Archive of Our Own

The year is 1982, and Jango Fett, bastard son of the king of Mandalore, sits in a cramped transport, alone and away from anything he knows save for the armour of his father who, two hours ago, was killed less than ten feet away from where he stood by Death Watch. His mother and sister are certainly soon to follow, if they haven’t already. 

It’s just—

It’s just Jango. 

The year is 1982 and Jango Fett is 12 years old when he lands on American soil for the first time, knowing how to say only one thing in English: “My name is Jango Fett.” A soldier kneels in front of him, puts his hand on his shoulders and says something to him. Jango stares at his shoes, the converse he begged Dad to get him for his 12th birthday, four weeks ago. They still have dad's blood on them. Dad’s been dead for six days. 

The year is 1982 when Jango Fett gives up the throne that is now his to House Vizsla, in exchange for his freedom and immigration to the USA being granted. He’s adopted by a Mandalorian couple, and slowly, things begin to change. Life moves on. Jango goes with it. What other choice does he have?

Like a wave, he moves through the world. Never imposing, never making too deep of an impact on people. At school, he avoids people and people avoid him right back. People know who he is, what he is, what he would have been. They whisper about that day in early November, about the day everything fell apart. 

He has an accent, and a life experience most of these kids will never have, no matter how much money they pay for this school. In a school with a collection of celebrity kids, diplomatic kids, none of them will ever have what he once did. Once, he was a prince, the son of a King of one of the most powerful nations in the world. Now, he’s a school kid with two adoptive parents and money but no throne. He’s exiled from his home, the soil of his people.

Some of the braver lot try to become his friend, but Jango has grown out of the grave of his old life, a sharp thorn bush, pushing away all who pull too close. He’s achingly lonely, but everytime someone pulls too close, a panic sets in, and the thorns prickle. Fear, fear of that day coming true once more, gnaws at the edge of his mind until he is a lone wolf in the wilds of American High-School.

Suddenly, it’s 1991, and he’s finished military school and gotten a girl pregnant. He’s done the one thing that will always guarantee a thread of connection. A child, a thing to protect. What had his father begged Vizsla to do? Spare my children.

The mom's name is Maudi Sé, a woman from Kamino, the city he’s stationed in. She doesn’t want to raise a kid, not really, so she gives him his first son like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Less than ten hours after giving birth to him, she’s gone. He debates names for a moment, alone in the hospital, his long dead family’s names floating to his mind. Jaster? No, that won’t work.

Eventually, he writes down the name of Boba Fett, and becomes a father of one. He is 21, and it’s the best moment of his entire life.

This is the story about a father.

1970 saw a lot of change in Mandalore. Jaster Meerel, the newest king, remained unmarried, but he’s already got two kids. One year old Arla, and newborn Jango, born to some woman. All people know about the mother of the two is that she’s one of the last of the desecrated Fett lines, and in having her bastard children with the unmarried king, she’d only requested they take her surname, her clan. 

So, two Fett’s roam the palace, and Jaster Meerel erects the grain and blood of the Fett’s of Concord Dawn right alongside the Mythosaur that always becomes the symbol of the ruling house. Eventually, Meerel takes a wife of proper standing, Sha, who loves the bastards like they’re her own, and defends them just as jealousy. No true child will ever be sired. 

This is a story about seven mothers.

They could have chosen to give up the children, but something led them not to, and tens of boys were born. A mother gave her name a lifetime ago, and her one son has passed it onto his twenty sons. Seven mothers met one man, and all had at least one child with him. They let the blood of a king flow on through their children, and the courage of a group of less than ten soldiers and loyalists decision ripples all through time.

Jango begins to wonder what his father thinks of him in the heavenly council of kings when in the span of three days he goes from a father of five, to a father of eight, with a ninth on the way. He and Nia have been seeing each other for a while now, and she wants kids, and he’s willing to give, so there’s Kote and Wolffe, with another on the way. There’s Darsha’s (who, while a mistake of another one night stand, didn’t mind having kids) twins, and then there’s Boba. But now there’s another accident from two separate one night stands and he’s starting to wonder what the fuck is wrong with him.

Kalkar and Savter wanted kids too. (They’re all mando’s here, all love and cherish children.) Kalkar names her boys Fives and Echo, after some old naming traditions he vaguely remembers from history lessons in his youth. Savter names her boy Fox, because he’s got the eyes of one. 

They’re born days apart, and he’s not unhappy. He feels like he should be, but having sons and knowing the blood that’s probably still on those goddamn converses lives on somewhere. And the women are happy. The women want kids. That’s what encouraged recklessness in the first place. But god above, he has almost ten kids. 

Then there’s Taereti, and he has 11. Tall, dark eyed and gorgeous, they hook up and they don’t even think. He never sees her again, and she never tells him about the twins she sires from him. She names them Jesse and Kix, and hands them over to a waiting adoptive family without even looking back, never telling him what she’s done, or that she gave his boys his family name. 

She’s a Mando too (they’re almost all Mandos, every damn time ) so she knows what she’s doing. Children are the future, just not hers. This family cannot make their own children, and she will give them that gift.

He shouldn't do it, shouldn’t go back to any of them, shouldn’t make that connection. The Thorn Bush prickles, ready and waiting. But he does: he lets them in, lets them see his heart, his carefully guarded love. Four more kids. Triplets from Kal, and one more boy from Sav’ and she calls the little one Gregor. They’re friends, and he’s happy. He’s got kids everywhere, and he thinks he’s done.

And then he meets Nala Sé, sister of the woman who first made him a father, and Jango Fett, at the ripe old age of  27, makes the best and worst decision of his life. 

It’s 1997, and everything falls apart soon after.

Nia Ruc, mother and friend, dies in his arms. 

He knew. He fucking knew that this was what would come of these types of connection. Nia was the best friend he ever had, a great mother to all the boys they’ve sired together and Boba. And now she’s gone, because of Jango. Because he will always have to be Jango Fett, Son of Jaster Mereel, Mand’alor the True, the last Mand’alor. He can never not be that.

Boba’s only feet away from him as the Death Watch insurgents who found him and decided to enact their cruelty upon him as punishment for surviving all those years ago kill her. He’s wearing black sneakers that don’t stain, but little Rex, all of four years old, gets blood on the dinosaur socks Jango got him last Christmas, having accidentally stepped in the puddle of his mothers blood when the boys had come home. 

Jango tries for custody. And because apparently he’s unstable and traumatised and broke and a poorly hidden alcoholic, he’s denied. He watches, holding the one son he still has custody of in his arms as his three little boys are torn away from them, knowing they’ll be torn apart once they hit the system. 

Two weeks later, he gets a slap on the wrist for public intoxication, his military rank letting him slip by a bit. He’s high up, after eight years in the service, but when a slap on the wrist becomes something worse, his higher ups get nervous and finally send him home with medals and nothing to do anymore. From where it lays in wait on an armour stand he made himself, his fathers armour judges him, the paint faded and forgotten, the beskar dull.

Five months later and he loses everything. He doesn’t even know how it happens, but suddenly he’s being pressed into the floor by cops, and three weeks later he is the father of none, in the eyes of the law. Boba screams as they tear him out of his arms, and Jango sobs like he’s 12 again and Dad’s dead all over again. 

Boba’s wearing the sneakers. Black sneakers that have blood on them, blood you can’t see. Jango wears converse, and there’s no blood on them, but every time he looks down at his feet, he imagines, for a split second, that his father’s blood has sprayed over them.

It’s only temporary, his state appointed attorney says, If you clean yourself up, you can reapply for custody. But you need to show signs of getting better, Mr. Fett. I know a therapist you may like.

He doesn’t need a therapist, he needs his boys and his family. He’s not holding onto shit, and people need to stop pretending he is. He is okay, he’s just lost and maybe a little scared. Sure, he needs to grow up, but he wants his boys back, first. Can’t they understand that watching his babies be taken by other people is making every inch of him that is Mandalorian die? 

He’s lying to himself, of course. The Thorn-Bush came from lying, from fear born from the moment the boy within him died with his father. Came from the lie that if he was alone, he would be okay. That he didn’t need people. He did, but there is a thread of truth in every lie. He needs friends, but his existence is dangerous. Who he is makes people he loves a target. 

Two weeks later, Kal is dead too, and it becomes the worst fucking month of his life.

She’d been sick for a while, after she had the triplets. She’d known she was fading. It doesn’t make it any easier. She is gone, and his heart has been torn out from the hollow cavity in his chest and stamped down so many times he can’t breathe from the pain. 

He tries for custody of her five boys, who she calls her little dominoes. They’re all adorable and sweet, and he’s seen them a few times over the years, but Kal moved to Rishi soon after the triplets were born, so it’s been a while. He loses the case, and they’re taken in by Kal’s dad, a guy who's only known by 99. 

Whatever the man thinks of Jango, he doesn’t get to learn because he has to tear himself away from the newly happy family. The media has caught wind of the fact that the last of Mandalore’s old royal blood is a disaster and a half, and they’re watching him spiral like mediaeval peasants watching an execution. Death Watch croons, denies the execution of Nia Ruc, but points to him and asks the people who criticise them if that is what they want ruling the country.

He lets go, in order to never be burned again. To keep the boys safe while they grow up. The thorn bush becomes a fully fledged thorn wood, the roses red as the blood that has christened all aspects of Jango’s life.

Seven years go by with Jango alone. The days bleed by in a stream of alcohol and work that means nothing in the long run. He can’t fathom caring about the affairs of the world that took everything he loved and killed it over and over again until he surrendered and hunkered down in his own misery.

And then, Nala Sé comes back, carrying with her charges that make him sick. From the donation he’d given her, all those years ago, she’d sired four boys. Four boys who she didn’t even give proper names to, just numbers. 01. 02. 03. 04. Boys she saw as experiments, as ways to conduct her research any way she wanted, where prying eyes couldn’t find.

They chose their own names, things befitting of their limited worldview and characteristics. (Hunter. Wrecker. Tech. Crosshair.) They’d only been discovered because the eldest, Hunter, had peeked his head out one day and a neighbour had seen him. Concerned about the unknown kids of the notoriously cold doctor on her street, she’d called CPS. Jango thinks the woman a saint, in the aftermath. 

Jango gets the call on a sunny day in mid June, sleeping off the remnants of last night's hangover. In less than twenty minutes, he’s at the station, listening and feeling like even worse of a father than before. He tries for custody, some wild desperation within him abandoning all logical conclusions. He knows the outcome, yes, but still he tries.

Nala Sé is richer than he is, and it shows. She doesn’t even seem bothered by the abuse charges hanging over her head, but rather the possibility that her sperm donor could have custody of her boys. His lawyer is state appointed and clearly doesn’t want to be here. Jango loses the case, and he doesn’t know why he’s even surprised.

Someone tells him the outcome of the abuse charges, he doesn’t quite remember who. The boys are going into foster care. Ninety-Nine appears to be trying his own hand, and Jango manages to send him a voicemail of gratitude. Until then, it’s the system for them, four different paths. 

Jango knows all his boys' birthdays. Even Nalas boys’, The Batch, as they call themselves. Three of them are with ol’ 99, the three eldest. The fourth is still trapped in the system with a foster family that despite clearly not being good for him, are trying to keep him and maintain their “happy family”. 

He has eight kids already, they say, pointing at 99, and we have none. Nevermind that the one time Jango sees sharp eyed Crosshair (one hell of a fitting name), he knows instinctively that the boy is in the very same things that Jango's in. He’s his old man's boy, alright. And that don’t come from a happy family. 

The Court gives Ninety-Nine custody. Mandalorians are known for many things, but above all, everyone knows how much they care for their children. You don’t separate Mandalorians from their family. And yet, here’s Jango, still alone, still a father without any of his sons. Twenty sons. (2 unknown) 7 women. (2 dead) He just never could stop, could he?

He doesn’t have any of them, thought, not really. He can see some of his boys. He’s kept in periodic contact with Darsha and her boys—Boil and Waxer, they call themselves. After Ninety-Nine took in the batch, he invited him to come and see his kids every other weekend. The man, his eyes kind and warm, had put his ageing hand on Jango’s shoulder and said that he’d never dream of depriving a father of his child, not after his daughter was taken from him. (Somewhere within him, The Thorn Wood loses a tree.)

But Nia's boys, Kote, Wolffe, and Rex are god knows where. Wolffe’s adoptive dad seems pretty good, some old general named Plo Koon. But he doesn’t know where Kote is, and suspects Rex is not somewhere good. Savter blocked him the day after she got married, so he has no clue where cunning Fox and little Gregor are now.

He does learn one thing though, about his second born, eventually. He’d been adopted by some aruetiise, who heard the curved vowels of his true name, his Mando’a name that named him the Glory of their house and decided they didn’t like it. That the foreign name would cause teasing. So they change his name to Cody. Sharp. Flat. Not his son’s name. Not his.

And then there’s Boba. The man who adopted him, Cad Bane, has systematically denied the father and son access to one another. That is the sharpest and deepest ache. Boba had always been his and his alone, and he is the one child he is well and truly denied all access to. He doesn’t know where he even lives. Doesn’t know anything other than the fact that Cad Bane is not a good man.

When the sun rises on Bobas 18th birthday, Jango decides to spend the day at home. He’s finally dropped the bottle, at least for today. He doesn’t want to spend today drunk. It would be a slight against Boba, against everything he lost that day. He wants to remember this ache, wants to remember, at least once in this miserable existence, all that he’s lost and allow himself that selfishness, if but for a moment. 

The rain is heavy and torrential, pounding against his windows loudly, casting the whole house in a muted grey. He’s too lazy to turn on the lights, so he spends the day in darkness, going through some work on his computer for the job he’s somehow managed to keep over the past few months.

The rain only gets louder as the day bleeds on slowly. The world is monotonous and grey, perfectly in line with the guilt and anguish tearing Jango apart. The Thorn Wood thrives on days like today, where everything serves to remind him why he’s built this wall and guard around his too-fragile heart.

Then, out of the blue, there’s a knock on the door, startling him out of his almost meditative state. “Coming!” He calls, unsure if anyone will be able to even hear him over the downpour. He doesn’t check the peephole, opening the door.

Only to stare into the face of his eldest son.

He hasn’t seen Boba since he was nine, but he’d known this boy anywhere, especially ‘cause he’s taken after Jango so damn much. His hair is curly and cut into a mullet that’s grown out a little too long, pressed down to his face from the downpour. His eyes are all but stolen from Jango, blown wide and a little red rimmed like he’s been crying, although it’s hard to tell with the amount of water running down his face.

He’s got a black eye, a split nose. The blood was probably there once, washed away now by the rain. Scars across his face, faded a bit with time, but not gone. Jango’s heard whispers of abuse from Bane, hospitalisations, and court cases pushed under the rug, but he’s never been allowed to pull too close to know. To try and save his boy. But now, the evidence stands in front of him. 

He’s got two duffle bags slung over his shoulders, along with a backpack. He looks like he’s gone through the absolute wringer, and Jango’s heart is so very fragile in his chest. “Boba?” He asks, voice cracking. Manda, preserve me. Ancestors, give me strength.

Boba whimpers then sobs, collapsing into Jango's arms, wet and limp like he’s been wrung out to dry as his bags fall off his shoulders, landing in the doorway. His sobs are wet and heaving, and Jango just about manages to drag him inside and close the door behind him before pulling back a bit, and taking his son by the shoulders, “Hey, hey, it’s okay, what are you doing here? How’d you get here?”

“I’m 18,” Boba explains, voice hoarse. He’s definitely been crying. “An adult, so Cad Bane has no legal custody of me anymore. I can’t be with him anymore, Dad, god he’s—I wanted you. I wanted to be with you.”

“Boba, ad’ika, how did you even get here?” He asks breathlessly, pulling his son in and closing the door, pushing the bags aside. Boba is dripping all over the front hall, but he doesn’t mind one bit, continued. “You’re drenched! How did you even get my address? The court, well, more Bane, wouldn’t give me yours.”

“I took the bus,” he mumbles. “Told Bane I was heading to my friend's house for the night. I took one duffle and the backpack, put everything I could in it. I’d given my friend another one to hold on a few days before, and they met me at the stop and gave me it, then I came here, and walked the last mile–”

“ –Boba, ” Jango breathes, clutching his face. His son’s eyes go wide, and he leans into the touch with another shaky exhale. “Look at you, ad’ika. My son. My boy. ”

“ Dad– ” Boba says, his voice breaking on the vowel as he crumbles into Jango’s arms again, both of them sobbing as they clutch at one another, soaked to all hell. In Jango’s chest, a thorn wood begins to finally wither until it is gone, a ruin in his heart that carries the memory of so many people, long gone. 

“Dad, I’m joining the military,” Kote says the day the kid finally finds him again, sitting across from him in a diner, and that is the beginning of the end. He goes by both Kote and Cody, and they both know it pisses off his adoptive parents, but he don’t care. He cares about Jango’s opinion, which…means more than he’ll ever understand.

So, then all of Cody or Kote or just his son’s brothers follow his example, one after another.

Boil and Waxer next, and Jango gets to know the boys for real. Wolffe. The Domino twins, and they look so damn excited when they tell him, the entire house in uproar. They’re taking after their dad, they’re gonna make all the ancestors so damn proud.

Fox, next. Jango sees him for the first time in over ten years. Then Rex and Gregor, and within a year, Rex is on command track. His general sings his praises when Jango meets the guy, telling him how much he appreciates Rex’s clear head. Jango looks at his son, and sees the four year old he had once been, his mothers blood on his socks.

Then, the triplets join.

Two months later, all three of them are dead.

No parent should have to bury their child. That is simply a fact of life, really, one so basic that Jango knows it better than everything. No child should have to watch their father die, yes, but to have to bury your own children is a pain unlike any other.

And, yet, here Jango is, at the funeral of three of his sons. DB. Cutup. Hevvy. Shot. Shot. Caught in a blast of his own making as he secured a facility. Dead. Dead. Dead. They don’t even have a body for Hevvy, can’t carry anything beyond his folded dress blues and a folded American flag. They don’t even have his dog tags.

Jango stands right behind the twins as the caskets are lowered into the floor. Fives looks a little angry, a little sad, and so much like Jango it makes his head spin around. He looks ready to scream and throw something or punch someone just as much he looks ready to collapse to the floor and wail until he’s coughing up blood.

Echo, on the other hand, is deathly silent, and Jango doesn’t think he’s ever looked more like his mother. His eye colour is Jango’s, but the expression is his mothers. The slight darkness with the hint of a glimmer from held back tears. His mouth firmly pressed together, his chin held parallel to the ground as he watches the caskets in detached silence. 

Jango has no words to say, himself. Three of Kalkar’s boys are dead now, back with their mother. She had been his friend, just as much as Nia, and even though she had not died in his arms, the wound still aches. She was a good woman, one of the best. She was so sick, but fought with everything she had. She loved these boys jealousy, more than anything else in the world. And now, three of them are dead. 

Jango hates death, as with most people. He just has the unique experiences of everyone he loves dying too soon or in his arms or right in front of him. He knows death intimately, all too well for a man of his age. Death has been his companion for over three decades.

DB died in Echo’s arms. Does he still feel the weight the same way that Jango can feel Nia’s weight in his arms? Does he still hear his final words in the whispering wind that cuts through the vale in which he is burying his three younger brothers? Can he feel the sticky blood, hot and fresh, on his hands? 

Does he regret it? Any of it?

This should be a time of celebration, and of remembrance. Of recovery. Nala Sé’s four boys have joined the military, Kote is out of college and already a commander, and there are so many reasons to celebrate the summer as it comes. Jango does, for a time. Things look happy, and the ache of the triplets death is beginning to fade, to bleed less in his day to day.

Seven AM on a morning in August, a knock comes at his door, and this is the beginning of a new end. He opens the door, half awake, only to see two men on his doorstep, their faces grave. They are wearing the dress uniform of The United States Army, and Jango knows.

May we come in? They ask, and Jango can do nothing but move through the actions as they all walk to his living room, and he sits down. He knows what he is about to hear. Your son is dead. But which one? His mind runs through the worst possible scenarios; Rex, one of the Batch, Wolffe–or, or, God forbid, Kote. His glory. 

Somehow, it’s worse than he imagined. Somehow it’s the worst of all the options, the one his mind refused to conjure up: “...your son Echo Fett was killed in action in Lola Sayu last night. He was killed in a shuttle explosion after the shuttle was shot by enemy fire…”

Echo.

Is.

Dead.

His mind whirls and whirls the words around, a thousand thoughts screaming all throughout until one word stops the entire torment. One single word throws the whole world into a dangerous and sickly tilt. He hears none of the man’s other words. He only hears one word.

Fives.

“His twin,” Jango manages to say, his voice hoarse. The men exchange looks. “His twin, Fives. Where is he?” The question isn’t the right one, but he can’t beg these men to give him his son, can’t ask them how to fix this. 

The rest of the day passes in a blur. The rest of the week too, really, and then Fives’s plane is landing in the airport, and then he’s coming down the escalator towards a waiting Jango, then he’s sobbing in his father’s arms. He doesn’t stop crying the entire drive to 99’s, his arms curled around his waist as he sobs and silently heaves. His grief has his hands on Jango’s fragile heart, and every weak sob from his little boy feels like a squeeze.

Fives falls apart on Ninety-Nine's porch, his knees finally giving out as he climbs the final stair. Jango, who had drifted a few paces behind, is at his side in a moment, his hand on his back as he claws at the wooden deck. The door opens, and Ninety-Nine is there before Jango can blink, crouching down in a way he should not with his knees, but Jango’s too tired to care.

“He’s–he’s–Dad, Echo’s gone–” Fives splutters, his voice thick.

“I know, I know,” Jango says, his words echoed by Ninety-Nine. He looks to the man hopelessly, and see’s tears in the man’s eyes too. He stops wiping them away as he hauls Fives’s up into his arms, pulling Ninety-Nine in as the three of them sob on the front porch of the old man’s porch.

At the funeral, Fives is silent as Echo was less than a year ago, when they buried their younger brothers. Now, Fives stands alone, staring at the four graves, lined up so perfectly. He’s the oldest of them all, and now he’s the only one.

Both he and Jango stay for a while after the funeral, standing over the graves, letting the wind cut into them, eating them alive. Silence hangs until Fives looks to Jango, his boots crunching the grass as he meets his fathers eyes. When he speaks, his voice is nothing short of broken.

“We wanted to go to Mandalore, you know? Talked about it for years, since we were really young. We knew it was a hopeless dream, given everything, but I guess we always thought that someway, somehow, we’d get there. Now we never will,” a fresh round of tears rises in his eyes. “Now we never will.”

Fives looks away, shaking his head and bringing his fist to his mouth. “I’m going to throw up,” he moans miserably as his only warning before he’s bent over, dry heaving. Jango rushes to his side again, cradling him in his arms as he dry-heaves, his sobs echoing through the silent graveyard, tucked away in a green valley.

“Echo!” He screams, over and over again. Jango closes his eyes, and for the first time in thirty three years, thinks of the day this all began.

Sunday, November 7th, 1982. 

Sundari, Temporary Capital City of Mandalore. 

The Throne Room of the Royal Sundari Palace.

“Jango, Jango, look at me,” a father says to his son, voice deathly quiet. His son squirms in his hold, his shoes squeaking against the smooth floor of the throne room. It is dark, the room lit solely by a handful of candles and cresting explosions and fire outside. Kyr’tsad shut down the energy to the palace days ago, but he is just now feeling the brunt of the impact.

“My armour,” the father tells the child, “Will soon be yours, ad. It is yours to guard and keep safe. It is the blood of all our ancestors, all the kings of this dynasty. It must not fall into Vizsla hands. It is hidden in a place only you and I know. Think of the games we play, and you will find it. It will be yours. Guard it with your life. Go, now!”

Jaster Meerel does not get a chance to tell his son anymore. He opens his mouth to speak, to send his son away, and the doors to the throne room are thrown open. He stands as quick as lightning, guarding his son behind him as Death Watch streams into the room. Their leader, Pre Vizsla, looms closer, a large, ancient, black sword clutched in hand, lightly scraping the floor. 

“Vizsla,” The king spits at the man who wants his throne, standing tall above the crowd, the majesty of the Mand’alor shining bright. He is Mand’alor the True, and his death will make him Mand’alor the Last. “Is this how you plan to take the throne? No one will accept your claim without a challenge. You preach for the old ways, and yet you don’t even follow the rules of challenge. If you want my throne and my people, this is not how you gain it.”

“Ah, yes,” Pre Vizsla sneers, gesturing towards the windows, in the direction of where Keldable lies. “The king who isn’t even in the capital. Who abandoned it for fear of me. You are some king, Meerel. Your dynasty dies today, starting with you.”

“Spare my children, Vizsla. They are young; Arla is barely past her verd’goten,” He says, voice bordering on desperation. Vizsla just laughs, jerking his head at the pair. Before either of them can blink, soldiers take the both of them by the arm, separating father from son.

Jango screeches as he’s torn away, the grips on his becoming deathly strong as his father is forced to kneel in front of Pre Vizsla, his eyes murderous as he looks up at the other man. “No, Buir!” Jango screeches, kicking back as one of the soldiers holding him tells him to Shut up! “ Buir! ”

Pre Vizsla lines up the sword. Jango’s struggle becomes only worse, a hand clamping over his mouth as the tears begin to fall. Jaster’s hands are bound like a common man’s, his eyes reserved as he bows his head, the black sword pressed to the back of his neck. “Look at your father, child!” Pre Vizsla calls to him, “See him fall, as all your family will! See this and know the same fate awaits you!”

“I’ll kill you!” Jango screams against the hand, his words muffled. Vizsla just laughs, and raises the blade. An explosion crests behind him, casting the throne room in a wash of red and gold and orange, burning and bright. “ Buir! ”

“Jango,” Jaster says weakly, his face streaked with silent tears, The blade falls right as his final three words leave his mouth, “I love you.” 

The blade meets skin. Jango screams, and the blood runs.

Jango Fett is the father of twenty sons.

Nia’s boys are the ones who do the digging. They’re all on leave, when they explain what they’ve found, the connections they’ve made, sitting across from Jango in a shitty diner. They speak of Fox, of Gregor, and the fact that Savter’s boys survived, are in reach after so long, aches something new in his heart.

It’s been six months since Echo died. Everything still hurts in a way it didn’t when the triplets died, and he’s pretty sure it’s the weight of all these memories that are doing this to him. So much is gone. He can’t look at Rex without seeing a shadow of the grief that still has Fives by his throat. But…he has these three. He has his life ahead of him.

It seems that all twenty of Jango’s sons went into the military, following their father's footsteps, however unknowingly. For four of them it spelt their death. “Twenty?” he repeats, running the numbers through his head, dread already pooling in his stomach “I only know of  eighteen.”

His boys glance at one another, and Jango smells a secret. “Their names are Jesse and Kix,” Rex says. “Two of my men, funny how that works. We did a DNA test, actually, and it all checks out. They were adopted at birth, that’s probably why you didn’t know. They know their mother’s name–their birth mother, that is–if you want it?”

Jango hesitates before saying “Sure.”

“They say her name was Taerti Rait,” Rex tells him, and it takes Jango’s mind a long moment to sort through all the years, all the women he ever hooked up with. Names and faces rush by him in a blur as he mulls over the name. Taerti. It rings a bell, somewhere deep within his mind, and the moment the note becomes clear, he straightens. 

“No way,” he mutters with a disbelieving laugh. “She and I worked together for a time. We got drinks after her last day, and one thing led to another…I never saw her again after that. Never knew what happened to her. Can’t believe I got her pregnant. What were the boys' names? Jesse and Kix…heh, sounds like her. What are they like?”

Rex’s heavy sigh and long sip of coffee says it all, and Kote snickers, “Almost as bad as the Domino twins were,” his face falls for a moment, and he glances at Rex. Wolffe is pointedly looking at him, and he clears his throat, allowing Rex to jump back in.

“Kix is a medic, probably going to get up to CMO soon enough. Jesse’s quickly on the path to being a Lieutenant, he’s really damn good in the field. Bit of a prankster though. He and Fives are the root of ninety percent of my non-critical or battle related problems. Nuisances. Realising they were technically brothers only made it worse. They’re trying to make up for twenty plus years apart.”

“Rex is leaving out the part where Kix full body tackled someone to the floor to teach them a lesson about ignoring injuries. Scary little shit, that guy,” Wolffe grins crookedly, “I’m trying to nab him, but lil’ Rexy here won’t let me.”

Rex shoves him aside as he leans in, his eye roll one speaking to long suffering. Jango hides his smile with a sip of his coffee. “I’ll have to meet them soon. Send them my number, Rex. How old are they, anyways?” 

“Twenty one or so,” Rex says, “Little younger than me.”

“Babies, absolute babies.” Wolffe croons, tapping Rex’s cheek, laughing when he goes red. Kote looks on in amusement, causing Rex to kick him too. His face twists, as Jango can’t help but laugh, and it only gets worse when Rex turns his glare on him.

“Shut the fuck up, Wolffe,” Kote says, “You just graduated college, you can’t talk. You’re both babies.”

“Boba’s older than all of you,” Jango unhelpfully adds, sipping his coffee as three glares meet him. “As am I, but that’s obvious. All of you are babies.”

“Okay, so you’re all just old, we get it, ” Rex grouses, smirking at the offended sounds from the brothers on either side of him. The smirk quickly fades as they both begin poking his side in turn, grins feral as a fit of laughter over takes it. His words are hard to make out between the laughs, “Come on–shit, Kote–Cody–shit!– fuck off, Wolffe– ”

“Hey dad,” Cody says as Jango finally picks up the phone that’s been incessantly ringing, drawing out the vowel of the hey. His voice is strange, forced, almost. Not Kote’s, strong and sure. Cody’s . Hesitant. A little afraid. “So, kinda funny story. Gregor kinda got minorly blown up. I mean he’s probably gonna be fine but–”

“Kote,” Jango grinds out the Mando’a name all the same, panic rising in his throat. He’s already lost so much. He refuses to lose more. “Explain to me, in detail, how someone gets minorly blown up. You either get blown up or you don’t. What even happened? What’s the damage?”

“Not quite sure about the first half, if I’m being honest, because Gregor has like no memory of it at all. The doctors said he has a traumatic brain injury, but he should be okay, with some therapy. He’s definitely getting discharged, obviously, but he’s really got no big injuries besides his head getting rearranged–”

“ That is a big injury,” he says, standing and grabbing his shoes and keys. “Can you take this seriously for five seconds? Where is he being treated? What does the treatment plan look like? Do you need me to come out?”

Cody’s sigh is heavy, and Jango all but hears him deflate, the hysteria slowly slipping away with every shaky inhale he takes. When he speaks again, his voice is hoarse and far more serious. “He’s being treated in Abfar, a city close to where we’re stationed right now, but they’re gonna fly him back to the states soon enough. Probably to New York or Boston, depending on what works out first. No clue on treatment, but you’re one of the only adult of the family who's still state-side, so if you’d like, sure. May help to see a familiar face.”

Jango nods, humming in agreement. “Okay, let me know. What exactly was the damage?”

“Pretty bad concussion, a little bit of amnesia to go along with it. Doesn’t look like there was any internal bleeding, but his head and back took the brunt of the impact. He got scraped up too, a little burned, but he’s…okay. The main worry is that he’s probably gonna have some cognitive issues for a good long while, but it’s nothing he can’t live with. He’s seriously gonna be okay, dad. That’s why I’m not freaking the fuck out right now. Or trying not to.”

“And Fox?” Jango asks, thinking about the skittish boy he’d met a few months before when he and Kote had been on leave together. He’d just gotten out of college, after an incredibly fast breeze through command, and was already on track to getting a pretty high level of command. But he’d also been standoffish, protective, and clearly struggling with his own issues. He’s very much his fathers son, despite the fact that Jango can count the number of times he’s seen the guy in the past fifteen years on one hand. 

Jango has spent much of his life as a father wishing that he could change just one or two things that would allow him to see more of his boys. Fox and Gregor are amongst some of his biggest regrets, not that he could do much after their mother got married and decided to cut him off from his boys. He already had enough, what was two less, right? 

Kote is now silent, and that’s an answer enough. Sighing, he sits back down, “Where is he now?”

“Trying to get out,” Cody says after a long pause. “He…he’s trying to get a job as a Senate Security Guy, or something. The Military Branch of that. Last I heard, they were actually pretty willing to do it, cause he’s pretty damn accomplished, for only being in the service for a year. He’ll get a nice promotion and paid, all while counting on his military service. I think it’s the right choice.”

“Will he be okay?” Jango says, wincing at the question. No, of course not. His brother just got blown up, and that’s going to make anyone antsy. But Fox is a stubborn man, and Jango has the distinct impression that he’s not one to ruminate. He simply moves on, accepts the change and the trauma, and continues marching on.

It’s not healthy, but today is not the day for Jango to be a hypocrite. Fox won’t want to hear it, anyhow. It’ll only sting and remind his son of all he missed if he starts preaching about acknowledging one’s trauma, and Fox is mean when he’s upset, vicious and almost cruel. According to Cody, at least, who shouldered a lot of the weight of helping Fox through college, as the only other person to have done the advanced command track.

“I’ll give him a call,” Jango finally decides, and Cody agrees that it seems like a good course of action. Jango wishes for Kote to return, if only to hear his easy voice, always hinting at a smile. 

And call him, Jango does. When Fox picks up the phone, his voice is hoarse, but he can’t tell if it's from tears or something else. He seems detached, almost so tired he can’t muster up the courage to even speak properly. The kid’s 21, for Manda’s sake. When he was 21…

When he was 21, he was a father already. Okay, so maybe he shouldn’t speak on living life while you’re still young, but it doesn’t mean it doesn’t ache. His duty as a parent is to secure a better life for his kids, but if the vague comments made by Gregor and Fox are anything to go by, he completely failed with them. Whoever Savter married, it did nothing but spell trouble for his sons.

“Just, don’t be afraid to reach out to me, Fox, okay? I know…I know I haven’t been around for any of you as I should have. I don’t have an excuse, and I know I hurt you not being there,” the words pour out faster than Jango can’t stop it. On the other end of the line, Fox is so silent he’s not sure he’s breathing. “But I want to fix this, Fox. Let me fix what was lost, let me be what I always should have been. I’m here, Fox. I’m here.”

“I know, dad,” Fox says, voice a little odd, like he’s fighting back tears, “Thank you.”

It’s the first time Fox has ever called him that.

Rex…was not lying about Jesse’s tattoo.

The boys are on leave nearby–Rex and Taerti’s twins–so, Jango offered to take them out and to finally meet the two boys he went twenty one years without knowing the existence of. He sees them immediately, all looking like Jango’s mirror image…save for Jesse with that tattoo.

It looks like it would be painful, and Jango bites down on asking how much it hurt multiple times, choosing rather to focus on how funny Jesse is, and how well he bounces off Kix and his much dryer humour. Jango indulges in his desires to know every inch about these kid’s lives and asks Kix about the intricate pattern he’s got his hair cut into, simply because it very well may be the coolest thing he’s seen in a long time.

Kix seems very content to talk about his hair, and Jesse seems very content to talk about himself, Rex watching on with vague amusement and a whole host of dry comments to add into the twins’s stories. 

“...and then the dude was like, ‘you look like a kid who was given a couple thousand bucks and told to go ham’ which– rude, because this tattoo is super cool, thank you very much,” Rex gives him the side eye, “What?”

“No one likes your tattoo, Jesse,” Kix says pleasantly, and Jesse’s face twists into an affronted scowl. “No one except for you.”

“Come on, I don’t hear you all complain about Hunter’s stupid ass tattoo, it’s always about mine. Like be fair about it–”

“Hunter has a tattoo?” Jango asks flatly. His sons exchange panicked looks. Ha, busted. Jango leans back in his chair, smiling as he takes a sip of his beer, “Of?”

“Well, it’s a skull,” Jesse says, waving his hand around half his face. “Covers like half his face. It is pretty cool, yeah, cause cool recognizes cool right? But no one gives him shit for that, but everyone complains about my tattoo–”

“Have you never heard Crosshair completely rail him for it? He does it on a semi-regular basis,” Rex comments.

“Well, Crosshair also has a tattoo, so he doesn’t get a vote–”

“How many of you have tattoos?” Jango asks incredulously. “And what the fuck was Hunter thinking?”

“A ha! That’s the thing–he wasn’t. He was in so much fucking trouble when he came back with it, apparently. They let him off for God knows what reason, but like they were so mad at him,” Jesse says. “And it’s just me, Cross, Hunter, and Fives, I guess. Because we aren’t fucking pussys–”

“His mother flipped out,” Rex says. “I was with him, picking up some groceries during our last leave. We ran into her. Bitch looked like she was about to faint when she saw him. He enjoyed it so much, I’m half convinced he got it to simply just spite her.”

“Deserved,” Jango mutters, thinking back to the charges levied against her when the boys were ten, and the utter horror of what she’d done. She doesn’t get to have an opinion about what Hunter does with his face after what she did to him, simply put. “Bitch.”

His son's laugh at the comment, faces red and eyes young and wild. By the end of the night, Jango’s chest is full and warm with the threads of love. It’s been hard, with all that’s been going on, with all the deaths and injuries, to have these moments. But here they are. Alive and laughing, despite every tragedy that’s been laid on their heads over the past year.

“Thank god it’s you. Dad, please, you gotta save me,” Boil says as he opens the door, looking desperate. Jango raises a brow at him as he steps into the house. “They’re conspiring against me. I am in danger.”

“I’m sure it’s not that bad, kid,” Jango says evenly, right as Waxer rounds the corner, a little girl hiding behind his legs, peeking around to stare at Jango. 

Waxer says something to her, patting her head with the arm not in a sling, before pushing her forward a little bit with a smile. “Hi,” Numa, the girl his two sons have adopted and made him a grandpa, says, grinning shyly at him.

“Hey, Numa,” he says right back, crouching in front of her. She drifts over, giggling as Jango brushes a stray strand of her hair aside. She’s dyed the bottom half blue, but the dye is fading, and will need to be touched up soon. A task that will fall to Boil, seeing as Waxer is still recovering from the potshot that got him discharged a few months back, taking Boil with him.

She giggles at the use of her name, her eyes brightening as Jango pulls a few sweets out of his pocket. “A little birdie told me these are your favourite candies, so I thought I’d pick some up and win some brownie points early on. Gonna have a lot of competition once the rest of the boys come around.”

“Don’t remind me,” Boil mutters.

“Boil, have you ever heard of or even considered the mere concept of fun? F-U-N, fun. You should really look into it,” Waxer grouses, and both Jango and Numa laugh. Boil's face falls in a way so dramatic, Jango is beginning to suspect he’s playing it up for his own points in order to win the new small child’s affection.

Boil had called Waxer’s new mood ‘Mando Fever’, when he’d called Jango to tell him about his new granddaughter. Or rather, the overwhelming desire to adopt any lonely child one meets. Boil can pretend he has it all he wants, but Jango sees his face soften, just a bit, at Numa’s laughter. He’s just as infected, and it’s adorable.

“I’m being plotted against,” he repeats, and Jango, being the great father he is, laughs in his face.

The conversation lulls into the usual: How's your mother? (Good, give her a call, she has a question for you about someone you guys used to know.) Waxer, how’s your arm? (I’ll survive.) Boil, you’re planning to go back to college, right? (Yeah, it’s going pretty well. Got the list narrowed down a bunch recently.)

Boil and Waxer are probably the most stable of all Jango’s twenty sons. Which is not a slight against them, of course, but it’s sometimes odd, seeing that something good did come from him. They had a good childhood with their mother, had a nice run in the army, and got out alive. So many of their brothers can’t say the same on any of those fronts.

And Numa is clearly a light in the boy’s eyes. He can see how they look at her, when they think no one is looking. It’s how Jango’s own father used to look to his children, before he–before–

Numa tells Jango plenty of stories about school and about the people she’s met. She’s befriended a girl named Hera, whose parents are from the same region of France her own parents came from, way back when. Her eyes drift into sadness at the mention of her parents, and Jango looks to Boil, who quickly reroutes the conversation to something else. 

Watching them in this element feels unshakably special. His boys are growing up, really, and he has no clue how it ever happened. It feels like just yesterday, he was standing alone in a hospital room, cradling Boba to his chest as he watched his newborn son sleep, making the cutest noises in his sleep.

Jango used to wish he could go back to that today, but now, he wishes to simply stay in this moment for as long as possible. Waxer and Boil are good fathers, raising a child together. They will be the father they didn’t have, because their own father made so many mistakes, so many choices that took him from all his boys. And Numa, she will have a Grandfather.

Jango’s grandfather died long before he was born, in all regards. The concept is foreign. He has no clue what exactly a grandfather is supposed to do or be, but here he is. He barely knows how to be a father, but he’s been given a chance by two of his eldest boys to be something resembling that to a girl who was displaced and who found Boil and Waxer at just the right moment. 

The twins know what happens to those who grow up bouncing from house to house. His sons have become so very connected through their services in the military, and they have no doubt heard all the stories. From Jesse and Kix, from the batch, from Rex and his Kote. They know what they have given this girl, and Jango can clearly see how hard they’re trying. 

By all the ancestors, he loves his kids so much.

The year is 2019. 

37 years ago, Death Watch took control of Mandalore in a bloody and violent coup, reinstating The Vizsla House and all their power. 37 years ago, almost to the day, Jaster Meerel, the last true Mand’alor, was assassinated along with almost all of his family. His youngest son, Jango Fett, was the only survivor of the attack on the palace, having been smuggled out by loyalists to House Meerel and the Throne. 

37 years ago, Mandalore fell into darkness and treachery, the honour and glory of their ruling house falling away as Jango grew older and older. Jango Fett would sire twenty sons with 7 different women, desperate to either put honour back in his name, or just to simply forget his own failures. In his sustained grief, alcoholism, and trauma, he would lose all of them, in one way shape or form.

Twenty years ago, a woman named Nia Ruc was killed in the arms of her friend and father to her children. They had made children together, not because they loved each other in a romantic way, but because she had always wanted children, and Jango Fett was a Mandalorian, same as her. Their sons would watch as she was cut down by the same group that killed his father, 17 years prior. It was 1999. 

The year is 2019, and Jango Fett is 49 years old, when the news of Death Watch’s downfall comes to his ears. It is Tuesday, November 5th, 2019, and Satine Kryze of House Vizsla, Clan Kryze, has assumed power over all of Mandalore and her territories. The nightmare is over. The nightmare is over. Death Watch has been stamped out. 

A day and a half later, a Mandalorian Guard shows up at Jango Fett’s doorstep, bearing an envelope with the royal seal of Mandalore on it. The Mythosaur that he has never been able to separate from his father stares at him as the verde press their hands against their chest, and call him, “Lord.” like he’s still got a claim. 

There is a tenet, in the way of the Mandalorian people. All must answer the call of the Mand’alor. Jango Fett has not been home in 37 years. Jango Fett is a noble in exile. Satine Kryze has not taken up the title that killed his father, but she is Mand’alor in all but name. And she calls, calls to him specifically, welcoming him home with titles and land and honour.

And a job. An opportunity. Jango Fett has not held a stable job since he left the Army, a once respected and high-ranking officer who fell into alcoholism as his personal life crashed and burned, as he lost all of his twenty sons one by one to different evils. Different choices. Different laws. Satine Kryze does not care, has seen his worth and loyalty that lies beyond his issues.

She speaks of her vision in her letter. Of a new and better and reformed Mandalore. She does not wish to abandon all the Warrior Ways, which had been her father’s goals. She knows that will only make Mandalore a target as they rebuild. But she does not want to rule with fear, as Death Watch did. She has not taken the title of Mand’alor for that very reason. She is not the sole ruler. She will have a council. A council she wants Jango on.

She has concocted a position just for him. If you choose to come home, the title of Laamyc Alor will be yours, Lord Fett. You are a son of Mandalore, a son of Kings. Only a fool would deny you the right to come home, to be a part of our country's ruling council. You have experience in the military. I hope you will command ours. 

High general. His dad has something similar, a military advisor, but never someone who made all the choices and wasn’t him. He was the sole ruler. All choices were, at the end of the day, his. That is not Satine Kryze’s way, and will never be Jango’s way.

Other people would be mad that the throne isn’t being offered to them, as is their right, but Jango is not. That throne killed his father, took his mom and sister. A throne he gave up all rights to, in a legally binding and heavenly binding ceremony. He has no right to it, and no desire for it. He has his sons. He has fatherhood. And he will have his home again. He will still have something.

He reads the letter on his doorstep, looking out at the guard and their T-Visors. Many find the sight intimidating, but the sight of the Mandalorian Helmet is the most comforting image he can imagine. The head verd, dressed in red and gold (honour for a parent. vengeance) dips his head at him when his eyes meet his visor.

“Tell the Duchess I accept her proposition. Tell her I will return home at her call. Tell her my weapon is hers.”

“Lord Fett,” he says, sounding pleased even through the muffled tone that comes through his helmet. “It is an honour to have you serving Mandalore once more. May the stars align for you.”

“And you, Verd. ” 

The world continues on. That night, Satine Kryze makes her first public declaration since her declaration that first night. She speaks of him, to his surprise. Of returning and renewal, of honouring the past while making a new future for all children of Mandalore. The internet explodes, debate raging amongst all walks of life, Mandalorian and Outsider alike.

From where it has sat for many long years, gathering dust, his fathers armour stares at him. All these years later, he’s still barely touched it, afraid to remember the man who once wore it. The armour is grey and red, for the mourning and honouring of parents. But the armour, it’s not his anymore, is it? 

The second Jaster Meerel died, that armour became Jango’s, and he has left it to gather dust, for fear of remembering what he lost. But now, he stands, and brushes his fingers against the old, dull paint, and he thinks, long and hard, about what he must do.

Four days later, and the armour is silver and blue. Silver, the colour of redemption, for that is what will come of this. Blue for reliability, because that is what he hopes to be. Redeemed and Reliable. Finally, A Son returned home.

Three weeks later, and Jango Fett is home. It is the first day of December, and Mandalore and all her mountains are glorious in the daylight, as he approaches the throne, dressed in the armour that was his fathers. 

37 years ago, his father was killed on those very steps. The blood is gone. The memory is not. But today is a new dawn, and a new day. Jaster Meerel is gone, and will be for a very long time. But Jango is still here. Jango still honours him, and all of Clan Fett and House Meerel, the last house of the throne. He is the last of all of them. He is here for all that cannot be here. 

He kneels but his voice does not shake.

“My lady,” he says, aware of the silence that hangs all around. “I have no stake in kingship anymore. I have no desire for a throne. I will never wear a crown. But my blood and my house have served Mandalore since the first blood dawn rose, since the first king sat upon the throne. That very blood has been spilt in this room, for love and for cause. We wielded the sword of kings, the mask of lordship, for four centuries. The sun has set on House Meerel and on Clan Fett, but dawned upon House Kryze once more.”

He meets her eyes. House Kryze–once clan Kryze, before its new lordship–was, tens of lifetimes ago, born from House Vizsla, the people who stole everything from him. But they were weak, and modernity is one hell of a weapon. The Meerel line is desecrated. The reigning Vizslas are gone once more, faded into legend, their sword cast into disuse. Kryze is what rose from their ashes. Kryze is what he swears his loyalty to.

“By the blood of my father, the last true Mand’alor , I give you my loyalty. By the blood of my sons, the dearest treasures of my heart, I give you my truth. By the blood of all my forefathers and all they have ever done, I give you my honour. My weapon is yours.”

Jango stares out at the field of graves, hands stuffed in his pockets, wind whistling around him, the only sound. A month and a half ago, he was home, celebrating a new dawn. And now, it is the dead of winter and all of Kalkar’s sons are dead. 

Fives was killed the night Jango redeemed their family name. He’d been huddled around a radio, according to Rex, listening to Jango speak, when the shots had erupted. He’d run out of his tent, Rex hot on his heels, and had fallen before he could say anything, dying in Rex’s arms as he screamed and begged. It had been a training drill gone wrong and that turned into an ambush. A freak accident, in the grand scheme of things. He’d been the only casualty.  

Ninety-Nine was here, earlier, and the memory of the old man’s grief hangs heavy in Jango’s mind. He’d raised those boys when Jango couldn’t, raised the Batch too, despite sharing no blood with them. He’d given everything for them, been a friend and kind voice to Jango. Seeing him crumble, leaning heavily on his cane, face cast in shadow by his hat, has unlodged something in Jango’s chest.

Fives has been buried in Mandalore, as is his right, as a son of it. Ninety-Nine had not only agreed to it, but pressed for it, coming all the way out here for the funeral. Most of the boys had come, save for Fox, who wasn’t able to pull away. A lifetime ago, in basic training, he’d accidentally shot Fives in a freak accident not unlike this one. The memory is too fresh. Too similar. Jango doesn’t blame him. 

Jango Fett stands alone at his son's grave. He was a good man, a loving twin. At least he’s with them all again, back in his dear brothers’ arms. At least he has someone waiting for him. Maybe even dad is with him, holding him tight for Jango. His son. His child. His blood. It never gets easier. No parent should ever have to bury their child, and Jango has buried five of them.

Fives’s funeral had been relatively small, but he was the son of one of the highest ranking military officers in the world. It was small but filled with many important names. His brothers had carried his casket, draped in the American Flag and a sash with the insignia of Clan Fett and the Mythosaur on it. He was buried with high honours, in the cemetery that holds all of Jango’s forefathers, and will soon hold a memorial to his father. The Duchess of Mandalore had come herself, speaking at the funeral. 

She had been the one to offer the burial to be here. She had met Jango not twenty hours before when two American representatives had turned up at the palace with the news. She’d stood by him as he sat and heard the words, so like they day Echo was taken from him. All Jango had asked them was about his son's states, especially Rex. Rex is on leave, for a time. To mourn. He’ll go back at the start of February. 

She had met him twenty hours before and still had extended her kindness and her sympathy.

The sun is shining too brightly for such an evil hour. Fives is dead and still it shines like nothing has happened. Jango is dressed in fine black clothes, staring down at the ground in which his son lies. Flowers have been left. People have been visiting, according to Jesse, who came by yesterday and saw a few people mourning the son of Mandalore.

He hears her approach, but says nothing. She would never demand his respect here, and he will not give it while he mourns his son at his grave. He’s been in the ground for five days. He’s starting to hate that number, really. Such an odd name. So many of his children had chosen odd nicknames, silly little euphemisms. But his mother had given him that name, for her lucky number. He’d gotten it tattooed on his face. 

Satine says nothing at his side. She is dressed in mourning clothes too, and the gesture means more than he will ever say. His son's death  had made news headlines here in Mandalore. The son of Jango Fett: killed the very same day he was welcomed home! It’s ironic and cruel poetry, he thinks, that the day of his redemption was the day Fives lost his life. 

She lays a bouquet of flowers down, tied with a grey ribbon, the Mandalorian armour colour of mourning. Satine does not wear the traditional beskar plating, but she has her own armour, her own strengths and things that protect her. Neither cry, for Jango has spent all his tears, and Satine has not enough grief in her heart to do so. But they stand in silence for a long while.

Fives is buried, surrounded by a hundred generations of kings. Jango will be buried here too, when the time comes. His father would have been buried here, but his body was lost to time. All of Fives’s brothers will one day get a memorial or a grave in their family grave, surrounded by a thousand kings, for they are sons of Mandalore, and sons of the old throne.

Fives Fett

Beloved Brother, Twin, Soldier, Domino

Son of Mandalore

Ni su'cuyi, gar kyr'adyc, ni partayli, gar darasuum.

Sunday, November 7th, 1982. 

Sundari, Temporary Capital City of Mandalore. 

The Throne Room of the Royal Sundari Palace.

Jango Fett is 12 years old. His father has been dead for five minutes. He is about to die.

They’re dragging him through the halls, and Jango screams and screams as they do, wiggling against the death grips of the Death Watch monsters that carry him to where he will await his death. He kicks and screams and wails, his fathers name leaving his mouth over and over again, as they growl at him to shut up or they’ll kill him. He doesn't listen. At least in death, he will get to see his father again.

Everything happens in a blur. There is a flash of light, and he is dropped unceremoniously to the floor, where he lies, closing his eyes and letting the sobs rip out of his chest. Gunfire erupts in the empty hall, and he presses his fist to his mouth to keep from screaming or throwing up or both. In his mind's eye, the image of his fathers body flashes through it over and over again until it is seared into his memory.

The hall falls silent as the sound of two bodies hitting the floor resound. Jango does not move, as new voices surround him. But when hands touch and prod at him, sitting him up, he flinches and the aborted scream finally escapes him, only to be stopped by a gentle hand clamping over his mouth, the thumb caressing his cheek as he whimpers and cries.

“Easy, easy, my lord,” a kind voice says. He pries his eyes open and stares at a Mandalorian soldier, who smiles gently at him, tucking a curl aside with strong hands. 

“You may call me Renegade,” they say. “I am a part of your father’s loyalists, and we are here to rescue and take you out of the country with the help of The United States Government. It’s over, little prince. You are safe now. Come, we must not delay.”

“His–his Beskar’gam–” he manages to say, “Buir, his–I have to grab it. He told me to grab it. I know where it is,” he clings to them, his voice taking on a wild tone, and Renegade rubs his back placatingly. “Please, I have to get it. They cannot have it.”

“Easy, easy, we will get it,” They say, calling to their men. Someone circles around, and Jango is put on his feet by Renegade and the other soldier, who hands Renegade their helmet. They slip it on, and Jango manages a watery smile at the sight. They have painted a large row of teeth across the helm, and it’s adorned with Jaig eyes. 

The paint is a brilliant gold against a midnight black. Vengeance and Justice. They are no doubt a person of high honour. His father will know who they are–no, no. His father is dead. The armour is his. Arla is probably gone, along with Momma. They hadn’t been able to find them, before. He’s alone. He needs his father's armour. His armour. He needs to hold onto some part of what he’s just lost in one fell swoop, else he thinks he’s going to go insane.

He hid it in the closet on the third atrium on the second floor of the palace, Jango’s favourite hiding spot. It’s tucked into an old and unassuming duffle, that one of Renegade’s soldiers throws over their shoulder. One hour later, and Jango is leaving Sundari, the temporary capital, in the back of an unmarked van.

His entire family is dead. The United States awaits him. The only phrase he knows in English rings through his head over and over again on repeat like an ominous bell as he leaves his home. 

My name is Jango Fett…

My name is Jango Fett…

My name is Jango Fett…

The start of the 20’s is a mess. Jango is back home, back to the one place he was banned from being at for decades. Mandalore is homecoming and warm. And yet, one cold fact remains, seeping in through the cracks of the better and stable life he’s been rebuilding: five of his sons are dead. 

All of them the product of one woman, whose father raised four other boys as well, despite having no blood with them, and never complained. A man who comforted Jango through the pain of losing all five of his little dominoes.

And then, Rex calls. 

It’s mid morning in Mandalore, and if he remembers correctly, Rex is stationed somewhere in western Europe, making it early morning wherever he is. Glancing down at his phone, he answers Rex’s call, glad to have an excuse to pull away from work for a few minutes. Immediately, shouting greets him.

“Holy shit, Dad!” That’s Jesse. 

“Shut the fuck up, and let me talk–” Rex. 

“ Ka'ra dinuir ni kot.  Taylir ni laamyc jaon ori'dush.  Vencuyanir ner vercopa.  Vencuyanir ner haat.  Vencuyanir ner ijaat.  Vencuyanir ner vision, bal alorir ni at laamyc bralov. ” Kix—Kix who don’t pray unless the world’s ending.

“Guys!” Hunter. 

“Holy fuck .” Jesse, again.

“Let him talk–” Hunter, once more. 

“Oy!” He says, shutting the hubbub up. “Who's here? What’s going on?”

“Hi, Dad,” Rex says, shushing his brothers all the while, “It’s me, Jesse, Kix, and the Batchers. Kote was just here, but he stepped out for just a minute to talk to the General."

“Hey, boys,” he says, waving off a Lieutenant as he steps into Jango’s office, shaking his head and mouthing not now. Somethings up, and Rex sounds not only exhausted, but scared, and it’s making every single alarm bell in Jango’s brain ring out. His son, still so fragile from Fives death, two months ago, sounds about ready to break again, “So, what’s going on?” 

Silence. “ Rex. ”

He hears a bit of shuffling, indistinct conversation, and he straightens just a bit, drumming his fingers on his desk as he waits. Finally, Rex breaks the silence. “Echo is alive.”

His heart drops out of his chest, and he stands before he realises what he’s doing, sending his chair tumbling back at the force of the movement. “What?” He demands, fighting to keep his voice level as his heart hammers in his chest. 

“He’s nearly fucking dead and Rex is being an idiot!” A voice that he immediately registers to be Crosshair’s snaps–clearly not truly directed at Jango. 

A brief scuffle sounds, as Jesse’s voice carries over the phone, “Shut the fuck up for once, will you, Crosshair. If you wanna be a piece of shit, go wallow in your misery with a bottle somewhere else!” Jango doesn’t have time to say anything before shouts erupt again, but even through the din, he can hear the sound of Rex’s shaky breathing.

“ Enough! ” He shouts, just as someone opens his door. He doesn’t even register who it is, glaring at them and barking at them to leave him. Clearly Jango is not a pretty sight, as he hears them leave quickly. “Rex, what is going on?”

He listens in horrified attention as Rex details how they received a transmission from someone identifying themselves as 1409, aligned with a code that Echo and Fives created between the two of them when they entered the field, and then passed on amongst their brothers. He glosses over the message, labelling it as a distress message detailing torture at the hands of his captors, and glosses even more over the rescue until…

“Dad, he’s in bad shape. The explosion it fucked him up, not to mention the malnutrition. He’s been a POW for almost five years. Kix is going to give himself an aneurysm at this rate—he hasn’t slept in like a day.”

“ That is not true. The part about Echo…is.”

“I told you to take a nap a half hour ago, why are you still here?”

Jango needs to sit down. So he does, righting his chair and leaning over his desk, pressing his fist into his mouth as he tries not to scream and draw attention to the fact that everything is falling apart all over again. All he can see is five graves, and Ninety-Nine's eyes holding tears as they buried the last of Kal’s boys. Barely a month ago. 

Echo’s twin brother. Jesus fuck. 

“Rex,” he manages to say. “Where is he being sent? What hospital?” Where is my son?

“A hospital in New York. He’s—dad, the explosion it took an arm and a leg and the other leg was cut too, and probably needs more surgery, he’s so fucked up. He’s— God. ”

“Rex,” he says, voice stronger than he expects, “It’s not your fault. All you can do is bring him home. I’ll meet you in New York. And I’ll call everyone else. You worry about bringing Echo home. I’m assuming you’re on leave?”

“Yeah,” Rex says.

“Good. Stay strong boys. I’ll be home soon.”

“Yes, sir,” his sons mutter, and Rex hangs up a moment later. Jango manages to shakily stand, just as the Duchess knocks, his voice weak as he says “Come in.” His heart sinks as he sees the curiosity on her face, unable to school his expression as he stands, leaning over his desk and meeting her eyes with a harrowed expression. 

“Jango?”

He looks at her oh so Kryze face and says, “I’m sorry, I have to go. I have to be with my sons.”

When he finally manages to get through New York traffic to his government supplied residence, a few blocks away from the embassy, he spends enough time there to get a shower, clean up his Beskar’gam , put it back on, and grab a granola bar, before he’s calling a car and crossing the city to the Hospital that Echo arrived in just this morning. 

He garners stares as he stomps through the main entrance, up to the reception desk. Placing his hands on the desk, he waits until the receptionist meets the gaze of his black visor, to say, “I need to see my son. He arrived this morning.”

“Okay,” she says, exchanging a glance with the other receptionist. He knows he probably shouldn’t wear the helmet, but he’s afraid that without it, he’d crumble the second someone saw even a hint of the anguish that’s tearing him apart. “Name?”

“He’s with me,” a voice cuts in before Jango can reply, and he whirls to see Boba striding quickly across the hall. His son takes him by the shoulder without a word, guiding him over to the elevators in tense silence, which he doesn’t break until the doors close on him. Boba breaks it with a sniffle, wiping furiously at his eyes.

Boba doesn’t even have to ask, ‘cause Jango’s already slipping his helmet off and clipping it to his belt, grabbing his son and hugging him tight. He’s still a bit shorter than Jango, but not by much. Boba does not cry, but he does speak, voice weak. “Rex is a wreck. I can’t get him to eat or shower or even change out of his stupid fatigues.”

“You, get home,” Jango says softly. “I’ll stay with Rex, mm?” 

Boba curls in on himself a bit, fingers clenching and unclenching at his side as he does, his voice raspy and awful as he says,“I can’t just— leave him !”

“You won’t be leaving anybody, Boba,” Jango says as the elevator dings to a stop. Putting his hand on his son's back, he leads him out of the cramped space, tilting his head in as he says, “Go home. You’ve done enough.”

“ Dad! ” Jango whirls at the sound, Boba momentarily forgotten as he registers a blur of blonde hair and green fatigues barrelling towards him, crashing into his arms. Rex shakes in his hold, his breaths coming through in choppy, awful, noises. Jango just about manages to wrestle his son into something resembling a comfortable hold. 

He shifts so he cradles Rex’s head in his hand, pulling back slightly to examine his son's face. He looks tired and worn, and yea, Boba was right, he’s still in his fatigues. Rex’s eyes are red rimmed, his lips chapped, and the circles under his eyes are dark. “Hey, hey,” Jango comforts as Rex whimpers, pulling him to his chest once more. “I’m here, okay? I’ve got you.”

Jango looks to Boba, who watches with a haunted expression. Go home, He mouths. Boba hesitates before nodding, turning on his heel, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket, kicking slightly at the floor as Jango turns his attention back to Rex. He’s shaking in Jango’s arms, his arms wrapped around, fingers digging into the edge of his cuirass.

“Rex, where is he?” He asks, keeping his voice as even as he can possibly manage. Rex sniffles, pulling back and wiping the tears out of his eyes. He walks down the hall silently, and Jango follows until they reach a door, right as a doctor rounds the corner. Her eyes light up when he sees Jango and she briskly walks over.

“You must be Echo’s father,” the woman says, offering a hand. Glancing sideways at Rex one last time, Jango takes it, firmly shaking it. “I’m Dr. Che, and I’m in charge of your son's recovery. Could I talk you through what his injuries are and the recovery plan?”

Jango nods, but not before tapping Rex’s shoulder, whispering in soft Mando’a, “ Head home, okay? Take a shower and a nap. I’ll stay with Echo. ” Rex looks ready to argue, but then he meets the resolve in Jango’s eyes, and seems to deflate with a sigh and a nod, trudging away. He turns to the doctor. “Yes, that would be great.”

“How much do you know of your son's injuries?”

He thinks back to Kix’s report, along with the warning Boba had sent him earlier. “I know he had three of his limbs amputated. I know he’s severely malnourished and dehydrated, along with having some GI and stomach problems.”

“All correct,” she says, sounding relieved she doesn’t have to break the news of the missing limbs. “Firstly, Echo is remarkably stable right now, let me say that. He’s got a lot of resolve in him, truly. You should be proud. We’ve got him on a feeding plan right now, that should not only strengthen his stomach and GI as a whole, but help him rebuild strength. Only one of the limbs we had to do further amputation on ourselves, doing a transfemoral amputation on his left leg. The initial surgery sight was slowly becoming infected, although we don’t know when the limb was lost, as it doesn’t appear to be involved with the initial explosion that took the other two.” 

“We will also be watching his spine for the next few months, as he recovers. We suspect that he’ll be ready for an initial prosthetic in about three months, hopefully giving us some time to help him gain some weight. He will need many over the next few years, though, due to a high chance of his body weight having a lot of fluctuation.”

“Is he awake?” Jango asks, trying to keep his voice steady. His boy. “And, um, have either of his brothers mentioned his twin? He passed away a few months ago, and I wanted to check.”

“I don’t think they have fully confirmed it, but I think he suspects. Your son, Boba, told me about it, as a warning. I think they thought it would be best if you confirmed it. He is awake, and pretty lucid, if you want to talk to him,” she says, voice soft and full of sympathy. He nods, and she knocks, calling softly, “Echo? Your dads here, he wants to see you.”

A moment passes, and Dr. Che gently opens the door. Jango steps in, and there he is. His little boy, pale and drawn on a hospital bed, a feeding tube down his throat, and a weak smile on his face. Jango startles at the sight of the blanket that’s been thrown across his lap; it’s one of Ninety-Nine's. Boba must have gotten it from the old man at some point. “Hey, kid,” he says weakly, sitting next to his son and taking his hand, squeezing gently. 

“Hey, dad,” Echo rasps, his voice hoarse. His hair, grown out from the regulation cut he’d supported in the service, has been gently pulled away from his face, the curls a little gunky. “Good to see you.”

Jango sighs heavily, kissing Echo’s knuckles as he takes in his son. The stump of his right arm is bandaged, and under the sheets and blanket, he can just about make out the stumps of Echo’s legs, one of them bigger than the other from the bandages. Across the right side of his body and face, slightly faded burn marks stand out against his skin. He looks…tired. Old. Hurt.

“I have something for you,” he says after a long moment, pulling the gift out of his pocket. He hadn’t bothered wrapping it, or waiting till next Christmas, when he initially intended to get these for his sons. He’d grabbed one the day before he left Mandalore. Pressing it into his son's hands, he pulls away as Echo uncurls his fingers and looks at the pendant in his hands.

Historically, Mandalorian children were given a Beskar pendant with a Mythosaur on it when they finished their training. In the modern era, they tend to be gifted around the age of 13 or 14, when a child begins highschool or graduated from 8th grade, or the equivalent. Jango hadn’t been able to get his hands on them when his sons had reached that age, so he’d forgone the pendant. But now, it feels right to give them, however late it may be.

Echo’s dark eyes are wide as he takes in the carved Mythosaur, the glimmering Beskar. A choked noise escapes him, and he wipes his eyes, smiling shakily as he runs his thumb over the cool metal. Jango watches carefully, smiling warmly when Echo hands it to him and asks for help putting it on.

Against Echo’s bare chest, it looks strong. It lies next to that strange handprint tattoo of his, something to do with the first time he’d met Rex in the service. It had been right after the triplets had died. Rex had been a part of the extraction team, Kote too, and they'd taken one look at the twins and known. It looks like it belongs there, because it does. Echo is his son. Echo is a child of Mandalore. Echo has survived the impossible. No one deserves that more than he does.

“Dad?” Echo says after a long moment, and Jango knows what's coming. His heart drops into his stomach as Echo weakly takes his hand, squeezing tight as he forces the words out, “How did he–how did Fives die?”

“Freak accident. There was a training opp going on, and they made a mistake that led to a minor ambush,” Jango says levelly, squeezing Echo’s hand tightly as his son closes his eyes, tears softly pouring out his eyes. “He was buried in Mandalore. Full military honours. He died a hero, Echo.”

“He died thinking he was gonna see me,” Echo whimpers, and Jango can do nothing but weakly nod as his heart aches in his chest and his son quietly sobs. Dr. Che comes in at some point, checking over Echo’s vitals, but he seems to be pointedly ignoring her, and she seems to be trying to let them have their moment of grief together. 

“He died loving you, Echo,” Jango manages to say, forcing himself to not look away when Echo’s haunted eyes meet his eyes. What did he see over these past five years? What was done to him as a POW? What storm is growing in his head, even now? “He died loving you more than anything else in this world.” 

This is a story about a father.

Four of his sons are dead, and one of them came back from the dead. The world has not been kind to their family, to him, to their people. But for the first time in decades, this father wakes up every morning with a belief in the world settled deep in his heart. The belief that miracles do happen has returned to him.

For a very long time, Jango Fett hid his heart behind a bough of thorns so sharp that anyone who came too close would get pricked and bleed. For a very long time, everytime he let someone in and someone in, they would be taken from him, and the thorns would grow back stronger until his heart was a massive and sprawling Thorn Wood. 

But on a rainy day, one son came back to him, and the woods began to die. More and more children came, and he buried five of his sons (getting one back), but the woods still died. His heart ached in longing, but it did not break when they died, finally regaining the strength that was taken from him when his father was killed right in front of him by a man who wanted his throne. 

Jaster Meerel, Mand’alor the True, was a king from a long line of kings. His son on the other hand, is no king. But, Jango Fett, Heir to the Last House of The Throne, is a father from a long line of fathers. He alone has spread the blood of the last dynasty far and wide, of his mother he never knew, and the house name she gave her two children before disappearing. 

Jango Fett is heir to the Meerel Dynasty and House, yes, but he carries the name of a house desecrated by centuries of war. The Fetts were from the southern province of Concord Dawn, and Jango Fett is as much of them as he ever was a son of the Throne. He carries their emblem, and it is the clan sigil all his children will bear. The blood and sickle of The Fetts has lived on through him, much like the honour of the Meerels. Jango alone has restored them to their true glory. 

He is Jango Fett the Redeemer. His father is Mand’alor the Last in his death, and was Mand’alor the True in his reign. His father is dead, and he is alone. The Throne is gone. And yet, he remains. Their honour lives on. Their history lives on, with every day he wears his armour. His fathers armour. His grandfather’s armour. His great-grandfather's armour…

Jango Fett is the father of  twenty sons, twenty shining beacons of the glory of their blood…

and one daughter.

Jango Fett has a single daughter, made in secret by a scientist who he never should have given his sperm to. The year was 1997. A decade later, plus the three years after she lost the four boys she made from Jango’s donation, she had a daughter. A new test. A new thing for her to concoct her evils on. A little girl. She’s ten years old, thin and pale and sallow, standing like a willow tree that can barely stand against the wind.

Her name is Omega.

Jango Fett is the father of Twenty-One children. His eldest’s mother is his youngest’s mother’s sister. The Sé family has produced six Fett children. Five boys. One girl. The only girl to ever come from Jango, save for a girl adopted by two of his boys because they were Mandalorians, much like their father.

Jango Fett has twenty sons and one daughter. He knows their names. Knows their birthdays. His own father, dead for forty years, never knew his grandchildren, and will never be able to until they pass into the eternal march of the afterlife. Four of them have joined him, and Jango knows his father cradles them close to his heart, as he will do when his time someday comes around and he finally falls into the waiting arms of death.

But today is not that day. Today, his daughter stands on the porch, watching him as he gets out of the car. She has never met her father, and he has never met her. She is thin and willowy, a sapling still growing. He is tall and proud, a tree that has set its roots deep into the ground, and who’s leaves now stretch to gently cover and protect her.

Jango Fett’s heart was in the woods for a long, long time. Today, it soars, and he is an unshakable tree, as his little girl hugs him tightly, laughing and smiling. His father has been dead for 40 years. The blood is long washed away, the images of that day long since gone fuzzy with time. But he doesn’t think of his father as he holds Omega close. 

He only thinks of his twenty sons and one daughter.