FIC: Hukaat'kama ~ Star Wars Prequels ~ Jango/Obi-Wan ~ Mature ~ Chapter 1/6

[batsutousai]

Title: Hukaat'kama
Fandom: Star Wars
Author: Batsutousai
Rating: Teen
Pairing: Jango Fett/Obi-Wan Kenobi
Warnings: Asexual!Jango, AU, hurt/comfort, pre-relationship, established relationship, mentioned drug addiction and withdrawal, mentioned slavery, mentioned genocide, canon-typical violence, Mandalorian culture, Jedi culture, non-binary clones, grief, angst, Kamino is the worst, Jango's questionable parenting, mention of reconditioning, hopeful ending
Summary: Five times someone threatened Jango for Obi-Wan's sake.

A/N: Spiritual successor (precursor?) to Only You Now, which was one of my 2021 JangObi Week fics. By which I mean, thinking about that fic spawned this one, and this should be, if not completely accurate to the hints of backstory in that fic, close enough for government work.
This started as me wanting to write Cody giving Jango the shovel talk the first time Jango docked with the Negotiator to see Obi-Wan, and then it occurred to me that Cody would not have been the first person to threaten Jango for Obi-Wan's sake, so you get this disaster, instead. Heh.
I thought about doing one for Qui-Gon, but ultimately decided not to. Reader's choice if Qui-Gon is missing because he's knew better than to get in the middle of Obi-Wan's interpersonal relationships, just never had the opportunity, or was a shitty master.

My usual headcanon has Jango wasting away on the spice ship until around the time of Obi-Wan's mission to Mandalore-Tor's murder would explain why Death Watch, who had been so gung-ho to claim Mandalore, got their arses handed to them by a bunch of pacifists-but Jango was freed sooner in this AU.
Also, this Jango does not wholly blame the jedi for Galidraan; any part he had in the plot to use the clones against the Order, was wholly due to sith mind fuckery. Which is implied, but not outright stated. (Mostly because I didn't care to try to figure out what all, exactly, Dooku was willing to trust him with about the plan to have the clones kill the jedi.)

Mando'a has hovertext translations-mobile-capable on AO3, not on DW or LJ-and there is also a glossary of terms-last chapter on AO3, link at the bottom of any chapter on DW/LJ-for those who prefer that manner.
Title is given to mean "watch your six" in the dictionary.



They hadn't met on Manda'yaim-that had happened while Jango was struggling to detox from spice, too out of it to realise that the strange little redhead who had somehow made everything clearer, talked at him until he was through the worst of his withdrawal, might have been anything other than another hallucination, never mind them being a jetii-but Manda'yaim was where Jango had started to realise that Obi-Wan Kenobi was someone he wanted in his life.

Jango hadn't even meant to be on Manda'yaim. He had, in fact, been doing everything in his power to avoid that section of the galaxy, but a job had sent him not far Rimward from Manda'lase, and Jaster's Legacy had taken a hit during a dogfight and the diagnostic returned that his communications array had been damaged. There were ways to communicate with planetary or station control without using shipboard communications, but different planets and space stations had different ways to do so, and Jango didn't know half as many as he wished he did, since the Haat Mando'ade had rarely needed to make emergency landings outside of Manda'lase, and had always flown with at least one other ship, which would fly close enough to communicate via buy'ce channels, if there was no contact through ship-to-ship comms.

So, resigned and angry about it, he'd turned to Manda'yaim, landing in Keldabe for repairs.

Not even an hour into his visit, a squad of ten Mando'ade in mostly unpainted beskar'gam and blue kutese started firing on two others-one in a dark cloak, the other in green and black beskar'gam-who seemed more inclined to run than fight. Jango was about to turn away and return to his ship until the fight was over, but then he recognised the aliik each member of the squad openly wore, and he saw red.

The green and black Mando'ad, once they saw they had assistance, was quick to start shooting at Kyr'tsad, their blaster shots carefully aimed, almost as though they were conserving ammo, while the cloaked being kept carefully behind them.

Within a minute, every member of the Kyr'tsad squad was dead.

Jango turned to his two temporary allies as the beskar-clad one said, "You shouldn't have done that, friend. They'll be hunting you, now, as well," in Mando'a that sounded disgustingly Kalevalan, with just a hint of city Manda'yaim sharpness in the way they shaped their 't's and 'd's.

"Any enemy of Kyr'tsad is an ally of mine," Jango shot back, blood still up from the too-short fight.

The Mando'ad tilted their head to the side, clearly considering, but it was the cloaked being who spoke next, hissing, "Ben, we need to go," in Galactic Basic, accent an ugly mix of upperclass Kalevalan and Core-prim.

Jango scowled behind the cover of his buy'ce, but a quiet voice in his head-the one that sounded like Jaster, which hadn't left him like the others that had been spice hallucinations-reminded him that he didn't have the facts, and shouldn't judge the work another Mando'ad took to keep their belly full.

Not that he was much of a Mando'ad, any more. Despite continuing to wear full beskar'gam.

Jango's buy'ce picked up the sound of shouts in the distance, and he let his fingers curl around the familiar hilts of his Westars, where he'd automatically holstered them when the fight was over, absolutely ready to shoot someone else.

The other Mando'ad turned away, letting themself be drawn by the pale hand wrapped around their bicep. But then they stumbled, reaching out like they were trying to catch themself, except there was nothing in range, and Jango was moving to help catch them before he could stop himself.

"Ben!" the cloaked being shouted, and Jango spotted humanoid features and pale blond hair as their cloak hood billowed when they moved to grab the Mando'ad's elbow. They were wearing kom'rke, he saw, not obviously weaponised and painted the brilliant red that meant honouring a parent or leader, the same colour that Jango had once worn for Jaster, scored with cuts as from a blade and bearing a single blaster singe. Now he was closer, he could also see that, while their cloak might have been fine once, it was now stained and battered, neat stitching and off-colour patches revealing places where it had needed to be repaired.

The green and black Mando'ad's beskar'gam bore just as many marks of combat, while their dark kute looked worse than the other's cloak; clearly in need of a wash, or a replacement. As close as he was, Jango could see the low charge warning light on the Mando'ad's blaster, still gripped in one of their hands, like they were afraid to put it away.

"I'm fine, Tine," the green and black Mando'ad insisted in Basic, their accent pure-Core, and Jango grimaced at it, even as he refused to let them shrug away the grip he had on their other elbow, balancing too much of their weight to think they would be able to stay standing without his help.

Kyr'tsad was hunting them, the Mando'ad had implied, and Jango had slogged through enough hard missions with the Haat'ade to recognise when verde had been pushing too hard for too long; he'd called them his allies, and he might have given up the title Jaster had passed down to him, but he hadn't yet lost so much of his honour that he could walk away. "Can you make it to the spaceport?" he demanded, speaking in Basic on the off-chance that the cloaked one didn't understand Mando'a; it hadn't been considered a first language in Kalevala since before he was born, he knew, so he couldn't assume they spoke it just because their Basic had a Kalevalan accent.

"Why?" the cloaked one demanded.

"Tine," the Mando'ad murmured, just a hint of chiding audible through their buy'ce's modulator, and Jango's audio pickup caught the sound of a jaw snapping shut. "Thank you for your help, friend," they told Jango, and their Core accent should have been grating, but it was, instead, almost soothing. "I assure you, we can manage on our own."

"The kriff you can," Jango snapped, registering that the shouting he'd heard was coming closer, the tone of the voices distinctly unfriendly; it was more likely to be Kyr'tsad, than Keldabe's protector forces coming to soothe the public and clean up the mess. "You can barely walk, and you're low on ammo. Let me help, burc'ya," he insisted, calling them the same thing they'd called him, instead of using narudar, which might have implied to them that Jango was willing to stab them in the back at a moment's notice.

(He wouldn't, not until Kyr'tsad was eradicated, at least; there were no groups of beings he wanted dead more than Kyr'tsad. Even those jetiise who had attacked them at Galidraan were a distant second; he would delight in seeing them dead, but he wasn't so empty-headed as to miss that they had been as much the victims of Vizsla's cowardice as the Haat'ade.)

The Mando'ad's shoulders slumped. "Parjii," they said, and the cloaked being let out a sigh, then motioned for Jango to start walking; if they hadn't understood the Mando'a, they definitely understood their companion's tone.

They had made it almost halfway, when the Mando'ad said, "N'epar," and swiped the knife on Jango's belt as they spun in place, dislodging Jango and their companion's holds on them without unbalancing any of them, and then threw the knife back the way they had come.

A Mando'ad in unpainted beskar'gam rounded the corner just in time for the knife to sink into their throat just under their buy'ce, cutting off any chance of them reporting back about their position.

Jango's brain almost seemed to have stalled for a moment, like a speeder with a faulty fuel injector. Or, more accurately, a holo player stuck on the same five seconds of a corrupted file, because it replayed the smooth twist, throw, thud of landing, and barely-audible death gurgle like it couldn't quite get past the sheer skill the whole event had necessitated.

And then the Mando'ad started to crumple where they stood, evidently having hit their limit, and Jango's body jumped into action without any input from his higher processing, catching them before they could do worse than bruise their knees. His brain finished rebooting itself then, and he hissed, "You, help me get them onto my back."

"Right," the cloaked being agreed, and stepped forward to help steady the Mando'ad as Jango quickly detached his jetpack and turned.

"Can walk," the Mando'ad slurred.

"If your ma- buir was here, what would he say?" the cloaked being demanded.

If the Mando'ad had any response to that, it didn't make it through their modulator, but they didn't fight when their companion helped Jango shrug them onto his back, folding their arms over Jango's front and clasping the outer edges of his hal'cabure, instead of tightening around his throat and chancing choking him. Their legs clasped tight around Jango's waist when he tugged them up, and he had to take a moment to breathe against the way his ven'cabur seemed to need an adjustment at the sheer strength he could feel in their thighs and calves.

It was an unbelievably unfortunate moment for his intermittent sex drive to prove it hadn't died off with the rest of the Haat'ade.

The cloaked being had taken his jetpack while he got the Mando'ad settled, and was evidently familiar with the technology, because they had quickly found the safety lock and set it to keep it from accidentally activating itself. Which was always a good choice when it was being held, especially when the one holding it wasn't in full beskar'gam.

"Let's go," Jango ordered, and set a much quicker pace than they had been moving at. He wouldn't be able to keep it up for long, but he would manage until they made it to Jaster's Legacy, and the cloaked being seemed able to keep up.

They made it without running into any more Kyr'tsadiise, and Jango could see at a glance that the only thing the repair droids were still working on was the communications array, the more cosmetic damage already fixed; if they needed to leave in a hurry, they would be able to.

Jango led the way in and straight to the tiny med bay, turning to let the Mando'ad down on the bio-bed even as they said, "I'm fine."

The bed's automatic scan wailed a disagreement, and Jango's eyebrows felt like they had jumped straight up to his hairline, when he turned to see the readings.

"Ben," the cloaked being said, their voice shaking with some emotion, either upset or fury, Jango was fairly certain, "when was the last time you ate?"

The Mando'ad was somehow keeping themself mostly upright, their hands pressed flat to the bed behind them, despite the readings suggesting they should be flat on their back and half-way to an organ failure, and they stiffened their shoulders and said in an icy tone, "I can survive for longer on less-"

The cloaked being flung their hood back, revealing petite features on a pale-skinned humanoid face, with pale eyes and white-blonde hair. They looked young, maybe early or mid-teens, assuming they aged similarly to baseline humans. Their expression was twisted with anger, but there were tears in their eyes as they shouted, "My survival isn't worth your life!" And then, as the tears fell, they quietly added, "I can't watch you die, too. Ben, please." They brought their arms up against their chest, revealing the bright red kom'rke.

The green and black Mando'ad collapsed back onto the bio-bed. "I promised your father I would keep you safe," they said, just loud enough for their modulator to transmit their words. "My duty is more important than my life."

The other let out a furious sound and spun away, hurrying from the medbay.

Jango suspected that, were he to follow, he would find them crying.

He sighed and shook his head, stepping up to the diagnostic screen to get a proper look at the bed's preliminary findings. Other than the clear lack of food, they had a cracked rib, multiple half-healed blaster burns where their beskar'gam hadn't covered, and a very recent knife wound on the inside of their bicep, which Jango suspected was a match for the long scrap along their hal'cabur, which vanished over the edge of the plate just below their armpit. If so, they were incredibly lucky, because the readings suggested it hadn't hit any arteries and was shallow enough that it would have healed fine on its own. Assuming it didn't get infected.

Jango blinked, surprised to realise that none of their wounds showed any signs of infection. They also didn't show any signs of bacta use, which was the only thing Jango knew of that could have kept an infection at bay while in a kute that in need of a wash.

The Mando'ad sighed heavily enough for their buy'ce's modulator to pick the sound up, then reached up with one shaking hand and pushed their buy'ce off, seal hissing as it disconnected.

Jango opened his mouth to say-

Well, he actually wasn't certain what he was going to say, because his brain stalled again, distracted by sweaty red hair, pale skin dotted with pale freckles, and pale eyes. They were young, of an age with their companion, and Jango recognised them.

"It's you," he breathed.

Pale eyes, which had been falling closed, squinted open again and glanced at Jango. "Yes, I'm me," they said in a dry, amused tone that was just as familiar as their appearance.

Of course their accent would have sounded soothing, despite its origins; Jango had spent hours or days or weeks listening to that voice natter on about the mating habits of tookas, and the medicinal properties of a particular mushroom that could only be found on the moon of...some planet that Jango couldn't remember the name of in the expansion region, and other such random bits of trivia. He'd remembered the peculiar and generally unrelated topics reminding him of Jaster, and the way he could talk for hours about the most random topics. It was part of why he'd managed to convince himself it had all been another hallucination, despite the stranger's face.

He tugged off his own buy'ce and blinked down at the green and black Mando'ad, watching them watch him for a long moment, before their eyes went wide and they jerked upright, then hissed.

Jango hurriedly set his buy'ce down at the end of the bio-bed and stepped forward to gently ease them back down. "You've got a cracked rib; take it easy."

"You survived," they breathed, sounding almost delirious with happiness. "You were so bad off, I wasn't sure, but...you're alive." They smiled at him, and something about the warmth of their gaze made Jango's heart skip a beat. "You're so much stronger than you know."

If anyone else said that, Jango probably would have shot them, because surviving three buire, his ori'vod, and a genocide, was not something he was particularly proud of.

But something about how this particular being said it-the warmth and awe in their voice, the way their whole face had lit up like the sun after one of the more devastating storms of his childhood-turned it into a compliment that Jango could accept, was maybe even a little embarrassed by, judging by the heat he could feel in his cheeks.

He swallowed and cleared his throat. "You helped me, now let me help you," he said.

They blinked at him, still smiling soft and warm, and agreed, "Okay."

(Later, Jango would learn that that easy capitulation was so improbable, he should have recorded it, so he could have used it to win credits off of what seemed like half the galaxy; Obi-Wan Kenobi had never and would never be very good about accepting medical care, especially if he thought there was someone else who needed it more.)

Jango set about removing their beskar'gam, stacking it carefully in one of the bins for beskar'gam, which he hadn't been able to make himself get rid of, even though he knew he was the only Mando'ad who would ever again need to use his medbay.

It was unexpectedly nice to have been wrong about that.

He wanted to remove their kute, too-and probably throw it in the incinerator; he suspected it could have given the rags he'd worn on the spice freighter a proper challenge as to which was least hygienic-but they had slipped into unconsciousness, and Jango wasn't comfortable undressing them any more than he needed to to access the most pressing of their injuries.

He gave them a bacta injection for their rib and put plasters over the least healed of the blaster burns and the cut on their underarm, set up nutrition and rehydrating drips, then left them to rest while he checked on their companion.

He found the cloaked being in the conference-cum-dining space, seated at the table and staring at the aliik on the wall, which Jango hadn't had the heart to paint over, even if every time he looked at it, he felt sick.

"You're Haat Mando'ad," they said quietly.

"No," Jango bit out, refusing to look at the aliik as he stepped through the room and into the kitchen; he had a feeling that the green and black Mando'ad wasn't the only one in desperate need of food and hydration, which meant water and something solid which would be easy on the stomach. "The Haat'ade are dead. Kyr'tsad had them slaughtered."

"They're not all-"

"I don't care," Jango interrupted, because it was bad enough he'd come back to Manda'yaim at all; the last thing he wanted was to be reminded of everyone he had failed. "Your companion, you called them Ben?"

There was a long moment of silence, until Jango finally poked his head out of the kitchen area and found them staring at him, eyes narrowed and clearly hostile. "Why are you asking?" they demanded.

Jango supposed he really should have expected them to be protective, especially after they'd just discovered that the Mando'ad had been starving themself for their sake. So he shrugged uncomfortably and admitted, "I've met them before, when I was...not well. I thought I'd hallucinated them."

They blinked, thoughts obviously racing behind their pale eyes. And then they asked, "So you...owe them?"

Jango frowned and returned to the kitchen and the food. "I suppose so," he agreed. It didn't sound like the Mando'ad had done anything to help him through his detox, besides keep him company, but he couldn't shake the belief that he wouldn't have survived without them there.

The other was chewing the inside of their cheek when Jango brought the food and drinks out, and their uncertainty turned into surprise when he set a plate and cup down in front of them. "Oh," they whispered. "Vor'e."

"Eat," Jango ordered, dropping into a seat across from them with his own glass of water. "I'm not going to hurt either of you." He jerked his head at the aliik on the wall. "The only beings I intend to attack are Kyr'tsadiise."

They were quiet for a beat, sipping at their water, before they asked, "What about the jedi?"

Jango had to take a minute to unclench his jaw from the way it had reflexively tightened, then bit out, "I don't like them, but I know they were only there because Vizsla's a hut'uun who only fights himself when he's guaranteed the upper hand. Why does it even kriffing matter what I think of jet-"

And then it clicked.

The way they'd known exactly where to throw Jango's knife to kill the Kyr'tsadii who had found them, before they'd even come into view; the way this one had tripped over what to call their 'buir'; their accent, so primly Core it had to have been learnt on Coruscant; and the absolute certainty that Jango had that, if they hadn't been there during his detox, he wouldn't have survived it.

"They're a jetii," he breathed.

The whine of a blaster caught his attention, and he found the cloaked being pointing a blaster at him. Their hands were shaking, but it was close enough range that they'd still probably be able to do some reasonable damage before Jango could get it away from them, even while still mostly in his beskar'gam. Their gaze was hard, even as their mouth trembled. "I won't let you hurt him," they said, and Jango could hear their fear, under the threat.

Jango held up his hands, placating, letting them see he didn't have a weapon in his grip, that he wasn't about to respond with violence, even if a part of him wanted to, was raging at being threatened in his own ship, after he'd shown them nothing but kindness.

But they were scared, were young-not an adiik, but still an ad, still young enough to deserve protection, though they might baulk at it; Jango certainly had, at their apparent age-and appeared to be alone, save for the Mand- the jetii in his medbay. And, judging by the earlier conversation, they'd recently lost someone, a buir, probably.

Jango had been there, had been terrified and young and clinging to the kindness of strangers, of the ramikade he would have scoffed in the face of only days before, because he hadn't needed their protection, he'd passed his verd'goten, he was an adult.

"I'm not going to hurt you," Jango promised, keeping his voice low and soothing, just like Jaster had used to do for him on the bad nights. "And I'm not going to hurt them; you're right, I owe them my life, and I am not dar'manda."

"Swear it!" they ordered, voice shaking worse than their hands.

"Haat, ijaa, haa'it," Jango swore without hesitation. "You're both safe here."

They set the blaster down with care, and then snatched their hands away from it, as though it had burnt them. Jango was halfway out of his seat, reaching across the table for them, when they said, "I don't like weapons."

Jango blinked, then said, "You're Evaar Manod'ad," as he realised it. He should have realised it sooner, really, given their Kalevalan accent, but he'd been distracted.

Their lips pursed and they gave a tight nod.

They would have to be the ad of someone relatively high up in the Evaar'ad government, to have rated both a jetii guard and Kyr'tsad actively hunting them down; Kyr'tsadiise were dar'manda demagolkase, firing on ade as easily as fully armoured verde, but they only sent squads after the families of their opponents' leadership.

"You're safe," Jango promised them, again, instead of asking who their buire were. "I have no grudge with the Evaar'ade." He didn't like them, the pacifistic hut'uune, but he wasn't about to start a one-being war against them.

They slumped, looking relieved for half a moment, before their eyes filled with tears and they whispered, "Thank you. Vor entye."

"N'entye," Jango insisted. "Eat."

They did, going slow at first, before picking up speed and devouring the sandwiches Jango had put together.

Jango waited until they were done eating and were working on the last of their water, before asking, "The jetii is Ben, and you are...Tine, they called you?"

They hesitated, gaze gone wary again as they watched Jango over the top of their glass, and then they set it down, curling their fingers around it, and carefully agreed, "He goes by Ben, yes," which Jango took to mean that wasn't actually the jetii's name, but they either didn't know what it really was, or they weren't going to betray them by giving their name away without their permission.

It didn't really matter, either way; Jango appreciated having something to call the jetii. Ben.

"And I'm-" They hesitated again, letting go of the cup with one hand to press their fingers against the table, picking up crumbs and depositing them onto their plate. "Ben calls me Tine; I'm Satine, of Clan Kryze."

Aliit'alor Adonai's second ad, Jango recognised, and couldn't quite stop his eyebrows from going up; well, that certainly explained why Kyr'tsad was hunting them, and how they'd managed to rate a jetii guard.

Adonai had been one of Jaster's friends, so Jango knew enough of the man to know there was no way he would allow any of his children to face down Kyr'tsad with only one being to guard their back, jetii or no; he swallowed and asked, "Aliit'alor Adonai, is he-?"

"Dead," Satine said, voice coming out hollow and tears gathering in their eyes again. "Tor Vizsla was there; he used my younger sister as a shield and shot Dad in the head after he told all the palace guards to put their weapons down."

Old rage and pain flared through Jango's chest, and he had to take a moment to push it back down, because that wasn't what this ad needed. "Nu kyr'adyc, shi taab'echaaj'la," he murmured, and Satine ducked their head, shoulders rounding inwards. "He and my buir were friends; I'm sorry for his loss."

"Vor'e," they whispered, voice shaky like they were trying very hard not to cry.

Jango got up and gathered their plate and both of their glasses, retreating to the kitchen to give them a moment to gather themself. When he returned with refilled glasses, they were sitting straight again, clearly trying to look strong, but just looking tired.

He set their glass in front of them and gently ordered, "Drink this, then I'll show you to a bunk."

They opened their mouth, looking like they were going to argue, but then they yawned, and their pale skin flushed a bright red. "Thank you," they whispered.

Jango inclined his head in recognition of the thanks and set a good example by drinking some of his water.

When Satine started drooping against the table, yawning so much, Jango wasn't certain they'd be able to finish their water, he set his glass down and set about getting them up and showing them to a room, smiling to himself when they snapped that they could walk on their own, when he offered to carry them; they really weren't that different from Ben, it seemed.

"What's your name?" Satine asked once Jango had let them into the spare crew quarters.

Jango hesitated, because Adonai's ad would very likely recognise his name, would know the title he could no longer claim, and he...didn't know if he wanted that, wanted them knowing that he had survived the Haat'ade's genocide.

"Myles, of Clan Kast," he said, and hated the way just saying Myles' name made him remember their death, the way the jetii's green kad'au had sliced so cleanly through their waist, where beskar didn't cover.

"Vor entye, Myles," Satine said, and palmed the door closed.

He should have used Silas' name, Jango thought, rubbing at his face. Except, Silas had been with the ships, not on the killing field, and two of their ships had been missing when Jango retrieved Jaster's Legacy, one of them the sleek little blockade-runner that Silas had finally saved up enough credits to buy two months before Galidraan; there was a chance he was still alive, and Jango would never steal the identity of one of his ramikade if that might endanger them, even if he suspected that Silas wouldn't have minded.

He cleaned up the glasses, did the small amount of dishes, and then retreated to the cockpit, all the while thinking.

He didn't want to be on Manda'yaim, would have preferred if he never saw another Mando'ad again.

But he had a score to settle: Vizsla and Kyr'tsad had murdered everyone he'd ever cared about, and then sold him into slavery. And now they were going after the only other chance Manda'yaim had for a stable government; he didn't like the Evaar'ade and their politics, but he'd sat through enough of Jaster's political lectures to know that Mando'ade needed a stable government-a clear chain of command, for those more warrior-inclined-or they would fracture and destroy themselves.

If he wanted to walk away without completely losing what was left of his soul-and what little chance he had to see his buire and Arla in the Manda-he was going to have to do his part to stabilise Manda'yaim. Even if that meant sticking around and fighting on behalf of the Evaar'ade.

(At least it meant he would have another chance at that hut'uunla chakaar, Vizsla. And, this time, there would be nothing-no traitor to punish, no Haat'ade to warn of danger, no spice detox making it impossible to aim his blasters, never mind his jetpack-keeping him from chasing him halfway across the galaxy, if necessary, and ending him.)

By the time Ben-who had yanked out the nutrient and hydration lines roughly enough, Jango had needed to slap bacta-laced plasters over the wounds, the or'dinii-and Satine had woken, Jango had managed to convince himself to stay and help, and had started using his repaired comms array to find and listen in on Kyr'tsad's comms-they were getting overconfident; it hadn't taken him more than ten minutes to find the correct channel and crack the encryption-and sent out feelers to some of the clans who had supported the Haat'ade, but hadn't officially declared themselves members of their faction, even if they had recognised Jaster or Jango as the legitimate Mand'alor.

He kept using Myles' name in his communications, spending time between responses-while listening to the chatter on the Kyr'tsad channel-reworking the modulator of his buy'ce so he would sound like Myles when he spoke. (He would have to keep his buy'ce on, since there was no way he could disguise himself as a Pantoran, and anyone who had known Myles well and met him in person, might notice that he was a good six centimetres shorter than his second in command had been, but the modulator change would keep most beings from questioning him publicly.)

"You did all this while I was sleeping?" Satine had demanded once they'd found Jango.

Ben, standing just behind Satine and watching with too-sharp pale eyes, cocked their head to one side and said, "I have the comms of some New Mandalorian supporters who have helped us. They might not be willing to bear arms-"

"Of course not!" Satine snapped, looking offended.

"-but many should be willing to offer supplies, and some may have contact with other Mandalorians who want Death Watch out, but aren't willing to stick their necks out without backup," Ben continued without any sign they had heard Satine.

Jango eyed the jetii for a moment, not certain how he felt at finding another alor staring back at him from behind too-old pale eyes. "It's worth asking," he allowed, and Ben had inclined their head, then left to collect a datachip from their belongings.

Ben's list had been extensive-Jango was duly impressed, and Satine kept shooting the jetii baffled looks-and while there were a couple of clans on there that Jango had already contacted, most of them he hadn't.

A little over a month after Jango landed on Manda'yaim for some quick repairs-almost five months after Adonai's death, and six months and two days since Ben (or Obi-Wan, he'd eventually admitted his name was) and his master had landed on Manda'yaim-he found himself standing over Tor Vizsla's corpse, the streets around him filling with cheers as the news of his death spread and the surviving Kyr'tsadiise surrendered or shot themselves.

He escaped to Jaster's Legacy as soon as he could, and barely waited to get permission from planetary control to leave atmosphere.

He had done his duty and got his revenge; he would much rather not be involved in the cleanup, nor give Satine any more opportunities to beg him to stick around and join her council.

His only regrets, were that he had no idea if Obi-Wan had survived, and didn't know if that mirshmure'cya the jetii had given him before the battle, could have led them to something more.

Chapters 1) Satine Kryze 2) Dexter Jettster 3) Quinlan Vos 4) Alpha-17 5) Cody (CC-2224) -1) Kaminoans Glossary

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