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Obi-Wan, as he was going by at the present, tamped down on his annoyance.
He’d been doing that a lot on this mission.
He had thought, at first, that it would be a good mission for him. He’d been excited to be back at Mandalore, where there were Mandalorians. And yet.
The state of them all…
He could still remember, so so long ago, being on the battlefield with them. He remembered their spirits reverberating in the Force, through Tarre and through him as well.
When he’d finally been taken out of the caves, been properly formed by the person who’d finally matched and found him, he’d been spoiled, frankly. Those days had been filled with those understanding how conflict worked, how natural it was and how honorable it was to both engage in that conflict and keep the philosophy of trying the best you could to survive it. They’d lacked resentment for the nature of sapience, and been filled with the pure vivacious energy of being determined to live and enjoy any hard-won life.
Of course, most of why they could do that was because of their leader.
Tarre had taken his Mandalorian upbringing, his Jedi philosophy, and his own innate nature and led so many Mandalorians. They could rely on him to guide them, to keep their spirits up, to give them a mission that felt worthy, that made them feel worthy.
And Obi-Wan had felt worthy too, being used to power Tarre’s main weapon. They’d been in brilliant, righteous harmony for all their years together.
He hadn’t necessarily minded being kept in the various Jedi temples after Tarre’s death, they were usually pleasant to be around, and it wasn’t like Tarre was out there for Obi-Wan to join again.
But then, after so many centuries of rest, his chassis had been taken. They’d meant to take him too, he was certain, but the Jedi weren’t – even in their current defanged state – idiots about what a good weapon could do. The security measures had pulled him out of the darksaber, letting the thieves take the metal and none of the spirit of the weapon.
But he’d needed something to stabilize him after so many years of being connected, of being more than a crystal on its own. He’d had to metaphisize into the babe in the medics, the one that was dead in its soul but the death hadn’t yet infected the body.
Growing up had been an interesting experience, but it had just made him long for Tarre, since he could properly yearn. He’d wanted familiarity on top of his existence that was so insistent on firm, controlled justice.
So he’d been excited for this mission.
And then nothing but disappointed.
The Vizsla brat, trying to claim Tarre’s legacy, waved around a worthless hunk of metal and spouted worthless, greed-fueled, shortsighted words.
He was probably most annoyed by Tor.
The Kryze brat though, in contrast, annoyed him the most, since he had to interact with her so much. She had a sense of justice, at least, even if she lacked the basic perspective needed for any sort of leader.
And he wasn’t sure if he was more or less annoyed by her not pursuing the title of Mand’alor. On the one hand, she was nothing like Tarre or the stories Tarre would tell, the effects of Mand’alore past Obi-Wan could see. On the other hand, she was clearly actually angling for the position, the title being duchess or Mand’alor not meaning much.
Even more annoying than her though, was the way he had apparently been retrofitted, shoved into a box, by the Vizslas claiming the darksaber was the signal of the Mand’alor.
They were both awful and annoying, he decided as he set back to drinking his water and waiting for food. Even one of the random Mandalorians in the corner were clearly more suited to the title and his saber form! Obi-Wan could tell, quite easily with all his senses and knowledge that didn’t work in quite the same way as an actual Jedi’s.
Why not make them the Mand’alor instead of fighting over two worse options? He pouted internally.
The door of the cantina opened harshly, and Obi-Wan watched Satine duck down quickly. Obi-Wan watched Tor Vizsla saunter in with a posse of four others in black armor.
Why did Master Jinn have to still be in the fresher right at this moment?
The bartender bit her lip, clearly trying to hold herself back. The cantina had a very strict neutral policy for the clan wars that she was used to enforcing, and she was used to the higher ups of the factions somewhat respecting.
The leader of one of the biggest factions, coming in clearly identified with multiple subordinates kitted out for battle was not respecting that policy.
“Pardon us, we’re just here to get a certain troublemaker that’s on our radar,” Tor said, an awful smile on his face.
Kriff. He wasn’t sure he could fight off these many high level combatants long enough for Satine to get away. Not alone. Obi-Wan was set away from Satine and Master Jinn’s table specifically to take combatants out as his master was fighting them, not play the primary shield.
But Tor didn’t turn towards Satine, instead his gaze slid over to one of the corners in the cantina.
The Mandalorian he’d been sarcastically admiring as an alternative earlier was exuding quite a bit of hate and anger now.
It was hate and anger and it was clearly personal but it tasted oh so righteous to him.
“You shouldn’t have come back, Fett,” Tor said.
The entire cantina instantly rippled with loud murmurs and whispers.
Jango Fett. Former, presumed dead leader of the old Haat Mando’ade faction. One of the proto-Mand’alor’e in that bit of time where no one was officially trying to claim the title, but plenty were alligning with the clear intent to call their chosen Mand’alor.
Perhaps it was a little less surprising to find a better Mand’alor among the random bar patrons now.
“I’m not here for your head today, Vizsla. That wasn’t the plan. You don’t want it to be,” Fett said, words slow and careful and dripping with derision and hate.
Tor Vizsla scoffed.
“All that spice must have messed with your brain, if you can’t even count your odds in a fight anymore,” Tor Vizsla baited.
The man took a hunk of black metal from the belt on his hips as his lackeys fanned out, getting closer to surrounding Fett.
Vizsla activated the metal.
Obi-Wan couldn’t help but scoff at the unstable, almost dark grey flickering blade that came out.
The actual darksaber, when he was used properly, was as black as a black hole, the halo of light sucked around him a beautiful, waving, ever changing but stable thing.
The room seemed to deafen within a second.
Obi-Wan wondered why until Tor Vizsla turned around, following the gazes of the other patrons to find him.
Tor Vizsla sighed as he turned around in full, the other four keeping Jango Fett in their sights as their leader walked towards him, steps heavy in their boots in a way that was probably supposed to be intimidating.
Obi-Wan looked up as the man came to his table, towering over him.
“I don’t have much patience for insubordination or disrespect,” Tor Vizsla told him, raising the broken shadow a little from his side.
“I’ve not sworn to you,” Obi-Wan pointed out, “and I don’t think there’s much to respect about a man who comes and interrupts an entire cantina to preen with a broken toy.”
He could see Satine watching him with a horrified expression on his face. A few other patrons wore similar. A few had closed their eyes to pray.
Fett was staring at him, wary, observing, calculating, but mainly wary.
Honestly, what had happened to the Mandalorians over the past few centuries?
“I did warn you,” Tor Vizsla said tersely, before lifting up the false blade and striking.
Obi-Wan watched, somewhat amused, as the dark-ish light raced towards his neck, only to crackle out of existence, the faint leftover impression dispersing at the real darksaber’s presence.
The hilt was just the more accessible container, after all. The weapon was the crystal. If one knew how, they could even form a blade with just a compatible crystal and their mind.
How could a soulless object limping along on the fumes of his residue ever have a hope of harming him?
The entire cantina was shocked as they realized what had happened, apparently.
It was more than enough leeway for Obi-Wan to grab the hilt and kick Tor Vizsla in the face as he jumped out of his chair.
The lackeys managed to half catch their Mand’alor as Obi-Wan stretched himself up tall, whirling the unlit hilt casually.
“Somehow, I don’t think this blade has much interest in you. You can’t use it properly, after all,” Obi-Wan taunted.
He put a bit of himself back into the familiar housing, his first home still so familiar.
He lit the saber; longer, darker, smoother.
“That seems like a proper blade, now doesn’t it?” Obi-Wan said, smiling at the man.
Tor made to launch at him, clearly, only for a subordinate to launch against him, shoving him out of the way as a shot fired into their neck, where Tor’s neck had just been.
One of them finally remembered their job, apparently, but not as quickly as Jango Fett had recovered and set about improvising the situation.
The cantina quickly descended into a brawl, everyone fighting their least favorite person, who was often Tor and the rest of Death Watch.
Deliberately neutral bars saw fewer brawls than others, but were no strangers to brawls in the end, after all.
Obi-Wan watched Master Jinn move through the fray and drag Satine away before exiting out a window.
He wasn’t surprised at Tor Vizsla following him, nor at Jango Fett following Tor Vizsla.
He wove through the alley streets that made up the large town, using the Force to help him double back to Jango Fett.
He wasn’t going to miss the closest thing to a Mand’alor he’d found in this life, after all.
Jango Fett raised a blaster at him as soon as he noticed him.
“I come in peace, at least against you,” Obi-Wan said, raising his hands.
“You’re the other jetii,” Fett accused.
Obi-Wan did nothing but stare and blink for a moment. That wasn’t why he thought Fett was wary and defensive around him immediately.
The man was smart, that was nice.
“I have often been called Padawan Obi-Wan Kenobi recently, yes,” Obi-Wan joked.
“And before that?” Fett asked, voice painted with sarcasm. Obi-Wan was pretty sure the man was rolling his eyes under his newly-donned helmet.
“Ner Kad. Kadha. A few other names,” Obi-Wan answered.
Fett tightened his grip on his blaster, but neither put it away or shot at him in offense.
“I saw, in the cantina, something black move from you to the saber before you turned it on.”
Well, now that was impressive. The man before him really was a far cry from Tarre, even if he was closer than anyone else Obi-Wan had seen in this life, but perhaps the man had more potential than he thought.
“That was a bit of myself. I just put a little bit of myself back home, is all,” he explained.
Fett was smart enough to accept his answer, it seemed, the blaster was lowered a few inches.
“What do you want?” Fett asked.
“What do I want?” Obi-Wan repeated, tasting the question, “that’s a little difficult to say. You see, a kyber doesn’t really want, and I still struggle to get used to that sort of thing, even after spending a bit in this more… cognizant form. I think, however, that I’m looking for someone to follow again. A companion to assist in creating more justice and life. That was the best part of being with Tarre, I believe.”
“I’m no Mand’alor,” Fett said, voice dipping into a slight growl.
Obi-Wan shrugged.
“Not right now, no. But you could be, and you have a better chance at becoming one than anyone else I’ve seen. There are plenty of ways to become and be a Mand’alor. Tarre had his own way, I’m sure you could have your own if you want.”
The air, the Force, around them shifted. It was a considering attitude that Fett had, with a healthy dose of skepticism or paranoia. Clearly the man wasn’t easily swayed. That was good.
“Something to think about, perhaps. Perhaps a bit more urgently, however, is that there’s a very angry Tor Vizsla now coming towards us in a much more direct, quick fashion, I believe he’s locked onto our heat signatures,” Obi-Wan said, letting his hands drop casually to his sides as he walked towards Fett.
He stopped just before the still mainly outstretched blaster.
“So, would you like another tool to take the man down? I can vouch for the blade’s sharpness, and its presence seems to make him stupider with anger,” Obi-Wan said while holding out the hilt, offering himself up as they started to hear the sound of a jetpack.
Jango Fett glanced between his face and the hilt multiple times, clearly calculating.
The Mandalorian, not yet Mand’alor, reached out.