Chapter Text
Master Dooku of the Jedi Order was not known for being a patient man. He had a heart that burned for justice in ways that occasionally flared too close to the Dark for the comfort of other Jedi, and a limited tolerance for fools. Both of these were at the fore as he sank his teeth into the opportunity his lost Padawan had bought him and refused to let go. Maybe it wasn’t obvious to everyone, but his fellow Jedi saw what was happening, and to their credit, supported him, silent presences of understanding and sympathy.
Losing Komari was a blow, but he refused to let that loss be in vain. She sacrificed her whole life for him, for them, for the Jedi to have a chance of following the will of the Force rather than the will of the Senate. He would ensure they did, even if he felt rather sideways from his own corporeal form as he allowed the Force to move him as it would.
It was with bitter vindication he turned up not only proof the Governor had lied about the mercenaries he’d hired, but to them as well, framing political dissidents as armed rebel insurgents. And when the massacre he’d paid them for failed to materialize when they found only peaceful civilians upset by the Governor’s heavy handed tactics, he’d brought in different Mandalorians. It was their crimes used to frame the innocent Mandalorians the Jedi had been aimed at like a blaster.
He downloaded all the evidence onto multiple datasticks, gave copies to each of his team, and arrested the Governor.
He was quite proud of himself for remaining sober all the way through tossing the sniveling coward at the metaphorical feet of the Senate and exposing his crimes.
“This is all very disturbing, I’m sure,” some junior senator from somewhere said. His oily tone was grating. “But Master Dooku… you were not sent to Galidraan to investigate the Governor. This is an unconscionable act of overstep by a Jedi who ought to know better.”
“I followed every law and regulation placed upon a Jedi in the field to the precise letter,” Dooku said firmly. He would live up to the example Komari set. He would plant himself like a tree by the river of truth.
He would not be moved.
“Then how is it that instead of apprehending the rampaging Mandalorians you were sent to subdue, you performed a shockingly thorough audit of the Governor’s business?”
“Jedi are not permitted to act outside their mandate without due cause,” Dooku said. “When we arrived we found that there was, in fact, due cause. At the request of a private citizen of this Republic who elected to remain anonymous, we looked into the discrepancies between the case as assigned to us, and the reality around us.”
“And you mean to claim your… Force magics had nothing to do with it?” the junior senator demanded. He was shouted down by the Senator from Alderaan, and Dooku blocked them out as they began to argue about procedure and precedent and decorum.
After he left the Senate, he was going to get raging drunk, he decided.
***
He didn’t drink often. Jedi were ascetic by both faith and necessity, all their resources going to the running of the Temple and the various necessary services they provided. And with the Jedi ability to filter poisons being trained to near instinct by the time one earned a mastery, drinking was a very expensive waste of time more often than not.
It wasn’t a waste now, he decided, and took his sabacc winnings to the counter at the grungy little hole in the wall bar he’d found in the lower levels as a Knight and kept going back to when he needed it. Once when Rael took his “extended sabbatical” to raise that princess, once when Qui-Gon was knighted and they had a massive fight right after, and a two-day bender when Qui-Gon had lost Xanatos and repudiated Feemor.
And now, for Komari.
“Are you sure you want to put all this on the tab?” the bartender asked.
“I’ve lost my only daughter, I don’t want to remain sober any longer than necessary,” he hissed back.
People nearby must have heard him, as he was pretty sure he should have run out of that tab before the bartender cut him off.
“Hey, buddy, you don’t have to go home, but you really can’t stay here,” the bartender said gently. Dooku glared at all three of his faces. “I can call you a speeder, where do you live?”
He didn’t want to go to the Temple. Vokara would make him sober up and he had earned the liver damage fair and square. He didn’t want to go to his rooms with the gaping wound that was Komari. He wanted to know she was safe.
He assumed the Mandalorians she’d saved would have taken care of her. For all the strained history between Jedi and Mandalorians, they did care about children and she was still so young. And they owed her, not that he could rely on Komari to point that out, she was always too forgiving. Too sweet.
“Buddy? Where to?” the bartender asked again.
“Little Mandalore,” Dooku said with great effort.
“Oookaay,” the man said with a dubious nod. “I’ll get you a shuttle.”
***
Dooku was pretty sure he’d sobered up in the back of the shuttle to Little Mandalore. The world had stopped pulling Knight-Pilot shenanigans, anyways. The shuttle pulled up to a large, well lit building that sounded like crashing waves and warm firelight and let him out. He wasn’t sure if he paid or not, he was focused on getting inside.
“Suy’cuy gar,” someone said and he blinked at the statue that had greeted him.
“Hello there,” he said to the strange, moving statue. “I have something that needs to go to the… I think they were called the Hot Mando-aid? They were on Galidraan, there was an issue. I have… um. The things.”
“Why don’t you come sit down and tell the Goran, sir,” the statue suggested, and led him through a very beautiful art gallery of other pretty statues to a booth with a statue of bronze that was at least half again the size of the others.
“What a lovely…” he waved, unsure how to describe a moving statue. “Komari would have loved this. She liked art.”
The first moving statue got him to sit, and looked meaningfully at the big one, which seemed to activate it.
“You had something for the Haat Mando’ade?” the big statue asked in accented Basic.
“Yes, I have the.. Oh of course the word is a rabbit. Here,” he said, pulling out one of the backups. “The Governor of Galidraan tried to screw them over, screw us over. I got him, oh yes I did. My mind-healer is going to be… so pissed at me. Blah, blah, revenge is poison, blah. Whatever.”
The big statue shook a little, and Dooku cocked his head to see if he should duck flying parts. The Force was merely amused, however, so he shrugged it off.
“Anyways. The point is… the point, yes.” He paused, and pulled his words back to him out of their explorations of the room. They brought with them the taste of a dozen accents, a hundred worlds and he licked his lips on the zing of spices. “I found a lot of links between the Governor and this… Viszla fellow. I’m hoping it’s not a relation.”
“No, I’m not related to Tor Viszla,” the big statue laughed.
“No, not you, I knew that,” Dooku said, waving his hand to dispel the idea. “Tarre Viszla. Good Jedi. Great swordsman. Read a lot of his books when I was learning Makashi. Would not be happy about this other Viszla person and the stunts they’re pulling.”
“You’ve read Tarre Viszla’s books, ones he wrote?”
“Mm, yes, great stuff. It’s all at the Jedi Archive, but you can get a scan if you ask. I’ll give you Jo’s comm number.” He yawned, shaking his head as more alcohol left his system. “So yes, I have information about this Tor person and I think the Hat… the other Mandalorians need it.”
“Are you sure you should be making these choices right now?” the big statue asked. That was sweet of them to think, but no. He had no intention of sobering up a minute faster than he absolutely had to.
“Yes, very. It’s what she would have done.”
“Who?”
“Komari… my…” he wavered, unsure how to explain a Padawan to a statue. “I’ve been taking care of her for over a decade. Teaching her everything I can. Finding teachers for the things I can’t. Supporting her, watching her grow and… and blossom into the wonderful woman she’s becoming.”
“Your ad’ika,” the statue said knowingly.
“Yes, that,” he agreed. It was probably right. “She did the right thing, on Galidraan. The only one of us able to see it and brave enough to risk everything for it. I lost her, I lost my… ad'ika?”
“You said it right.”
“I lost my ad'ika that day. Because on her worst day she had more courage, more honor in her littlest toe than that governor ever had in his entire body. And now she’s gone, and all I can do is try to make it worth it.”
The statue laid a hand on his arm across the table, and scooted around the back of the booth to sit closer. The bronze-like metal of the statue felt cool and soft and quiet, and it halted the nauseous tension that foretold becoming far too sober far too fast. He leaned into it without shame, weeping for his lost Padawan.
“It’s never going to be worth it,” he whispered into the statue’s arms. “It’s selfish, but if it weren’t for the fact she’d hate me for it… I would trade this victory for her in a heartbeat. I would break every oath save one if it meant I could have protected her even a little longer.”
“Of course you would, you’re a good buir,” the statue comforted. “What’s your name?”
“Dooku, Jedi Master Yan Dooku,” he said, blinking at the sudden change in topic.
“Ni kyr'tayl gai sa'ad, Yan Dooku,” the statue said. Then they waved at a passing person with thick gauntlets and a metal headband. “Pirpaak, for my new ad!”
“You said the gai bal manda? But he’s… old.”
“I am not old,” Dooku protested. “I’m in the prime of my health!”
“No one is too old for a buir,” the statue insisted. “And he’s just lost a child, have a heart.”
“Oh! I’m so sorry,” the person said, ducking their head and scurrying off.
“You’ll feel better after you drink some broth,” the statue informed him.
“I don’t wanna be sober,” he said petulantly. “Don’t want to feel at all.”
“Okay, ner ad, you just rest then.”
***
Dooku wasn’t sure exactly what had happened in Little Mandalore. He knew he’d been dropped off at the Temple by a very large Mandalorian, because the Temple Guards came to ask him about it after Vokara released him from her clutches. He recalled giving them the information he’d found about a conspiracy against one of the factions of Mandalorians. He might have gotten engaged? Or something… he remembered lots of congratulations and a very good bone broth. Context cues seemed strangely absent from his memory and he wasn’t fluent in Mandalorian.
“Jo, I need a book on Mandalorian,” he said, skipping the pleasantries as one of his oldest friends answered her comm.
“Is this related to the excessively formal request for scans of ancient texts I received at the asscrack of dawn today?” she asked back.
“Maybe?” he confessed. “Komari cut her braid on Galidraan, I’m not okay, and I don’t really remember last night.”
“Oh… my dear friend. You rest. I’ll bring you the translation guide this afternoon.”
“Thanks Jo,” he sighed, and laid back down. He really was too old for this.
***
“So I think it comes down to feeling like I have to live up to the expectations of people who aren’t around anymore to tell me they’re proud of me,” Jango sighed, staring up at his mir’baar’ur’s ceiling. “So I don’t know if I’m succeeding or not, and I keep moving the goalposts on myself every time I mess up, and it just makes it so hard to do anything.”
“Doing isn’t nearly as important as trying,” his mir’baaru’ur said gently. “Every day you get up, you put on your armor, and you try, and you do your best, and that’s enough, Jango. You’re allowed to be your own person with your own goals. You don’t need to be Jaster, you just need to be you.”
“Thanks,” he said, rolling upwards to sit in the chair correctly. “I needed that.”
“Now, you mind telling me about the new addition to the armor?” she asked pointedly with a glance at Kandosii’s braid, carefully capped off with beskar aglets to keep it from unraveling and affixed to his pauldron. Those and the beads sparkled and made little ringing sounds when they tapped his armor, hard to ignore.
“She said to wear my trophy with pride,” he admitted in quiet shame. “But I’m wearing it as a reminder, a tangible proof of a debt unpaid. Not pride, but determination to do better.”
“And that’s all we can ask of you, Mand’alor.”
He nodded, the title a signal it was time to end the session. He had a lot to think about now, so he thanked her and left quickly, hoping to find some peace and quiet to work through it all.
He wasn’t going to get it, since the second he left the comm-suppression zone in the Mir’baar’ur’s office, his comm pinged rapidly with calls.
“Kih’dabe? What does Goran Kih’dabe want?” he mused, opening the call that was coming in, noting the three missed call messages were also from Coruscanta.
“Mand’alor, I hope this finds your arm strong and your spirit bright,” they opened, more formally than usual. “We received a packet of intel on the financial activity of Tor Viszla in the Republic.”
“Send it over,” Jango said immediately. “But if one of our Wer’verde had information, why didn’t they come to me directly?”
“Because it wasn’t a Prudi’ika,” the Goran laughed grimly. “It was a supremely soused Jedi Master. He handed me a most likely illegal quantity of information that was definitely acquired by means of dubious legality. Then he cried on me. A lot.”
“A Jetii?” Jango asked, head cocking in confusion.
“A Jedi, yes. And before I send you this, I have to ask you a lot of very pointed questions,” the Goran growled.
“What, why?” Jango said, stopping in the middle of the hallway to stare at them.
“Because I live on Coruscanta and I know what a Padawan braid is,” they said icily. Jango felt a pang of bitter shame run through him and took a breath to set it aside as the mir’baar’ur taught him. “And I just adopted a heartbroken Jedi who lost a child on a mission involving Mando’ade.”
“Oh kriff, Kandosii was right,” Jango groaned. His shoulders shook with the effort of not crumpling under the guilt. “Ciryc did care.”
“Explain, Fett,” the Goran repeated. “Is that or is that not my bu’ad’s braid on your shoulder?”
“They told me to!” Jango protests, drawing the eyes of others around him. “They cut their braid, for us, to defend us, and then when they knew we understood what that meant, the life debt we… I owed, they put it on my pauldron themselves, and told me to wear it. With pride, they said, but I can’t…. I can’t manage that. Duty will have to suffice.”
“She lives?” the Goran asked sharply, a hint of hope in their voice.
“Last I saw,” Jango confirmed. “Mij is with them. I’ll call him for an update, let him know to reach out to you.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
The comm cut off sharply, and Jango tried to ignore the eyes on him as he walked briskly to the Comm Room to make a long distance call.
***
“What do you mean you don’t have any updates?” Jango growled. “Mij has to have checked in by now.”
“Not since confirming their landing on Melida’daan,” the tech said.
Dread crept up Jango’s back like a fire licking at his skin.
“Right. Where the fuck is that? Send the nav information to the cruiser, we leave in an hour. We have a medic that needs collecting and I have to make sure Kandosii is alright or I’ll have a Goran after my hide.”