come here (imperative)
Kom’rk(e) – gauntlet(s)/vambrace(s)
Ko’r – (come) in (imperative)
Kote Dral’Mandalor – Glory to the Mandalorian Empire
Kov'nynir – a tapping of helmeted foreheads together
K'oyacyi – Stay alive (imperative)
K’udesii – at ease (imperative)
Kute(se) – flightsuit(s)/bodysuit(s). Or in Boba’s case, his onesie
K’uur – hush

Laaran senaare – whistling birds (lit.) are small, guided munitions placed in Mandalorian vambraces which, when deployed, flew through the air while making a whistling noise before striking the target and killing them with a small explosion.
Liser parjir akaan miite nu mareve – Some wars are won with words, not fists.

Maan’alor – the Prime [Original/First Leader (lit.)]
Maan’alor cuun sol’yc – He (the Prime) is our beginning
Manda – the collective soul or heaven
Mand’alor – leader/sovereign of the Mandalorian Empire
Mand’alor su’cuyi. Dral’Mandalor darasuum – The Mand’alor still lives. Greater Mandalore is eternal. [Equivalent: The old King is dead, long live the King.]
Manda’yaim – the planet Mandalore
Mando’ad(e) – Mandalorian(s)
Mando’ade ba'juri verde – Mandalorians raise warriors
Mando'ad draar digu – a Mandalorian never forgets
Mando'ad draar digu entye – a Mandalorian never forgets a debt
Mando’ade nu draar cetar – Mandalorians never surrender [Mandalorians never kneel (lit.)]
Mando’verd(e) – Mandalorian soldier(s)/warrior(s)
Mandokar - blend of aggression, tenacity, loyalty and a lust for life
Mandokarla – epitome of Mandalorian values
Me’bana – What’s happening?/What happened?
Me'vaar ti gar? – How are you? [What's new with you? (lit.)] Can also be used to ask a soldier for a situation report
Me’vaar ti Ordo? – How is Ordo?
Mhi akaanir – we fight
Mhi ba'juri verde – We will raise warriors
Mhi ba’juri verde tome – We will raise warriors together
Mhi ba'juri vode – we will raise brothers
Mhi kyr’tayl kaysh sa’ad be’aliit – We will know them as part of our clan
Mhi taabir – we march
Mhi taylir gar – We’ve got you
Miite nu mareve – words, not fists
Mirshmure’cya – a gentle touching of foreheads
Morut'yc – safe/secure
Morut'yc vaar'tur – good morning [safe morning (lit.)]
Morut’yc ca – good night [safe night (lit)]
Munit tome’tayl, skotah iisa – long memory, short fuse (Mandalorian saying)
Munit’videk(e) – Long neck(s) (lit.). Derogatory way to refer to the Kaminoans.
Munit’videke nu draar haa’taylir ori’sol aru’ike taabir haatyc – The Long Necks will never see them coming. [The Long Necks will never see their many small enemies marching in plain sight (lit.)]
Murcyur ner shebs – kiss my ass

Naas – nothing
Naasad(e) – clone(s) from the Null batch [nobody (lit)]
Nar'sheb(se) – Shove up ass(es)
Nayc – no
Nayc, kaysh nu serim – No, he’s wrong
Ne’jate – not great
Ne’johaa – shut up
Ne’kar’tayl – no idea
Ner ba’juir buirkan gar bralir– My responsibility as your trainer is to see you succeed. (An oath a Mandalorian trainer makes to those they take on to train)
Ner vod – my sibling
N’entye – no debt
Ni ceta – I’m sorry
Ni ibic jii – I am here now
Ni ijaat kyr'tayl gai sa ner ad, Ordo – I am honoured to have you as my son, Ordo
Ni ja'hailir gar – I will watch over you
Ni kelir cabuor gar – I will protect you
Ni kar’taylir – I know
Ni kyr'tayl gai sa'ad – I know your name as my child (adoption vow)
Ni kar’tayl gai sa’hibir(e) – I take you as my trainee(s). (A formalisation a trainer makes to their trainee(s))
Ni ne’jurkadir gar – I will not harm you
Ni pare par gar – I (will) wait for you
Ni partayli ner buir rejorhaa'ir ni, bal ibac ibic… – I remember something my parent told me, and it goes like this… (Common beginning to Mandalorian stories. Inspired by real-life Kenyan oral story-telling traditions.)
Ni partayli cuun buir rejorhaa'ir mhi, bal ibac ibic – I remember something our father told us, and it goes like this
Ni su'cuyi, gar kyr'adyc, ni partayli, gar darasuum – I am alive, but you are dead. I remember you, so you are eternal (Part of the Remembrance Ceremony)
Ni taylir gar – I’ve got you
Ni ven’kyr'amur val an – I will kill them all
Nu jate goyust dayn teh ibic, buir – There are no good paths from here, dad
Nu’kart’ad(e) – refers to droid(s) that are not Prudii’s. [Ones Without Heart (lit.)] Made up of “nu” (no), “kar’ta” (heart) and “ad” (being)]
Nu kyr'adyc, shi taab'echaaj'la - Not gone, merely marching far away. (Tribute to a dead comrade.) (Part of the Remembrances Ceremony)
Nu’shekemir – unable to follow
Nu sosol ti Bob’ika? – Not like Bob’ika?
Nu tracyn’peh’uur – no flamethrowers

Ogir'olar – One way or another
Ogir'olar, mhi akaanir – Whatever happens, we fight
Ori’ramikad(e) – supercommando(s)
Ori’vod(e) – older sibling(s)
Oya Mand’alor – Long live the Mand’alor

Par ade – for the children
Par an – for everything
Par cinyc sheb’ika – For clean bums (“sheb’ika” is a child-friendly word for the more adult “ass”)
Par gar – for you
Par haran – for ruin/destruction
Par ijaa – for honour
Par kote – for glory
Par mav’yc – for freedom
Par mhi – for us
Par tor – for justice
Par val haatyc or'arue jate’shya ori'sol lenedat'ike – better for them to see one main enemy than many smaller targets
Pare sol – Wait a moment
Projor – next

Ram’atin - Mandalorian close combat style, made up from “ram” from “ramikad”, and “atin” meaning “capable of endurance”. The name is inspired by Mongolian wrestling called Bökh, meaning “durability”
Ret – 1. maybe // 2. Bye (shortened form of ret’urcye mhi)
Ret'urcye mhi – May we meet again
Ret'urcye mhi o’r Manda – May we meet in Manda
Riduur – spouse
Ru’ogir Mand’alor te Munit’videk Maan’alor’gotal bat yamika’demagol cin buurenaar’brokar be Kamino - There was once a Mand’alor the Munit’videke made Maan’alor in the white labs on storm-beaten Kamino
Ru’ogir verde te Jetiise Mand’alor’gotal bat vhetin cin’ciri piryc tal be Galidraan – There was once a verde the Jetiise made Mand’alor on the blood-soaked snow fields of Galidraan
Ru’olaror – incoming

Sen’tra(se) – jetpack(s)
Shabuir(e) – Asshole(s) or equivalent strong insult
Shabla – messed up
Sheb’ika/e – child-friendly word for ass/es
She’eta ik’aade – fifty babies
Shereshoy – lust for life and much more - uniquely Mandalorian word, meaning the enjoyment of each day and the determination to seek and grab every possible experience, as well as surviving to see the next day - hanging onto life and relishing it. An understandable state of mind/ emotion for a warrior people. Closely related to the words for live, hunt and stay safe.
Slanar – go
Sol’taab t’ad’taab – One step, two step (one step at a time/slow and steady)
Sol’taab t’ad’taab mhi taabir – one step, two step, we march
Sol’taab, t’ad’taab, mhi taabir ibic goyust tome – step by step, we will march this road together
Sosol ti ni? ­– Like me?
Su’cuy – greetings
Suvarir – understand/understood

Taabir kotep – march bravely
Tabalhar – patrol
Tion birik? – Carry? (asking a child if they wish to be carried. From the word “birikad”)
Tion meg(in)? – which, what, that, who (interrogative)
Tion mhi gar ade? – Are we your sons?
Tion ner gai N-E’tad Vhett? – is my name N-Seven Vhett?
Tion tsikala? – ready?
Tion suvarir – understand?
Tion’vaii mhi slanar? – where are we going?
Tion vorer – do you accept/acknowledge?
Tok'kad – retreat
Tok’kad me’sen – retreat to the ships
Traat’aliit – Squad
Traat’joha – battle-language (lit.). Every traat’aliit has a particular battlesign/battle-language that is unique to that group. Arla Vhett’s Whistling Birds communicate in clicks and whistles, as well as hand signs. (See Mand’alor – The Sovereign). Jango Vhett’s Grunts primarily use hand signs on the battlefield.
Tracyn’peh’uur – flamethrower [flamespitter (lit.)] [made up of “tracyn” (fire) and “pehir” (spit) and “tracy’uur” (blaster)]
Tsikala – ready
Tsikala an – Everything is ready [all prepared (lit.)]

Udesii – calm down/be at ease
Utrel'a – all clear

Val sosol ti Boba – They are like Boba
Val nu sosol ti Bob’ika – They are not like Bob’ika
Ven’gra’tua ner – Vengeance will be mine [future vengeance is mine (lit.)]
Ven’jate an – Everything will be alright
Ven’urcir – meet later/see you later
Verd’ikaad(e) – child soldier(s)
Vhett’tal – Vhett blood
Verd(e) – Warrior(s)/Soldier(s)
Verde sa akaan nau tracyn kad - Warriors are forged in the fires of war
Verd’goten – a coming of age ceremony for Mandalorians at age 13, where they receive their first pieces of armour
Vi Oya’karir Ka’ra – We Chase the Stars [House Mereel’s motto] [Archaic “vi” instead of “mhi”]
Vod’ika/e – [younger brother/s (lit.)] Can be used as literal, or as an affectionate term of endearment
Vod(e) – sibling/comrade
Vor entye – thank you (formal. [I accept a debt (lit)]
Vor’e – thank you

Yaim' dab'ika – return/returning to camp