Chapter Text
In a galaxy far, far away, there exists something known as the Force. Many philosophers, scholars, and scientists have attempted to explain the power of the Force and what exactly it is, but none have ever been able to define it in its entirety. But what they do know is this:
The Force exists in all things in their known galaxy. Every living being has a presence in the Force, from what feels like bright sparkling lights to deep and cold shadowed darkness. The Force even flows through objects, although much less strongly. There are people of all species that can feel, influence, and sense the Force in different ways. Different cultures name these people different things, witches, star-touched, ka’ra’ade, or Force Sensitive. This “sensitivity” can technically be measured by the presence of “midi-chlorians'' in the bloodstream. People that consider themselves experts argue whether or not the presence of midi-chlorians is the true cause of the Force sensitivity or merely a correlation.
But this story isn’t about midi-chlorians or theories about the Force. It’s about the galaxy and some of the people that live there. It’s about the Jedi, a group of Force Sensitive people that worship the Force and train themselves to listen to it and use it as a tool to help and protect others. It’s about the Force itself that works in mysterious ways. It’s about how in one timeline, it could allow untold tragedy to befall the people of the galaxy. Perhaps it remained indifferent between the Light and the Dark. Perhaps it did not have the strength to guide the Light while it was strangled by the Dark. But in another time, this time, it was able to bestow a kind gift upon a child of the Light. One of it’s favorite children.
This story is about the Manda, which isn’t quite the Force but isn’t exactly not the Force. This story is about the Ka’ra, which is pretty much another confusing maybe Force entity thing. This story is about a favorite child of both the Manda and the Ka’ra. The Force, the Ka’ra, and the Manda all conspired to give this child many things and aligned events in a slightly different order than what they could’ve been. They let this child avoid many of the tragedies that could have been.
And then, the mystical and mythical entities of the galaxy threw that kid through a metaphorical trash chute on fire that led to the sewer where they forgot and left their other favorite kid.
(“Buir!!”
“What? I’m telling you the story, just like you wanted.”
“You’re telling it wrong! ”
“Am not.”
“Are too!”
“No, I’m not.”
“ Ugh! I’m getting ba’buir to tell it instead.”
“Now, ner ad—”
“You always start with the prologue and it’s always terrible, Buir!”
“A good story starts with a prologue!”
“Just skip it!”
“No.”
“Yes!”
“... no.”
“I really will get ba’buir.”
“... fine, chapter one then. But you’re missing all the important background information. And the little foreshadowing details. Really, the prologue makes the visions mentioned later on so much more narratively impactful. Not to mention—”
“I don’t care, Buir.”
“Well, I suppose we’ll just continue right along then.”)
Jango Fett, even at 13 and ¾ years old, knew that he had both jate’kara and Sith damned luck in equal measure. He had known that since he was 8, since Death Watch killed his buire but his ori’vod managed to avoid getting killed or kidnapped that day by some miracle. That fateful day that their farm and home burned down, but all of their things remained relatively unharmed. All their favorite clothes and toys and the holos of their parents. All of the gifts their buire had given them remained unharmed. Their whole village was raided and destroyed, but their mom’s forge in town was barely scratched. Buir had already made Arla her full set of beskar’gam in preparation of his sister’s verd’goten before she passed. Jango’s kom’rke were set aside in a box with them, along with a knife with one last note. All were made with haat beskar kept within the Clan Fett vaults over the generations.
Buir knew she was going to die soon. Just like Jango knew that day that he had to grab Arla to help him repair the harvester, instead of letting her practice for her verd’goten like she wanted to. He just knew he’d never see her again if he didn’t.
So, Jaster was able to save both of them while their buire died to protect them. Their parents died, but the Mand’alor himself adopted them. Jate’kara , but the worst luck imaginable for the last living Fetts. But Jango knew it was worse for him.
Whatever sense of the kara their Buir had was just a bit stronger in him than Arla. If it wasn’t for that tragedy, Jango would’ve learned to be a goran and taken after his Buir. Arla would’ve taken after their other tal’buir , becoming a Journeyman Protector for a couple of years before coming back to take care of the farm in retirement.
Now, they were the ade’be’alor . Arla had to wait until she was 14 to go on her verd’goten . It was why she wouldn’t let Jas’buir say the gai bal manda for the longest time to her, choosing to stay a House Mereel foundling until she was 16. Jango understood that Jas’buir just wanted her to be safe and extra trained in case she ran into Kyr’tsad on her first hunt, but it took her years to internalize that enough to finally forgive the perceived slight. Jango liked to think he handled the slight delay for his own verd’goten with far more grace, and he was pleasantly surprised Jaster let him go on his hunt before he turned 14 at a little over 13 and a half.
It took him two more weeks to finally find the right bounty for his first hunt and finally leave Manda’yaim on his own for the first time. The hunt was just the right amount of challenging for him to be incredibly satisfying when he turned in the criminal to the Guild. He totally understood why Arla preferred solus beroya work compared to hunting in a squad.
Of course, his luck went to osik right after he got his reward and was just swinging by the local market on the way back to his ship for a treat for himself. Just a bit of candy. Or maybe a lot. He might be legally a sort-of-adult now, but he was still allowed to have a sweet tooth!
Then, he ran into Kyr’tsad.
All of his sen’tra lessons were totally worth it! As much as Jango wanted to hold his ground and fight back, he knew he was outnumbered. Even if it was an open secret policy that a couple of adults followed you to make sure you didn’t die on your first hunt, Jango did not know where his tails were, and he didn’t want to need their help anyway. So he ran all the way back to his ship and started it up.
He totally would’ve gotten away with it too!
His ship only had a few scorch marks on it before he got the shields up. The port authority on his comms were actually really chill and supporting as he fumbled his way through steering out of atmo as fast as possible. It was his own bad luck that Death Watch had a ship already waiting to ambush him. He kind of, just maybe, panic hit some random coords into the nav before forcing his poor borrowed ship into hyperspace.
Jango hoped his jate’kara would guide him to safety. He felt a little ridiculous and silly as he closed his eyes and sent little prayers to the kara and the manda like his Goran’buir would. After a few minutes of asking the galaxy to not kill him, gedet’ye, Jango opened his eyes again.
He took a few more deep and meditative breaths before running a diagnosis on the ship’s systems. The life support system was running just fine, so he wasn’t going to die. The coolant for the hyperdrive was leaking, so he wouldn’t be able to stay in hyper long enough to make it to whatever coords he inputted. His sublight engines were only a little bit less trashed, but that meant he would have to math out how to properly limp along both his hyper and sublight in order to make it to a repair station.
Ah.
Osik.
His comm and signal relay antenna was utterly demolished. He knew he didn’t have enough parts on board to repair it. Jango was pretty good at fixing things; tinkering was still one of his favorite hobbies even after he decided he didn’t want to be a goran anymore. It was pretty much tied with drawing and painting, other hobbies he still kept up with that he started as his own self prescribed goran training.
The only other damage he was worried about was a few cracks to the hull. He wasn't losing internal pressure, but Jango was going to grab all his important things out of his cabin and close off the hallway just in case. Better safe in the cockpit than stranded in space and suffocating slowly from depressurization.
The priority was making sure he could make it to a port though, so Jango pulled up the nav system to fiddle with and adjust his coords. At first, he was a little concerned. There was a whole lot of nothing out around this sector, and he didn’t have enough in his ship to make it to Tatooine or Naboo to get a reliable repair. He had just left Llanic the wrong direction to make it to Socorro and Zhar didn't seem habitable.
Maybe the kara had really decided to kill him.
Well, actually there was a little tiny world past Zhar that was habitable and populated. His nav didn't have any other information stored on the planet, and he didn't have any signal on his ship to look it up. Couldn't get on the holonet if his antenna was down.
Jango really hoped he didn't die. His ori'vod would never forgive him if he marched on and left her as the only Fett.
Maybe his jate’kara had steered him well, and Melida/Daan was actually a safe place to repair his ship.