Chapter Text
Jango groaned, opening his eyes to icy pathways crisscrossing across a black expanse of endless night. He looked around, seeing Geonosis — the red sands littered with dead Jedi and broken droids. Boba sobbing in a corner, hugging his helmet. A pang of guilt spiked through his heart. His boy was alone. All alone.
Just like he was at that age. Without his father to guide him. He had made a promise to Boba the day he first held him; never to leave him alone. Look at me, breaking yet another promise. Just one more in a long, long list of broken promises. “Well, I had certainly hoped you wouldn’t be here for several more years, ad’ika.”
Jango turned, eyes widening at the sight of the Mandalorian walking towards him: a red half-cape, matte black armor with a gold diamond encircling the beskar’ta, mahogany skin and close cropped ebony hair. “Jaster?” Jango whispered, not wanting to believe it. “Buir?”
Jaster Mereel grinned, smile lines crinkling around his dark brown eyes. “Jango.” He opened his arms and Jango dived into the hug, failing to hold back his tears. He didn’t care that he was a forty-five year old man. He had just died. He can cry in his father’s arms. “I’ve missed you.”
“I missed you too, Buir. So much.” He swallowed. “I tried. I really did. I tried to lead well in your place and I… I did the best I could but… I’m sorry.”
“I know.” Jaster rubbed his back. “I know you did your best.” Jaster pushed him away, and dried his tears. It made Jango feel like he was thirteen again, a little hawk new fledged but still needing the comfort of the nest. Jaster smiled at him, eyes big and bright with mischief darkling deep within. “That’s why I got you a second chance.”
Jango blinked. “A what?”
“A second chance!” Jaster grinned. “You can fix your mistakes… well, some of them. The most damning of them.” Jaster rubbed the back of his neck. Jango swallowed, thinking of Vhonte, the blaster to their head, the terrified look in their girl’s eyes as he shot the only parent she ever knew dead. It still caused a chill to run down his spine thinking about it. “It took a lot of convincing for the Ka’ra. They were rather… upset with the way things have gone.”
“What are you talking about?” Jango didn’t understand how he could get a second chance. He was dead. He had his head cut off by Mace Windu! He watched his sobbing son hug his helmet! There was no second chance. No third chance. The Ka’ra are a myth told by armorers. “How did you get a second chance when you’re dead?” Even the question sounded stupidly implausible.
Jaster sobered, but a devilish glint never leaving his eyes. “Like this.” And he shoved Jango off the walkway and into the endless deep dark.
Jango grunted, opening his eyes to the bright sterile lights of a training facility. His head hurt; felt like a gundark body slammed him. Groaning, he squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his palms against them, slowly counting to ten. A vain effort to ease the pounding in his skull. “Shab.” The subsonic hum of electronics filled his ears; crying too and soft whispery voices. He did a quick assessment: besides his head aching he felt fine, nothing felt broken, no rushing fluids, no unexplained pain. Though a little hand tapped his arm, repeatedly. A pulled his hands away from his eyes, a small face filled his vision. “Are you okay Prime?” a small piping voice asked.
“I think you killed him.” Another piping voice said.
“Oh stars!” the first voice said, tears choking each word. “I’m gonna get culled! I killed the Prime! I killed the Prime! Stars, I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” The panic was clear in the child’s voice. Jango grunted, pushing himself up on his elbows. One boy huddled around the one having an absolute meltdown. The boy trembled, taking in great gulping breaths as snot and tears ran down his face. There was something deeply uncomfortable about the two boys — and the third one staring at Jango with big brown eyes — something that made Jango cringe away from them in utter revulsion. “I don’t wanna be culled, Fox.” The boy said, looking at his companion. “I… I wanted to be a good commander. But… I…” he bit his lip. “I killed the Prime!”
“It’s okay, Bly.” The one called Fox said. Jango huffed, sitting up further. “Sarge isn’t going to let the demagolkala kaminiise hurt you. Remember the story she told us, about how she saved Tiarek? She” — Fox mimed jabbing a knife into his neck — “stabbed them in the neck and took Tiarek from the kaminiise before anyone could stop her. She won’t let anything happen to you. Promise.”
Bly didn’t look convinced but nodded all the same. Jango gave a weak little smile to the boy staring at him. The boy beamed in return. “Don’t worry Bly! He’s alive!” the third boy said. Fox smiled at that, hugging Bly. Bly heaved a great sob, pressing his palms to his eyes, shoulders shaking.
“And Wolffe is gonna be back with Sarge soon, she’ll straighten the whole mess out. She’ll tell Prime it was just an accident. You know she’s amazing at convincing Prime to do just about anything..” The door hissed open and a fourth boy appeared — Jango felt weird, as if looking into a funhouse mirror, the boy (all of them really) looked so much like him when he was a child — with a woman in matte red armor, her dark hair pulled into a tight ponytail that sat at the back of her skull. Her eyes, the same shade of grey as polish beskar. A part of him felt like he knew her. Knew her deeply and intimately, but he couldn’t place his finger on it. Jango frowned, trying to recall where he knew her from; why are all his memories so fuzzy? The ache and frustration in not knowing the woman swelled in his chest. The woman made a squeak and ran over to him. “Who? Who are you?” he gripped her arms, pulling himself up to his feet; she held him a little tighter as he swayed for a moment. The woman’s grey eyes searched his face, her calloused warrior hands cradled his cheeks. Worry clearly etched in her own gaze. “Where’s Boba?” He knew he had a son. That much he seemed to remember. Boba. His son. The woman was saying something, asking him questions that he didn’t fully grasp. If he had a son, then maybe… this woman… was Boba’s mother?
“Jango!” she tapped his cheeks, he drew his attention back to her. “Are you okay?” she asked, smoothing her thumbs along his cheekbones, easing something inside him. She looked beautiful, her curly hair tight in a neat tail, her brilliant grey eyes, the matte scarlet of her armor. Even the scar on her olive skinned cheek looked beautiful. Jango knew he knew this woman, knew that he loved this woman, but couldn’t recall one fucking memory — let alone her name — about her. “Wolffe said Bly kicked you in the head.”
So that’s the boy’s name. Jango glanced at Bly, who was in the middle of the other three, still sniffling. “Yeah…” he had no memory of the boy kicking him in the head, but if that was what happened, then it happened. “But I’m fine?” He felt fine. Nothing hurt, he wasn’t woozy or dizzy or abnormally tired. “What’s your name?” he whispered. The woman gave him a look. He flashed her a smile as he pulled her hands from his face, folding her hands in his. For a long moment they stared at each other, getting lost in each other’s eyes. Memories drifted up or rather emotional echoes: love, pain, anger, frustration, hate… regret. “Where’s my son?” he asked, louder this time. He wanted to see his son, wanted to hold Boba, kiss his boy’s chubby little cheeks.
“My uncle is watching the boys at the moment.” She flashed him a little smile and pulled one hand from his grip to touch the injury on his head. He winced. “You’re bleeding. I think you should go to medical. Let Mij check you out. You might have a concussion.”
“Sarge,” Bly whispered. “Do… Do I have to report to the… to Nala Se? I didn’t mean to kick him in the head.” Bly’s eyes welled again with tears, though he stubbornly refused to let any fall. The woman pulled the little boy — these children couldn’t be more than six — into a hug. What were six-year-olds doing training in hand-to-hand? Children didn’t start that training no later than nine-years-old. Six-year-olds weren’t even training yet! He pressed his face into her hip. “Please. I’ll be good.” The plea broke Jango. So pathetic, so frightened. As if this was a common occurrence. What sort of place would condition a boy to fear for his life for delivering a well placed kick to a senior opponent? What place was training six-year-olds to fight?
“Nobody is going to be culled,” Jang said, kneeling down to be eye level with the boy. “You did nothing wrong, ad’ika.” He smiled as he placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “That was a good kick.” Bly flinched at the physical contact. Jango’s smile slipped at the boy’s reaction and wondered further what sort of training facility this was. Surely none operated by a Mandalorian. No Mandalorian worth their armor would treat children like this, right? But you did, a voice hissed — a voice that sounded a lot like Jaster’s. Jango stared into the middle distance, noting the hazy transparent figure of Jaster Mereel. The ghost gave one nod before vanishing when Jango blinked.
Whatever reaction he displayed, it alarmed the woman enough for her to bring her wrist to her mouth. She spoke quickly and then scooped up the boy — Bly — and kissed his cheek. He needed a mirror, wondering why his smile would make children cry and why he got the sense that he was actually the villain in his scenario. “You said, your uncle is watching Boba?” he asked. The woman nodded, eyeing him as if he was a stranger. “Who’s your uncle?” And who are you?
“Kal Skirata?” She arched her brow, and then pressed the back of her hand to his forehead and then his cheek. Kal Skirata. The name sounded familiar, but again Jango couldn’t place it. It felt like he was trying to describe a task that he had done all his life to someone that never done it before. The frustration of why don’t you just do it? building up in his chest. “Jango, are you feeling okay?”
“I…” he swallowed and swayed a little. She grabbed his arm. “Who are you?” he tried to recall her, but his brain hurt every time he tried to think deeper. It felt as if all his memories before Bly kicked him in the head had been locked away.
She blinked at him, kissed Bly on the cheek and set him down. “Kaisa,” she said, gently guiding him to the wall. She helped him sit down. “Your wife.” His wife? He furrowed his brow. If Kaisa was his wife and her uncle was Kal Skirata and he was watching Boba — Jango had no idea why she thought he had more than one son, but that was a mystery for later — then…
“Are you Boba’s mother?” he asked.
A brittle smile flashed across Kaisa’s face. “In a way. Are you sure you’re okay?” she touched the spot where Bly kicked him. He nodded, only to groan when her fingers found the lump. The door hissed open again and Mij came in with a stretcher. “Thank the Manda, Mij he’s in bad shape.”
The medic knelt in front of him, pulling a pen light out from his belt. “Hold still, Fett.” He peeled open one of Jango’s eyes and shined the light in. Then did the other one. “His pupils are responsive, so that’s a good sign. Still could be concussed. The fact he doesn’t remember you is a bad sign.” He put the pen light away. “Fett, what’s your name?” the medic — Mij — asked.
“Jango Fett.” What a stupid question! Of course he knew his own name. “My son’s name is Boba.”
Mij and Kaisa shared a glance tangled with worry and confusion. “Fett, what’s the last thing you remember before Bly kicked you?” Mij asked.
Jango blinked. The last thing he remembered was the red sands of Geonosis. The sounds of combat, Jedi dying, droids clomp-clomp-clomping. The buzz of that violet lightsaber as he tried to overwhelm the Jedi with blaster bolts. Pain in his wrist as he lost his hand, the cough and spark of his malfunctioning jetpack. Heat. Pain. Darkness. “Mace Windu cutting my head off.”
“Who’s Mace Windu?” one of the boys, Fox, asked.
“A Jetii Alor,” the first boy, the one that seemed to be the squad leader, said. “It’s in our flashtraining.”
“Ne’johaa Cody! Nobody asked you!” Fox snapped, and gave Cody a shove. Cody shoved Fox back and the two devolved into a wrestling match, the final boy — Jango assumed that was the boy called Wolffe — began to egg both of them on. Kaisa sighed.
“Gev! Gev!” she grabbed them both by the collar and yanked them apart with the tired practice air of a woman used to wrangling misbehaving boys. Jango chuckled a little. Yep, this woman was definitely Boba’s mother. He could easily see her pregnant and manhandling unruly cadets with the practiced ease that every Mandalorian woman possessed. It was then and there that Jango decided he was going to kiss her as soon as they got a moment alone. “Udesii, both of you. This is serious, so no fighting.” She flashed them a smile. “You can break your teeth on each other’s fists later.” She patted their cheeks and returned to Jango’s side.
“Okay,” Bly said, “if the Jetii Alor killed the Prime, why is the Prime alive here?” The four boys frowned, going quiet. Jango glanced at them, then back at the adults hovering over him. Kid had a point.
Mij and the woman — Kaisa, she said her name was Kaisa — looked at each other. “Okay, well” — Mij dragged the stretcher over and then with Kaisa’s help got Jango onto it — “I’ll take him to medical. Want to watch over him for a few days. Make sure there’s nothing too serious going on.”
“Okay,” Kaisa said, squeezing Jango’s hand. “Ni kar’tayli gar darasuum.” She kissed his cheek. “Ner cyare.” She smiled. “I’ll bring the boys by soon to see you.”
Jango blinked. She said boys. He only had one son. “Boba?” he asked. He wanted to know where his son was, if he was okay. “Boba’s okay, right?” Nobody had told him a fucking thing about Boba. And it annoyed him that Kaisa was more concerned with these boys than her own son. “Is Boba alright?” He sat up but Mij pressed his hand to Jango’s chest and forced him back down.
“Sorry, Fett, but you need to stay down.” Mij said.
She must’ve heard the steel in his voice for she returned to his side and carded her fingers through his hair, scratch his scalp with her blunt nails. “Boba, Cassus and Tiarek are fine,” she said — that was two too many names — “I told you my uncle is watching them And — before you get your kute in a twist — the Nulls are not with him this time.” She pressed a kiss to his brow. “I’m sure they’ll be happy to see their daddy. You’ve been gone on a hunt for a while, and the boys miss you when you’re gone. And you’ve been with my squad all morning.” Her smile made her face look soft and homey. Jango could hear the rustle of veshok stalks through the breeze just looking at that smile. He reached up, cupping her cheek to feel the skin — warm, the scar puckered beneath his fingertips — an echo of emotion swelled in him. Of all the times he’d done this before, softness, the love, the lazy time tick-tocking by without a care from either of them. “They miss their daddy.”
Mij cleared his throat. “Not to be a killjoy, but the sooner I get his shebs to medical and give him the all clear the sooner your ad’ike can see their daddy.” And with that, Mij grabbed the stretcher and pushed him out of the space — a small gym — Jango watched his hand fall away from Kaisa’s cheek, and the little boys swarming around her like lost nerf calves. The door hissed open and then shut. Mij whistled while dragging the stretcher through the white sterile halls. Tall aliens with spindly necks and bulbous heads and big dark eyes walked eldritchly through the halls, rain drummed against the transparisteel windows, thunder rattled the building and lightning strobe the sky asunder. The place had a horrific feel to it, not dissimilar to the horror holos about Baron Boolan from the High Republic. A memory — his first real memory — sparked in his mind, of huddling with Vhonte — Jango frowned, wondering where they were? — in his room with the lights turned off and only the soft glow of the holoprojector for illumination. He remembered having nightmares about the gruesome Nameless and the cruel Ithorian scientist.
Was this place one of Baron Boolan’s labs? One that Lourna Dee and her Tempest Breakers failed to liberate and destroy? A chill went down Jango’s spine at the thought of stumbling across a Nameless with one too many limbs — or the horrific decapitated one the mad Ithorian cruelly kept alive. The ethereal white aliens — with their long flowy limbs and three spindly fingers — didn’t look like any Ithorian he’d ever seen. And he’d seen his fair share of Ithorians.
Mij pulled him into medical, barking orders to a pair of droids to get machines ready. The mechanical humming filled the space, Jango glanced around, before being transferred to a bed. Mij pressed a button, the bed hummed back and a bright blue light scanned him. He blinked at the beep. Mij hummed.
“Well?” Jango asked. This was getting annoying, he said he was fine. All he had was a tender lump where Bly kicked him. Hooking him up to machines was not going to help him figure out how or why he was here. He wanted to get out! Walk around this strange place. Try to jog his memories. What happened to make him fight Mace Windu? He heard of the Jedi Master before. The greatest warrior the Jedi Order had ever seen. He would never have gone up against him — not without making sure his kit was in tiptop shape, and certainly not with a busted jetpack and more importantly not if it meant abandoning Boba! — but he did for some reason. And died. Except… he wasn’t dead. He was very much alive.
I told you. Jaster’s phantom appeared again. This is your second chance and the time period when you can correct your more egregious mistakes, he said.
“Did you do this to me? Are you behind this? What’s going on here, Jaster?” Jango snapped.
Mij gave him a confused yet concerned look. “Well, you don’t have a concussion,” Mij said. Well that was a relief. “However, I don’t know why you don’t remember your own wife. Or why you think Mace Windu beheaded you.”
You could always repeat them, I guess, Jaster added with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
“Why would I want to repeat mistakes that got me beheaded in the first place?” Jango snapped. Mij glanced at the empty space Jango was talking to. “I want to live, I want to see my son grow up!”
Sons, according to Kaisa. Jaster smiled wistfully. She’s a real beauty Jango. And also, I don’t know why you’d redo them, but then again you’ve always had more stubbornness than sense. The ghost gave a defeated shrug.
“It'd be nice if I knew what mistakes I made,” Jango said, acid in his tone, “so I could correct them. Would also be nice if I remembered a damn thing about Kaisa. A woman that clearly loves me but I don’t… remember ever loving her.” Admitting that hurt. Felt like a rancor punched the wind right out of his lungs. The emotion was there — otherwise he wouldn’t be feeling this way — but the memories, the source of that emotion, had faded away. It left him aching and wanting.
Jaster chuckled. “Who are you talking to, Fett?” Mij asked. Jango opened his mouth, snapped it shut and then glanced at the space where Jaster’s spirit loitered. Only to find it empty. A flush crept up his neck.
“Nobody,” Jango said. “Just thinking out loud.” He accepted the ice pack the droid handed him and pressed it to the bump on his head. “Can I go back to my… living space now?” he didn’t know what he had here. If he lived here. Mij puffed his cheeks out in a sigh.
“Well, you aren’t concussed. Can’t fully rule it out until tomorrow, so I suggest you don’t sleep for the next twenty-four hours if you can, shouldn’t be a problem with the baby.” Mij patted him on the shoulder. “Tests all came back normal, so as long as you don’t think out loud anymore, nobody is gonna look at you weird.”
Baby? Another son. Alright, so sons made sense. He wasn’t sure who Cassus and Tiarek were but maybe one of them was this baby that Mij spoke of. Jango grunted, sliding off the gurney. “Thanks.”
“You’ll be okay getting back to your apartment?” Mij asked. Jango wanted to say yes but looking at the sterile white halls, he felt his confidence turn tail and run. “I’ll get Taun We.”
Taun We — one of the ethereal eldritch aliens called Kaminoans, Jango soon learned — dressed in an off white beige with sleeves dyed the palest blue-grey Jango had ever seen. She — or he, Jango couldn’t tell — led Jango through the halls, gracefully walking through the halls with a gate that reminded Jango of something moving through the water. He had the uncanny sense that whatever they evolved from, it never forgot it belonged to the sea. “Your suite, Jango,” it — they — said. “Kaisa should be inside.”
“Um… thank you,” Jango said, giving the Kaminoan a curt nod. It — they? She? He? — returned it and drifted off down the hall. Jango shuddered upon realizing that the Kaminoans had backwards facing knees like a damn nuna. He punched in the code — apparently, it was something ingrained into him — and the door sighed opened. Inside the space had the same sterile white walls, but Kaisa obviously had tried to make it look more like karyai. A remembrance shrine sat in one corner, holos of people he didn’t know (her parents, he assumed) and Jaster flickered on a timed interval. Holos of their family and of just them as well as numerous other things — his quetarre and his drawings — her crocheted throw pillows and blankets. His tivaevae across the arm of the couch. A rug of orbak wool on the floor, its bright colors clashing horribly with the stark white.
He could smell tiingilar simmering away on the stove top, sharp and pungent, the scent making his mouth water and his stomach growl. A pot of cassian tea sat on the warmer, with a plate of cassian cookies next to it. He walked over to the countertop, snagging a cookie before making his way to the couch where Kaisa and the three little boys sat. One however looked to be the same age as the boys from earlier. He was the most curious, holding onto Kaisa’s arm as she cuddled another child. This one smaller, maybe two or three, and delicate looking, almost like a girl. He stared at the girl in Kaisa’s arms. Then at the older boy, and then at the two toddler sized boys snuggled together like a pair of sleeping strill pups. “I’m not giving her back to those demagolkase,” Kaisa said.
Jango took a bite of his cookie. Chewed. Swallowed. And stared at the child in Kaisa’s arms. “Why would you give them a child?” he asked, incredulous. Kaisa froze, then visibly relaxed, a smile threatening to break across her face. He finished his cookie and sat next to her. A quick glance around told him Jaster’s phantom hadn’t decided to grace them with its presence. Jango looked at the child in Kaisa’s arms. “It’s a girl.”
“I know,” Kaisa said, “She’s six months younger than Boba” — Kaisa glanced at him — “Nala Se created her. As a genetic backup in case one of the Omegas malfunction.” Kaisa spat the sentence out as if it was burning her tongue. “She was keeping the girl in a lab, Jango! A lab!” She clutched the girl tighter. “I wouldn’t have even been down there if Wrecker hadn’t come looking for me asking for uj cake.”
Jango blinked. Lab. Wrecker. Omegas. None of it made a lick of sense to him. But, he was Mandalorian. And any Mandalorian worth his armor would protect a child. “Well, she’s ours now,” he said, as he wrapped his arms around Kaisa. The older boy scooted back to the brace of sleeping toddlers. “Do you have a name picked out?” he asked, looking at the sweet face of the little girl in Kaisa’s arms.
“I like Mara,” Kaisa whispered, then flushed a little, “I haven’t… Cassia is good too but we already have Cassus, could get confusing.” She chuckled. Jango smiled.
“Mara Fett has a nice ring to it,” he said, he squeezed Kaisa’s hand, “but it’s tradition in my family, that the first born daughter be named Arla.”
“Oh yes,” Kaisa said, her voice breathy and wistful, “I remember you telling me that when I was…” she shook her head, squeezing a tear from her eye. “Yes. She would be our first daughter.”
“Together?” He watched Kaisa’s eyes widen, a grin breaking free as she nodded. “Ni kyr’tayl gai sa’ad,” he said, Kaisa echoing the words a heartbeat later. “Arla Fett.”