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When Jango blinked his eyes open, feeling like he had gone twenty rounds with his ori’ramikad, it was to see a young boy staring at him, horror, and hope in the shape of his face. The boy had soft loose curls, that would likely tighten if shorter, and clothed in strange blue clothes, with a darker blue/purple sleeve with a black belt and boots.

Taking a deep breath and ignoring the boy for now, Jango looked around. Strangely, he was in an arena littered with bodies in white armour and what seemed to be the primitive droids the Republic uses, both stained with the red sand. Picking up a handful, Jango let it fall through his fingers and concluded the arena was carved out of the rock.

“Bu?” The boy hesitantly asked, snapping Jango’s attention to him. His brow furrowed, watching the boy nervously lick his lips, trying to hide the shakiness in his hands by stiffly keeping them by his sides. Jango didn’t look around again; only he and the boy were the only ones alive in the arena, which means…

“You mean me?” Jango asks, knowing that he should have used tact when the boy’s face crumbled, his breath coming in quicker and quicker as he nodded his head, his eyes already looking wetter and wetter. Standing up carefully, Jango made his way over to the boy, dropping down next to him and easily gathering him into his arms. “I’m sorry, ad’ika.” He murmured, guiding a hand through the boy’s curls.

Doing so gave him a glance of his gauntlet and Jango was horrified to find that his beskar’gam, which was coated coal black with red and gold highlights was now a plain silver, the colour of mourning. His kute, at least, was the same colour.

“You’re not my Bu, are you?” The boy asked, after Jango placed him in his lap, allowing the ad to burrow his face into Jango’s neck.

“No, I don’t think so, ad’ika, but I am Jango Vhett.” Jango says, taking a deep breath and still running his hand through the curls. “Can you tell me what happened?”

The boy sniffed but nodded. “My name is Boba Vhett, son of Jango Vhett. I’m a clone, unaltered. A Jetii cut your head off, with the start of the war.” An eyayah’ad? Makes sense, Jango is indifferent about sex, so an eyayah’ad would be an easy way to have an heir without messy bodily fluids involved or a meddling partner.

Like the cave of souls, in the tales of old, who gives one pure of heart what they truly desire. Was it such a surprise when ad’ike suddenly appeared in large amounts, perfect echoes of their parent?

“Start of the war, huh?” Jango asks, thinking and making connections to the dead bodies around them, but Jango wonders why he took Boba out of the stronghold of Keldabe in the first place, or the place the Vhett’s call home. “I take it that Jango Vhett isn’t Mand’alor, ruling the Mandalorian Empire and is already at war with the Republic?”

“N-No?” Boba says. “Buir said he was exiled by the Dar’manda New Mandalorian puppets.”

Jango choked. “The New Mandalorian’s are in power?” Boba nodded. “Republic puppets indeed.” He held Boba, his son, close. “In my world, after my succession as Mand’alor, the New Mandalorians, led by Satine Kryze, an extreme pacifist, fled to the Republic.” He huffed a laugh. “Now she is arm candy to old men while the Republic is working her faction to death to build more droids. At worst, they are viewed as slaves, and at best, cowards, by the Republic.”

After all, the Republic and the Empire have been at War since before Tarre Vizsla united the Clans, the Republic deeming their Empire a ‘threat’ that needed to be removed, especially since the new Mand’alor has been Jetii trained. When the New Mandalorians arrived, the Republic, in their haste to appear strong, declared them all spies and arrested them. Ironic, since Jango was happy to ignore the extremists from the near worthless planet of Kalevala, as all the families that produced the famous wines and fabrics had settled in the heart of the Empire. Their ‘Duchess’ was responsible for their own slavery.

“What are you going to do now?” Boba asked, but Jango could hear the quiet ‘what about me?’ in his sentence.

“Well, I’m going to make your Buir proud by raising you as my own ad. Then, I’ll be correcting the mistakes of this strange, weird universe.” He smiled down at Boba, who hesitantly smiled back, Jango using his gloves to wipe away the tear lines before they could dry, the saltwater creating tear tracks through the ad’s sandy cheeks, because that’s what adults do to their offspring, right? “What do you say, ner ad?”

“I want in, Jan’Buir.” Boba replied, hopping off Jango’s lap to stare at him. Jango smiled softly. He had always wanted ad’e, but with what happened to Jaster and the Republic desperately trying to stop planets from leaving to join the Mandalorian Empire, he had often been too busy to even entertain the idea of finding an ad to raise. Arla, he knew, had no interest at all.

To be fair, she couldn’t even keep a plant alive, never mind a tiny ad that is heavily reliant on you. Between them, Jango was always better at ‘faking it till you make it’. What makes an ad any different?

Well, it’s like what Kal says, ‘when life gives you Varos, you make tihaar’. And Jango was planning on making an entire larder of tihaar, enough to fill the large larder in the Keldabe Palace. If it still stands, with the dar’manda’s in power. His Satine, at least, was willing to steal beskar’gam from all families on Kalevala for a new, large, empty castle, using the Beskar as building materials.

At least with the New Mandalorian faction gone, the castle (which was never used) was removed and the Beskar returned. Now, Jango had loyal supporters moving to the planet to see just how far the New Mandalorian rot went. Well, Jango supposes the key word now is ‘then’.

Taking Boba’s hand and making sure he picks up his buy’ce, Jango and Boba walk hand in hand to Slave I, the setting sun glinting off Jango’s beskar’gam and making their shadows seem like giants, their legacy seeming to go on for infinity.

Jango’s an Emperor with no Empire, but that will quickly change. Idle hands, and all that.

First things first, Jango thought, I need to learn this worlds history, if the spineless dar’manda’s were able to steal power from the Mando’ade. And while Jango was not on the skill level of his splicers, he still manages. Another side effect of waking up in the wrong world is that the without war between the Republic and Mandalorian Empire, Jango could easily slice into the Republic’s Top-Secret files without breaking a sweat, with no millennium War to push more encryption and cyber-security.

It was almost embarrassing if Jango didn’t benefit greatly from it.

Between hunting down the truth, Jango also had Boba to think of. Raising an ad was not as easy as Jango initially thought, since Boba seemed to be testing boundaries. He’d always compare Jango’s parenting to his Buir’s, saying that ‘Buir would let me stay up past bedtime’ or ‘Buir always gives me sweets’. And by the Ka’ra, the tantrums.

Despite this, Jango tried to keep a level head. He knew Boba was only trying to get a negative reaction to see how far Jango will tolerate his behaviour. Jango himself had done the same to Jaster as a way to test boundaries.

He sighed, running a hand through his tight curls. But shifting through thousands of useless documents finally seemed to pay off, he thought, finding a report about a ‘Duchess Satine Kryze’. He pushed further, eyes narrowing at what he was reading.

Two Jetii were sent to Mandalore to help the New Mandalorian’s come out on top of this… ‘civil war’. This Mandalore, it seemed, has been broken for a very long time. He rose an eyebrow, seeing Death Watch be labelled as extremist terrorists while waxing poetry about how Satine was ‘doing the right thing’. If she was doing the right thing, Jango sneered to himself, why did 90% of the population want her dead or out of power?

After a year on the run, Satine was finally put into power by the Republic. Her first decree? To demand all the Clans, give up their beskar’gam to be smelted down for building materials for her new ‘palace’ in the newly labelled capital of Sundari or to be exiled. At least some things don’t change.

Still, Jango dug deeper. He wanted to know what happened to this world’s Jango. It didn’t take long to find out about Galidraan. About the Jetii being attack dogs, slaughtering without thought. How out of the hundred and twelve active-duty True Mandalorians, only Silas and Fett himself survived.

Jango took a deep breath, willing himself not to shatter the data pad in his hands at the sheer waste. Myles, dead? A’wyn, Jon, Cyllene, Mak, Alma, Clyde, Jask and many greater Verd, dead? Jango sat in stony silence, trying to line up his world with this seemingly broken one. If the timeline matches up to his own, Cyllene would have been pregnant with her first and only son, so Jon would likely have stayed on Concord Dawn with his wife and daughters. At least not all of Clan Mereel has been wiped out, Jango thinks.

Closing the data pad, Jango made his way into the cockpit of Slave I, setting course for the ancient lands of Clan and House Mereel on Concord Dawn. With a jump into hyperspace, Jango sat in the pilot seat, watching the stars fly by.

Right, he needs to plan. Step one: find Ba’vodu Jon and Cyllene to spread the word of his return as Mand’alor, step two: get the dha’kad’au to appease the fanatics, step three: remove the dar’manda faction from power. And, if Boba was to be believed, step four: free his eyayah’ad’e. How could this Jango allow the Republic and the Jetii to use his blood in a war he had no stake in? Unless Jango gave his counterpart some doubtful credit and assumed he had plans that was cut short due to his death.

Taking a deep breath, Jango closed his eyes, relaxing into the seat of Slave I. At least his personal ship was still the same, but Jango wondered if the story would be the same. How could this universe be so broken? Mandalore, ruled by a Republic puppet. Men, baring Jango’s face in a useless war.

Right now, Jango wondered how his universe was taking his absence. Ka’ra, Arla is going to gut and disembowel him if she ever found him, universe away or not. As his Heir, she would be the new Mand’alor, something she has always been vocal about avoiding. She had always been praying that Jango would adopt a Foundling to then raise as his Heir. Still, Jango felt guilty for leaving his vod. Arla might call for a vote, to see if any of Jango’s most trusted ori’ramikad might be sworn in as Mand’alor, but despite Jango’s attempts, most in the Mandalore Empire view House Mereel and associate it with the title Emperor, as Jango had been voted in after Jaster’s assassination.

What where they, a hereditary monarchy? Please, they weren’t the Republic,

After the Republic forces killed their Buir’e for hosting Mand’alor Jaster Mereel, Arla had developed an obsession with keeping Jango safe. His life system also sent a live report to Arla’s buy’ce, and both the Vhett’s had trackers under their skin. Jango, as Mand’alor, was much more valuable to the Empire than he was as a child.

Jango stroked underneath his collar bone on his right side, where the tracker had been pushed deep into his flesh, with barley a scar to show for it. He imagined he could feel the slight electric current of the tracker deep inside his flesh, comforting him.

After all, Arla wasn’t the only one with a slight co-dependency. Jango was just more subtle about it, after all.

In spite of the horrible news of this universe, Jango’s mind wanders to his crowning as Mand’alor, but when he was just a few standard months shy of turning seventeen.

Jango’s coronation as Mand’alor, per Mand’alor Mereel’s will, was scheduled two standard weeks after Jango and Arla brought back the mangled remains of Jaster Mereel. Jango remembers the side of Jaster’s face, the skin and muscle ripped apart, leaving parts of his skull open. His beskar’gam had been his death; the force of the explosion had crushed the beskar’gam plates together and, with the help of the heat, cooked parts of Jaster’s body. Jango was pleased to know that it was quick, Jaster dead before his nerves had the chance to recognize the pain.

He remembered the Republic celebrating their successful assassination. They weren’t laughing for long.

The Mand’alor’s Mantle was heavy on Jango’s shoulders, the white and red cape, embroidered with the symbol of the Ka’rta, sown in vengeance gold in a trail behind him. The Mantle was long and wide as Jango kneeled, Priestess Shay Roun standing before him, holding the Mandalore’s Mask in her vermilion hands.

“Do you, Jango Vhett, swear to serve Mandalore, to lead us into glory while upholding the Resol’nare?” She asks, her black eyes staring into his, using the ka’ra to determine his answer to be truth.

“I swear.” Jango answered, bowing his head and submitting himself to the judgement of the Ka’ra.

Priestess Shay Roun stepped forward, holding the Mask over his face. The circlet that Jango was wearing had magnets build into the metal, allowing the boned Mask to stay in place as they clicked into place, locking together.

“Rise, Mand’alor the Malevolent.” With those words, Jango rose and turned, the Mask on his face and the dha’kad’au strapped to his belt. The Clans who were present all saluted, crying out ‘Mand’alor the Malevolent!’. At the front stood Arla and Tor, both having proud looks on their faces. Tor had been devastated with the loss of his riduur but stood tall despite it.

Shay Roun stepped to be beside him, the tall Togruta smiling at him while staring straight ahead. “I look forward to see your reign, Mand’alor.” She said from the corner of her mouth. Shay and Jaster had been close, with Jaster coming to visit the Priestess for wisdom, research or to just to visit a friend.

Priest and Priestess’ are not allowed to join Houses, since they are viewed as being ad of House Ka’rta. Jaster and Shay knew that if she hadn’t sworn her vows, Shay Roun would be of Clan and House Mereel, vod to the Mand’alor himself.

“Tor looks proud of you.” She said, as if Jango could ignore Tor’s proud face, beaming from the front of the ori’ramikad. Tor was between a Ba’vodu and Ge’buir to Jango, as Jaster had an on-and-off relationship with the Vizsla Head, but despite this, they had a deep friendship. It was just bad luck that Jaster had died just shy of one year of their riduuk.

“I won’t fail as Mand’alor.” Jango said from behind the bone. Shay placed a warm hand on his, her black eyes, like the void, investigated his own, even though the Mask.

“You won’t, my sole ruler.” Her tone was one of finals, even as she then walked away.

Blinking to the present, Jango knew what he needed to do. He was going to rally the Clans and take Mandalore back by force, kicking the dar’manda Kryze and her ilk off his planet. After all, he was Mand’alor the Malevolent, ruler of forty-four-billion-star systems in his lifetime, Emperor to the Mandalorian Empire.

He would make sure no Mandalorian will ever bow to the Republic or its puppets ever again.

Concord Dawn, Mereel Residence

Cyllene hummed, the forge hot under her careful hands. What she is doing is technically treason by the New Government, but Cyllene found out it was laughably easy to use loopholes to get around the policies of crafting beskar’gam. If it is the dar’manda herself who creates the laws, no wonder Cyllene and her shriek hawk eyed daughters can get around them so easily. Her son, Mars, doesn’t have the interest. He has a true warrior’s spark, that Cyllene knows, and will not settle for anything else.

“How is your work, my pearl?” Jon asked, her darling husband, who steps into the room, clad in his Journeyman Protector coloured beskar’gam. Cyllene smiles under her buy’ce upon seeing the bag in his hands.

“Enjoyable, now that you are here.” She replies, dipping the hot thigh plate into coolant, steam and bubbles rising to the surface before she removes the thigh piece from coolant, setting it on the cooling rack. Cyllene knows that it wouldn’t have cracked. Beskar sings to her, and this piece gave a soft song, eager to be worn by their Verd in their new shape.

“My pearl, you flatter me.” Jon says as she turns, Jon standing on his toes to give her a Keldabe kiss. Even so, she still needs to bend down to deepen the kiss, even it was through their Beskar. Cyllene was a highly sought-after wife, due to her skills as a Goran and her desired features, being tall and strong. She chuckles, remembering the night they met.

“And what has made you laugh so?” Jon asked as he pulled back, settling his weight onto the back of his heels.

“The night we met.” Cyllene answers.

Jon deflates. “Ah.” He answers. Cyllene only smiles, feeling her eyes crease. She chucks Jon under his chin, tilting his head up to look at her.

“I tried to appeal to you as a sexual being, instead of a true friend.” Cyllene was – is – confident about her sex, but Jon is sol’karta. Her riduur is more inclined to paint, train or write than to be sexual, but that was what appealed to Cyllene in the beginning. Jon saw her, her true self, stripped of any lust, and simply wanted to be friends.

Of course, it took her being hit in the leg for Jon to realise that he loved her romantically, but Cyllene didn’t mind. The sweetest wines are the one you wait years on, after all.

It was also why there was such a large age gap between their fourth and fifth children, Jupiter, and Mars. Jon very rarely wanted sex, and it was a surprise that Cyllene had caught. After all, the last time they made love, Jupiter was conceived!

Cyllene had joked that his lack of desire made up in results, to Jon’s embarrassment.

Jon’s comm.link beeped, signalling that someone wanted to talk to him. He accepted the call on his gauntlet, thinking that it would be a friend or even a co-worker, but froze when he saw the buy’celess form of his aliit’ad blink to life. “Ba’vodu Jon, as Alor of House Mereel and Mand’alor of the Haat Mando’ade, I call upon your service, as is the right given to be by the Ka’ra.” Jango’s face softens slightly. “I look forward to seeing you, Ba’vodu. Ret’urcye mhi.” The holo-message flickered out.

“Jon,” Cyllene breathed out in shock, grasping Jon’s shaking hands.

“It was Jango,” Jon mumbled in shock. “He’s meant to be dead.” After all, House Mereel was still scarce, and despite being the Alor of House Mereel, many forget that despite everything, Jango was still Jaster’s son.

“Jon, do you know what this means?” Cyllene asks, her breathless tone turning into one of giddy bloodlust. “Our Mand’alor has returned.”

“I’ll rally the Clans.” Jon says, because despite only being the Alor of Clan Mereel, he still had some weight to throw around. “Call the ad’e, I know they will be eager.” And he smiled, under his buy’ce. It was not a nice smile. Like his predator ancestors before him, Jon can start to smell blood in the water, and it smells so sweet and ripe.

Time to strip his beskar’gam of the Journeyman Protectors and paint it in Jon’s emerald green and silver.

Concordia, Mand'yaim's Moon, Death Watch Base

This Pre Vizsla, it seems, is a coward. Oh, you can always create many excuses as to why Vizsla was creating an army under the dar’manda’s nose, pretending to support her government while stealing and brainwashing ad’e into becoming mindless, soulless soldiers. But it all comes back to him hiding his faction in the shadows.

Jango has no such problems, strolling into Vizsla’s main camp on Concordia, the brainwashed verd whispering about him. It was easy to march up into Vizsla’s tent, plusher and more colourful than his soldiers, ripping the curtain open.

Vizsla startled, his shocked face turning into a sneer at the sight of Jango. His SIC was a woman, with pale skin and red hair, her beskar’gam Death Watch blue, grey and with a bit of colour around the rim of her visor in white.

Bo-Katan. Hmm, this makes things interesting. His Bo-Katan was a loyal verd, having turned away from her dar’manda aliit, and at one point, Jango had considered marrying her. But while his Bo-Katan had sworn to him, this Bo-Katan seemed to be a sycophant. He could tell by the look in her eyes that if Jango won this challenge, she would try her own hand. And she wouldn’t stop if she survived with her life.

What she doesn’t know is that she will fail, but Jango pays that no mind, focusing on Vizsla. These Mandalorian’s were just so mouldable to Jango’s needs and wants that it is almost shameful. Then again, he did lead an entire Empire, so maybe Jango was just too competent for this universe.

“Pre Vizsla, I’ve found you at last.” Jango purrs.

Vizsla sneers, standing. “And who are you?”

Jango gasps in mock shock. “You don’t recognize your Mand’alor?” He tuts, before removing his buy’ce, letting Vizsla and Kryze get a good look at Jango’s face. “I expected better from you, but I suppose you we all can’t be spineless worms like you.” He mocks, sealing his buy’ce back on.

“Clone.” Vizsla hisses, with Kryze narrowing her eyes.

“If you want to think that, I’ll never convince you otherwise. I know your type.” He shakes his head. “Well? Do you bend the knee?”

“Never.” Vizsla spits. “You and your Buir were pretenders to the throne.”

“Is that so.”

With that, Jango springs into action. Vizsla seems to be expecting a blaster fight, which is why Jango immediately jumps him, bringing a leg up to kick Vizsla’s midriff, hard enough that Jango could both feel and hear a rib breaking, sounding so very satisfying to Jango’s ears.

Vizsla falls back, coughing up blood that dribbles down his chin, gurgling. Pierced a lung, he thought with a hidden grin. He tsk’d, advancing after the man. “Didn’t know you gurgled all over yourself like an ik’aad. Do you need help cleaning up?”

Vizsla spat at Jango’s feet, which just made Jango grin harder. He grabbed his kad from his hip, batting away the dha’kad’au when Vizsla tried to ignite it, the fabled kad’au clattering to the ground. “Where I come from, there is something special we do to traitors like you.”

“Do your worst.” Vizsla growled out between loud wet breaths.

“Oh Vizsla, you are going to wish you never said that.” Jango huskily replied, throwing his kad violently to his left. Kryze shrieked when she was impaled, having tried to sneak her way towards the still prone dha’kad’au to ‘claim’ the Mandalorian throne. “Wait your turn, Kryze. There’s plenty of me to go around.” That said, he flipped Vizsla onto his front and quickly removing his back plate and kute.

Grabbing his kal dagger, Jango thumbed at the sharpened metal, over the Mando’a glyphs for ‘Vhett’ near the handle. Flipping it in his hand, Jango proceeded to then sever Vizsla’s ribs from his spine with a practised slice, cutting through muscles, fat and dragging against bone before stabbing Vizsla in the shoulder when he tried to crawl away, reaching into the opening and grasping firmly on the wet soft tissue of lungs.

Vizsla’s raspy screams were abruptly silenced with a powerful tug.

Covered in Vizsla’s blood, Jango then turned towards Kryze. She had the decency to look scared shitless, all the blood having left her already pale face as she stares at Pre Vizsla’s mutilated corpse at Jango’s feet.

Sensing her fear, Jango patted her cheek, smiling at the flinch that action got him, her clouding green eyes unable to move from her leader. “Don’t worry, you are not important enough for a tal jai’galaar.” He leaned forward to whisper into her ear. “That’s only for the worst of the worst. A simple beheading for you.”

She tried to struggle, but she was still stuck on Jango’s kad like an unlucky bug, meaning all he had to do was grasp her hair, tugging harshly to expose her throat. Jango had an almost bored look on his face as he used his kal to saw at the exposed flesh. Bo-Katan was dead in only half a minute, Jango having nicked an artery or two.

It was only by experience that made Jango stay at just the right angle to have a secure grip while avoiding the gushing blood spray. He had to practically snap the woman’s neck, her vertebrae being one of the stubborn ones. Clicking his tongue, Jango looked around.

What a mess.

At least Jango didn’t need to clean up after himself. Fingers tangled in Bo-Katan’s scalp, he slung her head over his shoulder, reaching to pick up the dha’kad’au on his way out. Onto the next stage of his plan. One that involved the other Kryze sister.

Jango stared down at the woman partly responsible for the continued destruction of Mandalore. He knew he must look horrifying: Vizsla’s blood sprayed all over him with his eyes a dark black colour, matching the lit dha’kad’au in his hands, the roar of his victorious Verd loud behind him.

“Satine Kryze, I am Jango Vhett,” he nearly croons, flashing her a smirk when her already pale face turned near transparent. He deactivated the dha’kad’au, clipping it to his belt, hand hovering over the bag he carried with him.

“You are not Jango Fett, he died at the start of the Clone Wars.” Satine argued, trying not to cower on her throne. One which she did not earn. She raised her nose down at him in some form of sneer. “You are nothing but a Clone trying to imitate Fett.”

“Satine, Satine, Satine, always having an excuse, but I assure you, I am Jango Fett. But I have a gift for you.” Jango stalked closer, leaving bloody footprints behind. He reached into his bag, grasping hair securely in his gloved hand and pulling out the heavy object. He proudly showed Satine her gift with a smirk.

Satine screamed bloody murder, covering her mouth with her hands. She was now looking a bit green, swaying slightly. In his grasp was the decapitated head of Bo-Katan, her eyes gorged out and most of her hair ripped out, parts of her spine protruding from the butchered skin and flesh of her neck. Despite this, Jango had drained the blood from the head, leaving Bo-Katan’s skin and muscles white or a pale pink, the muscles having stiffened her features in a silent scream.

“I did you a favour, actually. Did you know that your dear sister was plotting to kill you? Here,” he threw the head at Satine, the head rolling until it touched the bottom of Satine’s dress and shoes. He sprayed his arms wide, raising his eyebrows. “Are you not going to thank me?”

Satine, in response, passed out, sprawling on the throne. Jango frowned, then slowly began to laugh. Satine Kryze, like most of the New Mandalorians, has hemophobia from a genetic ancestor, but Jango has always heard that the Kalevalaian’s had been inbreeding for generations, spreading a once rare gene until nearly all of Kalevala had it since they didn’t want to mingle with the ‘savages’. There was an old joke that on Kalevala you will meet a family tree made of circles. It was also why they all shared the same features of pale skin and hair.

Jango knew that Adonai, ruled his phobia, set the stage for the extremist views that most New Mandalorians followed. Instead of trying to conquer or, at the very least, try to expose themselves to de-sensitive themselves to their phobia of blood, the Kalevalaian’s decided to dig their heads in the sands, as if not confronting their phobia would mean it doesn’t exist.

Seems that the New Mandalorians seem to have a very real habit of not acknowledging very real-world issues. Like Death Watch, happily growing under their watch. Thriving, even, with the dar’manda happy to ignore any non-human children, or whose skin was slightly too dark, went missing. It was a disgusting message that they spread.

“A leader who does not acknowledge their faults is one who will fall.” Jango shakes his head, bending down to stuff the head back into his bag before picking up the limp form of Satine off the false throne, throwing her over his shoulder, no doubt smearing still liquid blood onto her dress.

He left bloody footprints behind, even as his Verd, made up of ex-Death Watch members or this universe’s Jango’s own faction, cheered at the sight of him, with the dar’manda over his shoulder like a prize.

While this universe could not even compare to his own, it still did have its benefits.

If only Arla could see him now, reclaiming their Empire. He bet she would shed a single tear.

Keldabe Cells, Keldabe Palace, Manda’yaim

Jango watches as a droid, with a sharp tipped needle, slid it into Kryze’s throat. With a small but devastating movement, Jango watches as the dar’manda’s vocal cords are severed, rendering them useless.

The droid pulls the needle back, beeping. “Procedure complete. Vocal cords severed.”

Jango hummed his approval, the droid leaving Kryze’s cell. They were deep in the bowels of the Keldabe Palace, the cells hidden and secure. Kryze was wearing sturdy clothes, their colour muted in a dull grey. Her hair was shaved, looking almost unrecognisable as the once proud Duchess.

The cell was bare, with only a small side room for a refresher, with the cot carved out of the hard rock. There was only one book in the cell, and it was Jaster Mereel’s Supercommando Codex. Anything that can even slightly used as a weapon, either to Kryze herself or to others, has been removed.

Besides, he doubts Kryze will have the strength to kill herself, given the option.

Jango watched as Kryze came to, her eyes fluttering before she woke up. She sat up sharply once she saw Jango standing, in full beskar’gam, watching her. Her mouth opened, and Jango could see her throat flexing, but no sound came out. Kryze gasped, hands reaching up to clasp at her neck.

“I had your vocal cords severed to save myself of your screeching.” Jango said to her silent question. Kryze looked horrified. “You will be in solitary confinement until I deem you suitable to leave. You will be given foam plates and cups. If you attempt to kill yourself,” Jango said, his voice dropping to a growl. “You may not suffer the consequences, but your faction will. Especially that bastard of yours.”

She stared at him, horror in her eyes. Jango leaned forward, towering over the woman. “You made Manda’yaim weak. Your ancestors are likely spinning in their graves, knowing what a daughter of Kryze has done, what you have become. Dar’manda; soulless, so you steal others. My peoples.”

Jango could see Kryze angrily say something. Judging by her lips, she was calling him a clone still, a violent killer and blah blah blah. He rolled his eyes and lowered his voice into a whisper, like he was a storyteller with an enchanted crowd. “But the thing with Dar’manda’s is that they are always hungry. You take and take, destroying our history while rewriting the book. A genocide of an entire culture. You are worse than Vizsla.

“Oh sure, he was a terrorist who kidnapped your happily unwanted and shaped them into killers and assassins, but at least he allowed his people our language, taught self-defence and used our Beskar as armour.” He leaned back, to Kryze’s visible relief. Disgust rode through him. She should not think so highly of herself; it is against the Codex to harm prisoners and Jango follows it. “You denied them everything, with a smile on your face.”

She stared back with wide eyes.

“So, I’ll do the same.” He paused. “I must say, this universe is so very weak. Weak Mandalore, weak Republic. My Satine at least had the strength to leave my Empire. Fat load of good it did for her.” He smirked, enjoying the look of confusion on her face.

Now, onto stage four: free his eyayah’ad’e and possibly conquer the Republic and the CIS while he was at. Idle hands.

Idle hands.