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There was a hole in his chest where Jango might've once had a heart. It'd been there for a long time, cauterized into scar tissue by time and experience. Or maybe the remnants of his heart were still there, all ash from the fires that took his families one by one. When he held Boba for the first time, he felt like wind had stirred the dust of it, maybe. It was hard to say. The parts of him that still lived, lived for Boba, but his heart had been long dead before the child was born.
He held him. He didn't cry even as the baby wailed. It made him feel something like awe, or fear. Reverence. Jango knew he wouldn't be a good buir, because he did not love his son, not the way he should. Not the way you were supposed to, at least. He wanted Boba to have a better life than he'd gotten, to pass on all he could before some fire came and took him, too. Or it would take Jango instead, probably.
Jango hoped that was close enough to love to count, for the child's sake.
He did not even attempt to love the clones. The terms of his contract had been clear: donate genetic material for the construction of an army. Make sure the army was trained like proper verde. Ask no further questions, and he would have Boba and his revenge. What did it matter if the clones could choose their own designations? He knew they did not have free will, not with the way they'd been built. Sometimes droids preferred different designations, too, just a quirk of the programing.
And for ten years, that was all. There was vengeance, and there was legacy.
Then, a jetii managed to hunt him down, instead of the other way around. Twice.
It was exhilarating annoying, and Jango let that cover up his begrudging respect at the other warrior's skill. Even in the face of capture and execution on Geonosis, they'd fought well. So when more fighting broke out, Jango threw himself into the fray, hoping for another bout to finally beat the jetii who had been such a challenge. Who fought as if they expected his ruthlessness.
It'd been a surprise, that first round on Kamino. Other jetiise had always tried to talk him out of a fight first, their own mercy his best weapon against them. This one, after their little interview, had taken one look at him in his armor and drawn their kad'au. Then the fight had cost him a jetpack and a grappling line, and it had more or less ended in a draw.
Flying into the arena to fight Kenobi again, he'd intended on some payback and settling the draw into a victory. He felled whatever got in his way, jetii and droid alike.
Instead, he lost an arm to a man with a purple saber. They took the kom'rk with the flamethrower, a clean slice at the elbow.
It was agonizing.
The layers of his armorweave kute melted to the skin, the wiring in it sparked, and he had just enough space around the pain—the smell of burnt flesh that crept through his filters and the sudden taste of char and snow on his tongue—to roll out of the way of the creature that charged over where he'd just been. Then he kept moving, fully retreating before the purple saber could pursue and finish the job.
He'd grabbed Boba from where the ad hovered at the edge of the arena—waiting for him, probably—and gritted his teeth until they were back in hyperspace.
Jango wasn't surprised that the Republic went to war after that. What else would the clone army be for? The only unexpected part was that Tyranus wasn't the one using them. Why place the order then use droids? He shrugged off questions like that, been paid well enough that they were left as 'not any of his business.'
The galaxy had more than enough problems right now to keep it busy, and Jango had plenty of money to disappear with while it was distracted.
But they'd need to lay low for a while. No one would hire him if he had a Republic tail still, and Boba could do with some more survival training.
Which was why they made camp on Ooo-temiuk. Populated enough that a ship landing on the planet wasn't notable, but wild enough that they could go and hunt instead of staying in town. A good place to keep an ear to the ground without risking Republic attention.
Plus it was close enough to a hyperlane that they might have some bacta on hand.
Jango didn't look at where his left forearm used to be as he input the coordinates. Boba didn't either, didn't ask any stupid questions like 'what happened.' He was a good kid like that.
And Ka'ra, it was strange to pilot one-handed. He kept moving out of habit only to fall short or bump the still-raw wound against something, his sense of balance slightly off. He'd known plenty of people in the galaxy went without a limb. Good verde he'd numbered as friends. Didn't mean he'd ever wanted to be one of them.
He knew that he would learn to cope.
So he did, hiding out on Ooo-temiuk and teaching —and sometimes reteaching—Boba how to hunt, showed him the programs on his HUD that helped him identify edible plants, how to apply bacta and bind wounds. The kid took to it well. Quieter than he used to be on Kamino, sure, but focused. Determined.
And maybe Jango didn't love him the right way, but he liked his ad well enough. There was a gleam in the ad'ika's eye when the fire got a little too large or when he got to hold one of Jango's Westars that always made the man smirk to himself. Mandokarla little thing, Boba Fett. He'd make any buir proud.
That was how they spent several weeks while Jango healed and retrained what was left of his arm. He decided that he'd pay a tragic price for a new arm as soon as possible, visit a goran when he could to get fitted for a new kom'rk, then find some backwater planet even farther out than this one to wait out the war with Boba. Maybe take a few jobs every now and again just to save some face. He'd call it retirement, if he thought that meant something to people like him. Stable enough, which would be good for the ad.
Or, that'd been the plan, before the jetii showed up again.
Kenobi was damn persistent, he'd give them that.
They'd been leaning against the ship when he'd swung by to put some of a recent hunt in the cockpit's conservator, looking both more dry and more weary than the last time he'd seen them. Jango'd pulled his blaster in a flash of durasteel, but the jetii just raised their arms in surrender.
"You're an exceptionally difficult man to track, Jango Fett," they said in a wry voice.
He tilted his bucket a little, half a nod and half asking the man to hurry it up, whatever he was here for, tracy'uur still trained between their eyes.
Kenobi gave an exasperated sigh and a hand came down to rub their forehead. "Ostensibly, I'm here on the behalf of the Republic to request a renewal of your contract with Kamino, and offer the GAR's official protection, as long as you agree not to assist the Separatist confederation, including but not limited to the sharing of your genetic material with them."
Jango snorted, "And unofficially? Kamino wouldn't need another draw from me for years if you need more clones."
The jetii paused to eye him with a carefully neutral face. "There are many questions about the powers at play behind this war, Fett. The Council believes you have more information than most, if you'd be willing to share it."
"So? What do you believe, meshla?" he goaded.
They raised an eyebrow, "When one intends to aim for diplomatic, they keep any potentially controversial opinions close to the vest."
His lips twitched, amused by such a jetiise answer. "And they sent you anyway?"
"Unfortunately, I'm one of six Jedi in the last century who bothered to fluently learn modern Mando'a, and currently the only one among the living, at least to the knowledge of those on Coruscant. That means, despite our last little altercation, I am once again delegated the duty of Mandalorian liaison."
They said it with such a resigned tone, like they'd spent time arguing against the role and lost.
"I also, as it happens," they continued while reaching into folds of their robe to reveal something wrapped and rectangular, "have been sent to return this."
Jango was handed his lost kom'rk. Like he'd just loaned it or left it behind on accident. A missing piece to his soul that would never fit quite right again. He stared hard at the jetii. "Gar shabuire gana ori'gett'se. Tion'j o'r haran aariki'ni?"
Kenobi rolled their eyes, "I'm not given much say in the matter, I assure you. But it was either return it to you or melt the durasteel down for reuse, and I'm well aware of which option would result in increased hostilities."
There were things he needed to consider, about Kenobi, about why they bothered to track him down despite the war beginning to rage. But Jango's strength had always been tactics, not long-term strategy. It's what made him a good bounty hunter and an osik Mand'alor.
Right now, underprepared and on the back foot, he knew that if he made this a fight then he would lose.
There was nothing that he hated more than being at the mercy of the jetiise. Behind his helmet, Jango's teeth bared as he hissed, "It's no good to me now, is it?"
In his flash of rage, he threw the package back at Kenobi, only more furious when they caught it gracefully. "Now, that wasn't very polite," they mocked with a chuckle, "It took quite a lot of effort to see it brought back to you, after all."
"Ne'johaa, before I decide to shut you up permanently," he said as he gestured harshly with his blaster, "And, I'm not giving you or your grand army anything 'til I see something in writing. And I'm paid in advance. Republic hut'uune barely deserve my time as it is."
The jetii sighed heavily at that, "I suppose I'll be back with an official contract, then." They paused, a considering look crossing their face. "You're quite sure you don't want your vambrace back?"
Jango answered with a blaster shot next to their feet. The indignant huff they let out as they swept away, new charred spot at the hem of their robe, was all too satisfying.
Then he finally put the meat in the ship conservator and got back to Boba.
Kriffing jetiise. They could never mind their own business.
It was only months later, two campaigns into arguing strategy with the so-called High Generals, that Jango found out what happened to that extra kom'rk, via debrief of the most recent battle.
Kenobi had hid it beneath the sleeve of their tunic instead of just tossing it. The man always had to be so damn pragmatic that it wrapped right back around to stupid.
Jango didn't even glance at them as the holo looped through the brilliant plume from the kom'rk's flamethrower that forced the kih'darjetii, Ventress, to retreat instead of completing the swing that would've lopped off Kenobi's head.
He hoped the burns hurt.
The meeting tensed as the jetiise gauged his reaction, but he ignored it, pushing on to critique the messy flanking of the squad that was supposed to make use of Kenobi's distraction.
He told himself that it was just a weapon. It didn't have to mean anything that Kenobi had kept it carefully maintained. Or that their eyes had gleamed in the firelight.
This was all a means to an end, Jango reminded himself. All these jetii would be dead by the end of the war. Even the attractive ones.
He just needed to ignore the way the thought made his stomach clench.