Chapter Text
The galaxy had ripped itself apart and stitched itself together anew before Boba had even turned fifteen. He didn’t remember much of the galaxy before, the one his father loved to tell him about after a few too many glasses of tihaar — the same galaxy his father had helped tear in two. Boba was never sure if his father regretted it or not, creating him and all those other men. His father never said, never spoke too much of the Jedi he finally ruined, and if Boba had looked away for a moment, he would have missed the distant sharpness that danced in Jango’s eyes.
Boba himself barely remembered the Jedi. He’d only spoken to one, long ago, who existed only in his memory as blue eyes and a look he now knew was fear. Perhaps that Jedi had been right to be afraid, Boba often found himself thinking. For now he likely lay, rotten and unmoving, in a forgotten battlefield after being decimated by the very men he’d been given and told to trust.
He knew, also, that he was the same Jedi that saved his father — despite the fear and distrust, the way they fought on the cold, rainy surface of Tipoca City. Jedi were something incomprehensible. And now there were none of them left to try understand.
There were rumours of Jedi around, ones who’d somehow escaped. And there were worse rumours still, of Jedi who’d been taken and twisted into something less than living. Boba thought that perhaps it was kinder for them to have died, betrayed. But he knew that the galaxy was less than kind. His father had taught him well.
There was no need to think of the Jedi anymore, anyway. They were an order long gone and all that remained of their force-wielding memory was the dark, vicious shadow of a man known only as Darth Vader. The inquisitors, Boba supposed, could be considered of the same ilk, but anyone in the galaxy who cared knew they were nothing more than the monster’s Vader created. There was no worry of them here in Mandalorian space, no need to consider fighting those poison black creatures. Boba, like his father before him, had not a lick of force sensitivity burning in his bones. No inquisitors were seen near Concord Dawn, and no inquisitors meant no Vader. Boba supposed he should’ve felt comforted by that.
These past 20 years of Empire had taught Boba one thing, however, and that was the fact it was sensible to remain vigilant. The Empire wouldn’t leave the Mandalorians alone for much longer. It wouldn’t be safe for him to get too comfortable hiding in the farm fields with his ageing father. Boba only hoped that Jango would still be able to fight when push came to shove.
Something was shifting in the air.
It’d been three months since Boba had last touched down on the rough grass his father had called home. He knew, in a way, that this was his home too. Perhaps it was in a life he never got to live. As he landed the ship, hissing and groaning from years of wear and tear, he could almost hear his father complaining, telling him to stop burning the grass and scaring the cattle, an old routine settled between them as soon as Boba learned how to hunt.
Jango had stopped hunting after the Empire was founded — had claimed he needed to raise his son and that the new galaxy was no place to raise a boy among the stars and all their danger. There was probably some truth to that, Boba knew. The galaxy was rough and cold, harsher than the world he remembered from even during the war. Perhaps it was better for a relic of Mandalore’s past to lay low, hidden in the humble past barely anyone remembered belonged to him.
Though his father didn’t hunt, Boba did. He took jobs here and there; vicious ones, easy ones, jobs where he could remain as anonymous as he liked but still have a reputation that earned him better credits than most.
He’d cashed in his latest bounties — three dimwitted, swindling boys on the run from their wealthier fathers and a Nautolan who’d somehow upset Jabba — and bought enough fuel for his ship to last him several more trips to the core and beyond. The rest of what he earned, he knew, would go to his responsibilities. Clan came before anything else, Jango had made sure to teach him that.
He stepped through the wrought iron gate that led to his home. It was made from a machine his father wouldn’t speak of, one Boba wasn’t allowed to touch until it protected their home. As usual, the walk to the front door was clean and well kept, grass trimmed neatly and wildflowers governed into steady places. The front door was heavy, hinges creaking as Boba worked to shove it open. So Jango could keep on top of the garden but forget to oil the hinges on his own front door — the very same door he likely used every day.
Typical , Boba thought to himself. His old man was as useless as he was proficient.
“ Buir !” He called into the house. “Dad, I’m back!”
He dumped his bag on the table, weapons and broken pucks he liked to keep as trophies hitting the old wooden surface. They’d probably dented it, but that was his father’s fault for not buying a better one. And for not answering when Boba had been the one earning for them.
A snort from the living room doorway made him turn around, hand on his blaster and another readying his whipcord launcher. It was only his father though, standing with arms folded and new lines around his eyes, and Boba felt a hot flush of embarrassment in the pit of his belly. Not that Jango seemed to disapprove, his eyebrow was raised instead and he nodded curtly as he stepped into the room.
For a moment, Boba watched him, saw the mottled grey of his hair and the scars that ran rivets down his face. It was strange to see his future right in front of him. To know just exactly what he’d look like as age made its way into his bones
And there were a million other men who wore this age before their time.
“Boba,” Jango grunted, startling him from his thoughts. “Care to say what’s on your mind?”
He shook his head, “Nothing, just tired.”
“Hm. Not too tired to draw your blaster on your own father.”
Boba rolled his eyes, forgetting, for a moment, any thoughts he had that shook him from his steady feet. He didn’t have to be anything here, not right now. He could forget the resentment (and a feeling he refused to name fear) that threatened to pool in his gut.
“Proud of you though,” Jango continued. “Smart to keep alert even in your own home. Keep it up.”
“Dad, I’m 33, not a kid. I know that sort of shit like the back of my hand.”
Something flittered across Jango’s expression that Boba couldn’t read, something he hadn’t seen before. It didn’t stay for long, vanishing quicker than he thought he saw it, like it was never there at all. Perhaps he really was tired, after all. He shrugged it off though, there was no point in wasting his time over the passing thoughts of a man who’d never speak them out loud. He knew his father well enough by now.
“I know,” was all Jango said. “When you’re cleaned up, come back down. There’s something to discuss.”
Now that stiffened something in Boba’s spine, his thoughts scattered here and there, refusing to collect and make any sense of what could be happening. Was it about—? Did she—? Was there a development where he was—? What—?
He collected himself then, before something spiralled out beyond his usual control. He breathed in, deep, tucked his helmet under his arm and nodded, just once. Just sharp enough to say he’d heard, not sharp enough to say there was anything named worry under his skin. It was time for him to clean up in the sonic. To bury any weakening thoughts he might still have. Nothing was ever easy for a man born to carry a legacy he barely knew.
All he wanted to do right now was clean the grime from under his armour, rid himself of the sweat and violence he felt so at home in.
✦
Jango was sitting at the table by the time Boba made his way downstairs. Uj’alayi sat in thick slices on plates, the syrup almost seeping out onto the old crockery, almost as fragrant as the tea that brewed on the stovetop. If his father had put this much effort in, making a cake and going so far as to cut it for them both, then Boba knew that whatever he had to say wouldn’t be pleasant for him to hear.
His father was a good man, when it came to raising him, but he never went above and beyond unless he had something he wanted to soften. Boba remembered this from often enough in his early childhood and teens. Uj’alayi and new toy ships to tempt him into not crying when Jango had to leave him in the cold care of Taun We, promises of taking him with him one day to stop fussy noises from falling from his mouth. Jango had certainly taught him to take a good deal from the moment he could speak.
“Sit,” Jango said, pouring tea.
Boba sat.
“So,” he said, casually as possible, stabbing his fork into the thick cake. “What’s so important I couldn’t catch up on sleep?”
“Don’t give me that attitude.”
“You raised me.”
Jango sighed, “That I did. Drink your tea, this is important.”
“It’d be better if you just got it over with instead of hovering around,” Boba growled, but he drank his tea anyway.
Jango’s chair creaked as he sat back, reminding Boba that he should probably tighten the screws in them and make sure they didn’t fall apart while he was away.
“Well,” his father started, slowly. “We’ve been called to Mandalore.”
Oh.
That was not at all what Boba was expecting to hear — and not nearly as bad as he’d tried not to worry about. But what the hell was on Mandalore for them? As far as he knew, he was Mandalorian in name and creed, but he’d never, not once, had anything to do with the glassed planet most of his kind called home.
He looked at his father carefully, trying to see if he was telling the truth and that it wasn’t some sort of bizarre joke that hid what he really wanted to talk to Boba about. But there was nothing. Jango’s brow still held that heavy crease from years of iron-packed anger, his gaze on Boba was nothing short of steady, no smirk or crinkle at the corners of his eyes gave away a poor joke.
“You’re uh… sure about that?” Boba asked. A crackle in his throat betrayed him and he cursed inwardly.
HIs father sighed, “Yes. The Mand’alor herself requested our presence.”
Requested , Boba almost snorted. They both knew a request was a demand, only a little below being called upon to swear fealty to her house and lordship over space. He didn’t have anything against the Mand’alor, not really, but there was nothing he could call loyalty or fondness in his chest when it came to her.
“Why have we been requested ?” He couldn’t help but sneer.
Jango pointedly ignored his tone and answered, “The Imperial entourage are paying a visit and she needs to show that she has the support of all of us. That includes someone with my past.”
“So we have to be there because some Moff or ambassador is turning up to bother Mandalore?”
“No,” Jango shook his head. “Vader and his little royals are paying a personal visit.”
Something in Boba’s blood froze then, a concern he didn’t know he had so much of suddenly rising to the surface of his skin.
“Why’re they doing that?” He asked, carefully, keeping it out of his voice.
“I don’t know, but we need to be prepared. For anything. Understood?”
Of course he understood that, of course he did. Boba had never been anything but prepared for all eventualities. He’d never been raised to be anything else.
✦
He’d never actually been to Mandalore before. It wasn’t a planet his father felt comfortable near and there were never enough bounties that paid the high price Boba demanded from his contracts.
Knowing the planet was entirely sand, unnaturally pale and deader than the rocks that somehow broke the city surface of Coruscant, had made Boba expect it to be warm. Stiflingly so. Instead, in this blue and glass throne room, his armour barely kept the cold from biting at him. Perhaps it was something to do with the ventilation system installed by generations ago, old and too expensive to replace, but part of him thought that it was supposed to match the rigid, cold strength that Bo-Katan Kryze wielded.
She sat on the throne, helmet on and the Darksaber attached to her hip. Boba might not have been her biggest fan or a friend to the rules she liked to live by, but even he could admit to himself that she ruled like power belonged to her. And perhaps it did, for the Kryzes had ruled Kalevala since before the Darksaber had even been forged. The right to rule was something Bo-Katan wore as steadily as she wore her armour.
Boba, like his father, stood near the throne. Their helmets on and the symbol on their chests newly repainted. They were here to lend history its power to the Mand’alor, nothing more, nothing less — they had nothing else to do except stand with the honour their heritage forgot to to bestow them.
He could see the Mand’alor was on edge, her fingers tapped the arm of the throne and her other hand balled into a fist. He’d be on edge too, he reasoned, there could never be a good reason why the Emperor’s right hand and rumoured heir would visit a system that lay outside of their domain.
The doors creaked open then, grinding against the cold stone floors, and Boba held his breath.
He supposed, if he was force sensitive, Darth Vader’s presence would send a shock to his system that he wouldn’t be able to comprehend. But even without that born into his blood, Boba knew that this was a man who wouldn’t be kind to those he deemed a disappointment.
Vader cut a black shadow across the room, eyes bright gold and cape trailing behind him. If Boba had been less aware he would’ve missed the way Bo-Katan froze, the way her gaze locked onto the somehow handsome face Vader wore. There wasn’t enough time, however, for him to decipher that, when behind the Empire’s shadow stood his children.
They were both dressed like their father, head to toe in black and not a readable, discernable expression on either of their faces. They were the Imperial Prince and Princess, Boba knew. Both whispered about on the holonet and between drunken hunters in low lit bars; a prince and princess that rarely made a public appearance, yet commanded arrays of men older than their 20 years of age, both rumoured to wield the same terrifying power their father owned.
The princess, Boba had heard, was supposed to be a great beauty. She was rumoured to be as beautiful as her mother had been, the long dead Senator Amidala from Naboo, and to have the skill of both her parents in politics and war.
But it wasn’t the princess that caught Boba’s eye, not that time.
Across the room, the prince had turned his head towards him, lake-blue eyes wide and then narrowed with a curiosity Boba was sure everyone could sense. His hair was blonde where his sister’s was deep brown, and it was long enough to curl at the back of his neck. Long enough for Boba to want to tug . And maybe it was a good thing the beskar alloy of his armour made it impossible for a force sensitive to read what’s on his mind.
But the prince had the bluest eyes Boba had ever seen, and if he had his way (and he knew he would), he’d get more than word in before the Imperials left Mandalorian soil.