Chapter 27: Master Debater
The first thing I noticed about Jabba's throne room—my throne room now—was that it didn't actually have a throne.
That probably should have been obvious in hindsight.
Jabba the Hutt hadn't needed a chair. He had been the chair. The furniture. The architecture. The slow, obscene inevitability of gravity made flesh. His dais had been less a seat and more a geological feature, a raised platform designed to accommodate an organism whose primary hobby was taking up space and daring the universe to object.
I, unfortunately, was a humanoid.
I had knees. A spine. Joints that complained if I stood too long, and a lower back that had been through Sith training, Force rituals, lightning mishaps, and one truly ill-advised night sleeping on Korriban stone without a bedroll. The idea of ruling an entire criminal empire while standing indefinitely had sounded dramatic at first.
It sounded significantly less appealing after hour three.
I stood at the base of the dais, hands clasped behind my back, staring up at the empty platform where Jabba had once loomed. Without him, it looked… smaller. Less oppressive. Like a stage that had lost its lead actor and was now waiting awkwardly for direction.
Power, I was rapidly learning, was incredibly aesthetic-dependent.
A throne wasn't just a place to sit. It was a statement. A symbol. It said this is where authority rests, and more importantly, this is where you look when you want permission to breathe. Thrones were propaganda made out of furniture.
They were also supposed to be usable.
I imagined something tall, dark, angular. Not spiky—absolutely not spiky. I had learned from observation and experience that spikes were the furniture equivalent of screaming insecurity. Nothing said "I am deeply uncomfortable with myself" like a chair actively trying to murder its occupant.
Don't get me wrong, I want Game of Thrones vibes, for sure. Intimidating silhouette. Heavy materials. Maybe some subtle Sith runework. But also something I could sit in for hours without impaling my ass, back, and pretty much everything else.
This really shouldn't have been a controversial stance.
"Statement," HK-55 said from my left, optics glowing faintly red as it surveyed the room. "This unit recommends immediate throne construction utilizing compressed remains of enemies. Symbolism: optimal. Deterrence factor: high."
I didn't even turn my head. "No."
"Clarification," another HK chimed in helpfully. "Armrests may be fitted with captive beasts for added intimidation."
I blinked. Slowly.
"…what kind of beast," I asked, against my better judgment. "Would fit in an armrest? Alive?"
There was a brief pause as several HK units processed the question.
"Suggestion," HK-55 replied. "Snakes."
I grimaced. "Absolutely not."
"Addendum," it continued, unfazed. "Alternative beasts include: akk dogs, nexu, or one (1) restrained Gamorrean."
"I'm not arm-wresting a Gamorrean every time I want to sit down," I said flatly. "One, because there's no way it'd fit. Two, because it's stupid. And just so we're on the same page, do not put snakes in my throne. I hate snakes."
"Query," HK-55 said. "Clarification requested: Does hatred of snakes stem from childhood trauma, tactical inefficiency, or aesthetic distaste?"
"All three," I said. "Moving on."
Maris lounged against a pillar nearby, arms crossed, black robes hanging loose in a way that suggested she'd never once considered them a uniform. Her eyes flicked between the HK units and me, a grin slowly spreading across her face.
"I kind of like the beast armrest idea," she said. "Very you. Very Sith."
"It is not very me," I replied.
She shrugged. "Agree to disagree."
Aurra Sing stood a little apart from us, leaning against the wall with her rifle slung casually over one shoulder. She watched the exchange with the faintly bemused expression of someone who still wasn't entirely sure how she'd ended up here, in a palace she'd helped conquer, listening to Sith Lords argue about interior design.
"I don't care what you sit on," she said eventually. "As long as it doesn't explode."
"That's a very low bar," Maris said.
"I've lived a dangerous life," Aurra replied. "Furniture explosions rank higher on my list than you'd think."
I exhaled through my nose and looked back up at the dais.
The throne could wait.
Governance could not.
"Alright," I said. "Next item."
HK-55 straightened marginally. "Statement: Administrative queue updated. First petitioners awaiting audience."
I frowned. "Already?"
"Confirmation," it replied. "Subjects: Twi'lek performers formerly employed by the Hutt."
That… was not what I'd expected.
"Send them in," I said after a beat.
The doors at the far end of the throne room opened, and a small group of Twi'leks entered hesitantly. They moved like people who were used to walking into rooms where the wrong step could get them killed. Shoulders tight. Eyes flicking constantly to the HK units lining the walls.
I hated that look.
They stopped several meters away, unsure how close they were allowed to approach. One of them—a woman with pale blue skin and lekku adorned with modest jewelry—stepped forward.
"We were told," she began carefully, "that we could petition for… employment. We would like to… resume, our previous roles. My lord."
I blinked. "You want your jobs back?"
She nodded. "Yes. If possible."
I stared at her for a second longer than was polite.
"I assumed," I said slowly, "that none of you would ever want to set foot in this palace again."
There was a murmur of agreement among them. The woman hesitated, then squared her shoulders.
"It wasn't the dancing," she said. "We love dancing. It was… everything else."
The unspoken words hung heavy in the air. The chains. The skimpy outfits chosen for someone else's pleasure. The ever-present threat of punishment if Jabba got bored, or angry, or simply hungry.
"We want to perform," she continued. "On our terms. Clothed. Paid. Without the risk of execution."
I felt something twist in my chest. Surprise, mostly. And something dangerously close to respect.
"That seems," I said carefully, "entirely reasonable."
Maris's eyes lit up. "Oh! Can I watch rehearsals?"
The Twi'lek woman blinked. "I… suppose?"
"Excellent," Maris said brightly. "I want to study your footwork. You never know when that kind of agility will come in handy in a fight."
"Alright." I deterred, before I could visualize Maris suddenly breakdancing with a lightsaber. "That's two votes in favor. Aurra?"
The former bounty hunter, turned Sith Lord, snorted softly.
"I don't see why my opinion matters," she said.
"It does," I replied immediately.
Aurra looked at me, genuinely startled.
"You're on the Sith Council," I continued. "Every voice matters."
Maris tilted her head. "Also, it means you share responsibility when this all goes horribly wrong."
"That's not comforting," Aurra said.
"It is to me," I replied.
The Twi'leks exchanged glances, cautious hope flickering across their faces.
"Then," the woman said, "you'll allow it?"
"Yes," I said. "With one condition."
They stiffened.
"You are performers," I said. "Not property. If at any point this place becomes something you don't want to be part of, you leave. No consequences. No questions."
Silence.
Then the woman bowed, deeply and sincerely.
"Thank you," she said.
As they were escorted out—politely, by HK units that seemed deeply confused by the concept—I let myself finally sit.
Not on a throne.
On the edge of the dais.
It wasn't dignified. It wasn't symbolic. It was just… practical.
I looked around the room. The banners were gone. The blood had been cleaned. The fear was still there, clinging to the stone like a stain that would take time to scrub out.
This place had been built to glorify a monster.
Now it would have to learn how to function without one.
I rested my elbows on my knees and stared at the empty space where a throne would eventually go.
"Yeah," I muttered to myself. "We're going to screw this up."
HK-55 leaned closer. "Statement: Probability of error assessed at ninety-seven percent."
I smiled faintly.
"At least," I said, "this time I won't be screwing it up alone."
There was… some comfort in that.
...
Jango Fett had killed men for less than this.
That thought drifted through his mind with the same idle calm he usually reserved for calculating firing angles or estimating how long someone had left to bleed out. It wasn't anger yet. Anger was loud. This was something colder. Something simmering. The quiet, grinding irritation of a professional being disrespected by a system that clearly did not care who he was, what he had done, or how many corpses were currently decorating his résumé.
Slave I drifted through hyperspace, its engines humming steadily beneath his boots. The cockpit lights were dimmed low, reflecting faintly off the scarred beskar plates of his armor, which lay partially disassembled on the rack behind him. Jango sat in the pilot's chair with his helmet resting beside him, arms folded, jaw tight, staring at the holoprojector as if sustained eye contact alone might intimidate it into compliance.
The contract had been clean.
Textbook, even.
Target acquired. Target eliminated. Proof delivered. No witnesses that mattered. Jabba the Hutt had wanted a problem removed from his territory, and Jango Fett had removed it with extreme prejudice and a reasonable amount of collateral damage. Exactly the sort of job the Hutts loved to outsource so they could pretend they were still respectable crime lords with clean metaphorical hands.
Payment had been agreed upon in advance. A tidy sum, transferred through one of Jabba's many shell accounts. Jango had waited the customary grace period—long enough to be polite, not long enough to look desperate—before initiating the collection process.
That had been three hours ago.
The holoprojector flickered, then resolved into the bloated, grinning visage of a Hutt cartoon avatar, rendered in aggressively cheerful colors that should have been illegal.
"Greetings, valued contractor!" the recorded voice boomed, slick and oily, dripping with synthetic enthusiasm. "Thank you for contacting the Desilijic Tiure Automated Contract Resolution Network! Your violence is important to us."
Jango's jaw tightened.
The voice continued, undeterred.
"To report a completed contract, please press one. To request additional thermal detonators, please press two. To report a faulty credit line, please press three. For ritual blood-debt arbitration, please press four. For all other inquiries, including curses, vendettas, and spontaneous declarations of war, please remain on the line."
Jango pressed one.
The system chirped happily.
"You have selected: Report a completed contract! Please note: failure to submit proper documentation may result in delayed payment, reduced payment, or execution. Have a profitable day!"
The image dissolved, replaced by a scrolling list of sub-options.
Jango stared at it.
"Specify contract type," the voice droned. "Press one for assassination. Press two for kidnapping. Press three for intimidation. Press four for property destruction. Press five for moral corruption. Press six for ritual humiliation. Press seven for experimental."
"Experimental?" Jango muttered under his breath. He pressed one.
Another pause. Another chirp.
"Please confirm method of termination. Press one for blaster fire. Press two for explosives. Press three for melee weapons. Press four for environmental hazard. Press five for deniable accident. Press six for creature involvement."
Jango's fingers hovered.
Creature involvement technically applied. The target had been fed to something with far too many teeth and a temper problem. But the Hutts had opinions about semantics, and the last thing he needed was some bureaucratic slug arguing that a rancor didn't count as a weapon.
He pressed four.
"Environmental hazard selected!" the voice chirped. "Please specify environment. Press one for vacuum exposure. Press two for extreme heat. Press three for extreme cold. Press four for corrosive substances. Press five for fauna-related hazards."
Jango exhaled slowly through his nose.
"Fauna-related hazards," he repeated flatly, and pressed five.
There was a pause. A longer one this time.
Then—
"We're sorry! That option requires additional verification. Please remain on the line while we transfer you to a specialist."
The screen faded to black.
Music began to play.
It was a jaunty little tune, heavy on the woodwinds, punctuated by what sounded suspiciously like bongos. The kind of music designed by someone who had never been in a firefight and assumed all stress could be cured with a catchy melody.
Jango leaned back in his chair, arms crossing tighter.
He checked the time display.
Thirty seconds passed.
A minute.
Two.
His fingers tapped against the armrest in a slow, measured rhythm. Not impatience. Calculation. The same tempo he used when timing explosives.
At the three-minute mark, the music cut out.
"Did you know?" the cheerful voice returned. "Jabba the Hutt values long-term partnerships! Contractors who complete five successful jobs may qualify for our Platinum Enforcer Program, including priority queue access and complimentary beverages!"
Jango snorted softly. "I don't drink."
"Please continue to hold," the voice said brightly. "Your estimated wait time is… indeterminate."
The music resumed.
Jango closed his eyes.
He thought about all the places he would rather be. Tracking a mark through Coruscant's underlevels. Sitting in a foxhole under mortar fire. Having dental work done without anesthetic.
The hold music looped.
His patience did not.
Just as he leaned forward to cancel the call entirely and reroute through a more direct method of debt collection, the console chimed.
Incoming transmission.
Caller ID: BOBA
Jango's eyes snapped open.
"No," he muttered.
The incoming call overlay flickered insistently, the system helpfully informing him that answering would terminate his current session.
Jango growled.
Boba had been told not to call unless it was important. Truly important. Ship-on-fire important. Kidnapped-by-Force-users important.
This was not the time.
He ignored it.
The call chimed again.
The hold music stuttered, then restarted from the beginning.
Jango's fingers curled into fists.
The call chimed a third time.
The holoprojector blinked.
The customer service system reset.
"Greetings, valued contractor!" the Hutt avatar beamed anew. "Thank you for contacting—"
Jango cut the transmission.
The cockpit fell silent, save for the low hum of the engines.
For a long moment, he just sat there, staring at the blank holoprojector, breathing slowly, deliberately, the way he did before pulling a trigger.
Then he accepted the incoming call.
Boba's hologram flickered to life in front of him, crisp and steady. His son stood straight-backed, helmet under one arm, expression calm in a way that would have worried anyone who didn't know him better.
"Dad," Boba said evenly.
Jango glared at him. "This better be good."
Boba blinked once, unruffled. "Jabba's dead."
Silence crashed down like a dropped detonator.
The words hung there, suspended between them, refusing to make sense.
Jango's mind rejected them outright. Filed them under impossible. Jabba the Hutt didn't just die. He was a constant. A fixture. Like gravity. Like taxes. Like crime itself.
"What?" Jango said.
"Jabba's dead. I think a rival crime lord fed him to his own rancor." Boba continued, tone maddeningly level. "You do some jobs for him, so I thought you'd want to know."
Jango stared at the hologram.
The implications began to stack, one on top of another, heavy and sharp and very expensive.
No Jabba meant no payment.
No payment meant contracts in limbo, accounts frozen, assets contested by every Hutt cousin with a pulse and a lawyer.
It meant chaos.
It meant opportunity.
It meant that somewhere, someone stupid or brave or both had just kicked over the largest crime syndicate in the Outer Rim and lived long enough to start issuing orders.
Jango dragged a hand down his face.
"…fuck," he said quietly.
He looked back at the darkened holoprojector, already imagining the customer service labyrinth he'd have to navigate now that Jabba's accounts were probably locked, audited, or being actively looted by rivals.
No reward was worth this.
Whatever.
It's not like he didn't have plenty of other jobs on the table. Speaking of which, time to get back to work. Now… where was he?
...
The Mandalorian Council Chamber had been designed for war.
Satine knew that as surely as she knew the pattern of the tiles beneath her boots, or the way sound carried too cleanly in the open space, each word echoing just a heartbeat longer than comfort allowed. The chamber was circular, its high vaulted ceiling supported by armored columns etched with the sigils of ancient clans. Banners hung between them—symbols of houses that had once measured their worth in conquest and bloodshed rather than votes and speeches.
It was a room meant for shouting, for challenges thrown like gauntlets, for decisions carved into history with the edge of a blade.
She stood at its center anyway, hands folded calmly at her waist.
Around her, the council seats were nearly full. Ministers, governors, clan representatives—some armored, some robed, some caught awkwardly between the two. Their faces reflected the spectrum she had come to expect whenever Mandalore stood at the edge of something transformative: skepticism, pride, fear, hope.
Beyond them, slightly set apart, sat the Republic delegation.
Satine did not look at them yet.
She began without flourish.
"Mandalore has extended an offer of citizenship to the clone troopers currently under Republic authority," she said, her voice carrying easily through the chamber. "This council has asked for a full moral and legal justification before proceeding further. I intend to provide it."
A murmur rippled outward, then faded.
Satine lifted her chin a fraction.
"The clones are sentient beings," she continued. "They think. They feel. They question. They dream—quietly, perhaps, because no one has ever told them they were allowed to. But they do so nonetheless."
One of the councilors leaned forward, beskar plates whispering softly as he moved. "They were engineered," he said. "Created for a singular purpose. War."
"So were we," Satine replied smoothly, turning toward him at last. "By history. By expectation. By the will of those who conquered us and told us what Mandalore was allowed to be."
That landed.
She could feel it, the way truth always did when it struck armor not designed to stop it.
"The clones were born," Satine went on. "Not assembled on a factory line, but carried, grown, and delivered into the world. Accelerated aging does not negate birth any more than harsh training negates childhood. If it did, Mandalore would have no children at all."
Several heads inclined, almost despite themselves.
She paced slowly as she spoke, measured steps echoing faintly across the polished floor. This was not theater. It was rhythm. Giving her words time to breathe.
"They did not choose their creator. They did not choose their intended use. And now, without a war to justify their existence, they are being discussed as a problem to be solved."
Her gaze swept the room.
"Mandalore understands what it means to be defined by outsiders."
That one drew a deeper reaction.
A few councilors shifted. Others stiffened. One woman in crimson-trimmed armor closed her eyes briefly, jaw tightening.
Satine let the silence stretch.
"We were once labeled savages. Warmongers. A threat to galactic stability," she said. "We were told our culture was too dangerous to be allowed autonomy. Too violent to be trusted with its own future."
She stopped walking.
"And now, the Republic looks at the clones and says the same thing."
The Republic delegation stirred.
Satine finally turned her attention to them.
The lead representative—a balding man with an impeccable robe and the look of someone who had never been forced to defend his home with a blaster—cleared his throat.
"Duchess Kryze," he began carefully, "the Republic does not deny the clones'… awareness. However, granting them citizenship en masse raises concerns about regional stability. Mandalore has only recently declared independence. Introducing a population trained exclusively for combat—"
"—is not destabilizing when you do it?" Satine asked mildly.
The man hesitated.
Obi-Wan, seated just behind the Republic delegation, watched her with an expression Satine knew too well. Pride, unmistakable and bright. Worry, just beneath it, like a shadow at noon.
She did not look at him. Not yet.
"Our offer does not involve arming the clones," Satine continued. "Nor does it involve conscripting them into Mandalorian service. It offers education. Civilian integration. Choice. Something they have never been given."
Another Republic representative leaned forward, this one younger, sharper. "With respect, Duchess, the optics alone—"
"—do not outweigh personhood," Satine interrupted. Her tone remained gentle, but the words cut cleanly. "If the Republic's concern is how it looks to allow sentient beings autonomy, then I would suggest the problem lies not with Mandalore."
A few Mandalorian councilors smiled despite themselves.
Padmé Amidala sat very still among the Republic delegation, hands folded, posture perfect. Her expression was conflicted in a way Satine recognized immediately. Joy, yes. But also fear—not for herself, but for the consequences that would ripple outward from a decision like this.
Satine's gaze softened when it met Padmé's.
She could not begrudge her that fear. It was a terrible feeling, being torn between doing what was right and doing what was right for your people.
It was a feeling Satine knew all too well.
"The clones have been denied citizenship everywhere else," Satine said, turning back to the chamber as a whole. "They exist in a legal void. Owned, commanded, and discarded without recourse. Mandalore has spent decades dismantling systems that treated people as tools."
Her voice steadied further, anchored by conviction rather than emotion.
"We will not recreate those systems simply because the victims wear identical faces."
One of the more conservative councilors spoke up then, voice edged with caution. "And if the Republic responds with sanctions? With force?"
Satine met his gaze evenly. "Then they will have to explain to the galaxy why they oppose the emancipation of sentient beings who have committed no crime."
A murmur of agreement spread, louder this time.
Obi-Wan shifted slightly in his seat. Satine felt his attention like a gentle pressure at her back. She did not need to see him to know his thoughts were racing ahead, mapping possibilities, dangers, compromises.
She allowed herself the smallest internal smile.
She had been a warrior once. She knew how they thought.
"And let us be clear," Satine continued. "This is not an act of provocation. It is an act of consistency. Mandalore cannot claim to stand for autonomy, dignity, and self-determination while denying those principles to others simply because it is inconvenient."
The Republic's lead representative tried again. "The Senate will require time to deliberate—"
"They have had time," Satine said. "The clones have not."
That did it.
The chamber tilted, subtly but unmistakably, in her favor. Councilors who had arrived undecided now leaned forward, engaged. Those opposed found fewer allies meeting their eyes.
Satine felt the momentum build, steady and sure.
She was winning.
Not because she was loud. Not because she was forceful.
But because the argument was sound, and Mandalore—new Mandalore, at least—had learned the hard way what happened when you let others decide who counted as a person.
She concluded without flourish.
"Mandalore will not be complicit in denying personhood to those who possess it," she said. "We have lived that injustice. We will not perpetuate it."
Silence followed.
Then, one by one, councilors nodded.
Because Satine Kryze had just placed Mandalore squarely on the right side of history.
And history, Satine knew better than anyone, always demanded a price.
...
Jango Fett had never liked rooms like this.
Too clean. Too open. Too many places for sound to echo and meaning to get twisted. War rooms made sense—maps, targets, angles of approach. You knew where you stood. Council chambers were worse than cantinas, because at least in a cantina someone eventually threw a punch.
This place just let the tension rot.
He stood near the back of the chamber, helmet tucked under one arm, armor polished but scarred enough that no one mistook him for ceremonial. Beskar carried memory. Every dent was a conversation he'd survived. Every scratch a reminder that ideals didn't stop blaster bolts.
He'd arrived halfway through the debate.
Long enough to know Satine Kryze was winning.
That grated more than it should have.
She stood at the center of the chamber like she owned gravity itself, calm and composed, words precise as surgical cuts. Jango listened as she spoke about personhood, about choice, about Mandalore's history of being defined by outsiders.
All true.
All infuriating.
Because she was talking about clones.
And Jango had spent his entire life trying not to be someone else's echo.
He felt eyes turn toward him as he stepped forward, the faint scrape of beskar boots against polished stone cutting through the chamber's quiet. A few councilors stiffened. Some recognized him instantly. Others clocked the armor and decided he was a problem on principle.
Obi-Wan Kenobi noticed him immediately.
That was mutual.
The Jedi sat straighter, attention snapping to Jango like a reflex he'd never quite shaken. Jango resisted the urge to bare his teeth. They'd never crossed paths before. But it seemed their reputations preceded each other. Vehemently.
Satine paused mid-thought as Jango approached the outer ring of the council floor.
"Duchess," he said, voice steady, carrying without effort. "Councilors."
She turned to face him, blue eyes sharp but not unkind. That almost made it worse.
"Jango Fett," Satine said. "I wasn't aware you were attending."
"I wasn't," he replied. "But my name keeps coming up. Seemed rude not to answer."
A ripple of unease passed through the room.
Jango shifted his weight, thumb hooking casually into his belt. He could feel the tension coil tighter with every second he stood there uninvited.
Good.
"I'll keep this simple," he said. "The clones are not Mandalorians."
There it was.
The chamber reacted immediately—some bristling, some nodding, some frowning as they recalibrated.
"They didn't grow up in the culture," Jango continued. "They didn't learn the stories. They didn't take the creed by choice. They didn't earn the armor or the name."
His gaze swept the council.
"They were raised in a lab. Trained to follow orders. Told who they were before they ever had the chance to decide."
His jaw tightened.
"That's not Mandalorian. That's a weapon."
He felt it then—that familiar, ugly twist in his gut. Not anger. Something closer to grief.
Because every clone out there had his face.
And none of them had his life.
Jango had chosen the armor. Chosen the creed. Chosen to survive in a galaxy that tried to grind him down into something useful for someone else.
The clones hadn't been given that chance.
Satine studied him for a long moment before responding. When she spoke, her tone was even—measured in a way that told him she wasn't about to make this personal.
That stung too.
"Jango," she said, "no one here is claiming the clones are Mandalorians by inheritance."
A few councilors shifted at that, attention sharpening.
"Mandalore is not a bloodline," Satine continued. "It is not something passed from parent to child like a title or a weapon."
Her eyes met his, unflinching.
"It is a choice."
Jango felt the chamber lean in.
"Citizenship," she said, "is not a reward for upbringing. It is a commitment to shared values. To belief. To belonging."
She gestured subtly around the room. "Our people know better than most that identity imposed is identity denied."
Damn her.
Jango exhaled slowly through his nose. "Belief doesn't grow in a vacuum," he said. "You can't just hand someone a culture and call it real."
"No," Satine agreed. "But you can invite them into one."
That landed harder than he expected.
Jango shifted again, irritation flaring—not at her words, but at the way the room reacted. Councilors who had nodded at his initial statement now hesitated. Some frowned, reconsidering. The momentum was slipping through his fingers.
"You're talking about soldiers," he said. "Men bred for war. You put beskar on them, give them a banner, and you think that doesn't change things?"
"I think denying them choice changes things far more," Satine replied.
Jango opened his mouth to retort—
—and stopped.
Because somewhere deep down, beneath the contracts and the armor and the carefully curated distance, he knew exactly what she meant.
Choice mattered.
It was the only reason he was still himself.
The irony twisted sharp and unpleasant in his chest. He hadn't meant to argue against choice. He'd meant to argue for Mandalore. For something earned.
But the more he spoke, the clearer it became that he was standing in front of a people who had rebuilt their entire identity around the right to choose differently.
And they were listening to her.
Not him.
A flicker of something colder passed through his thoughts then—an echo of conversations half-listened to, plans outlined in broad strokes by men who liked to think five steps ahead. Tyranus, with his velvet voice and promises of a galaxy remade. Clones. A war. Jedi wiped out in the aftermath.
Jango didn't need the details.
He just needed the end result.
And for that to work, the clones needed to stay right where they were—owned, commanded, pointed like a gun.
He pushed the thought away as best he could.
"Fine," he said gruffly. "Offer them citizenship. Let them choose."
Satine inclined her head slightly. "That is all we are asking."
Jango looked around the chamber. At the nods. At the quiet resolve settling in.
He'd miscalculated.
Badly.
The debate hadn't just swung back toward Satine.
It had locked there.
He straightened, armor creaking softly. "Just don't pretend this doesn't come with consequences," he said. "Mandalore won't stay untouched by this."
Satine met his gaze, unwavering. "It never has," she said. "That has never stopped us from trying to be better."
Silence followed.
Jango turned on his heel and walked away, the echo of his steps swallowed by the chamber's vastness.
If he'd been anyone else—anyone less invested in how the galaxy was about to burn—he might have felt pride.
His people had chosen principle over fear.
Instead, all he felt was the creeping realization that things were no longer going according to plan.
And that, more than anything else, ruined his day.
...
Bo-Katan Kryze learned a long time ago how to keep her face still.
It was a necessary skill when you lived among zealots who mistook volume for conviction and violence for truth. When you were surrounded by warriors who believed that the louder a man shouted about honor, the less he needed to actually embody it. When you stood a few steps behind Pre Vizsla long enough to learn that leadership, in Death Watch, was less about strength and more about who people were afraid to disagree with.
She stood now at the edge of the chamber, arms folded, helmet clipped to her belt, weight settled into one hip with the casual posture of someone who didn't need to prove she belonged there.
The room itself was carved out of Mandalore's bones.
Old stone. Reinforced durasteel ribs. Power conduits snaking along the walls like veins. The lighting was low by design, casting everything in shades of iron and shadow. A place meant for secrecy. For plotting. For remembering the Mandalore that had been taken from them.
At the center of the room, a holoprojector glowed.
Satine Kryze's voice echoed faintly from it, carried across light-years and political theater alike.
"…Mandalore will not be complicit in denying personhood to those who possess it…"
Bo-Katan didn't flinch.
She didn't interrupt.
She didn't snort, or scoff, or bare her teeth the way some of the others did. She didn't cross her arms tighter or shift her stance or do anything that would betray the tight coil winding in her chest.
She listened.
Around her, the cell did not share her restraint.
One of the men near the projector muttered something under his breath about weakness. Another scoffed openly when Satine spoke of choice. A woman in crimson-marked armor shook her head, lips curling with disdain.
Pre Vizsla said nothing.
That was what set Bo-Katan on edge.
He stood at the head of the chamber, arms clasped behind his back, helm tucked under one arm, hairless scalp bare to the world. The Darksaber hung at his hip, inert but heavy with implication. He watched the projection like a man studying a battlefield schematic—silent, analytical, already thinking three moves ahead.
Bo-Katan's jaw tightened.
She knew that look.
She had seen it when he listened to reports of New Mandalorian victories. When he absorbed casualty counts. When he weighed whether a symbol was more useful alive or dead.
Satine continued, her voice steady, infuriatingly calm.
"…identity imposed is identity denied…"
Bo-Katan bit the inside of her cheek hard enough to taste blood.
Stars, Satine.
She always sounded like that. Like she believed words could be armor. Like reason alone could stop a blade already in motion. Like Mandalore's past was something that could be apologized away instead of survived.
Bo-Katan had spent years telling herself she hated that about her sister.
That it was naïve. That it was weak. That it was the reason Mandalore had been conquered in the first place.
But listening to her now—really listening—something old and uncomfortable stirred beneath the armor she'd built around herself.
Because Satine wasn't wrong.
That was the worst part.
The clones were sentient. Anyone with eyes and half a brain could see that. Men bred for war, yes—but still men. Still people. Still capable of choosing something else, if they were ever given the chance.
Bo-Katan didn't like the idea of Mandalore taking them in. It complicated things. It shifted the balance. It risked turning every Republic eye their way.
But she understood it.
And that understanding made her angry in a way she didn't quite know what to do with.
The projection shifted.
Jango Fett stepped into view.
Bo-Katan's spine straightened despite herself.
So, she thought. He actually showed up.
She knew the man, of course. Everyone had. The most dangerous bounty hunter in the galaxy. The man whose face now belonged to an entire secret army. Mandalorian by creed, if not by birth—though that line had always been blurry, and everyone here knew it.
She watched him speak. Watched the room react. Watched Pre Vizsla's shoulders tense almost imperceptibly as Fett challenged Satine's argument.
This, at least, felt familiar.
Weapons. Culture earned through blood and choice. Armor as something you took on, not something handed to you.
Bo-Katan found herself nodding along despite herself.
And then Satine answered him.
Not with anger. Not with dismissal.
With an invitation.
Bo-Katan's fingers curled slowly against her forearm.
The chamber grew quiet as the debate tipped. She could feel it—the subtle shift in momentum, the way conviction spread through a room like a pressure change. Councilors leaning forward. Postures softening. Doubt taking root where certainty had stood.
Satine was winning.
Bo-Katan glanced at Pre Vizsla.
His jaw was tight now. His eyes sharp.
There it is.
When the projection finally cut out, the silence in the chamber stretched long and heavy.
No one spoke at first.
Pre Vizsla turned slowly, surveying the room.
"They're going to pass it," someone said finally, voice rough with barely restrained fury. "You saw them. The council's already made up its mind."
"Theyy think they their getting themselves an army, but all their doing is handing Mandalore back to the Republic," another spat. "So much for our independence.'"
Bo-Katan said nothing.
Pre Vizsla stepped forward.
"If Satine Kryze wins this," he said calmly, "Mandalore changes forever."
The words settled like a verdict.
"She will bind us to the Republic in everything but name," he continued. "She will dilute our culture, our strength, our identity—until Mandalore becomes a symbol instead of a power."
A murmur of agreement rippled through the room.
Bo-Katan felt it too. The fear underneath the anger. The sense of something slipping out of reach.
Pre Vizsla's gaze hardened.
"We cannot allow that."
There it was.
Orders followed swiftly after.
Disruptions. Sabotage. Pressure points identified within the capital. Supply lines mapped. Patrol schedules flagged. Contingencies layered atop contingencies, each one darker than the last.
An accident.
A misfire.
A moment of chaos at precisely the wrong time.
Bo-Katan listened, face impassive, committing every word to memory.
She did not object when the word assassination entered the room.
She did not argue when Satine's name was spoken in that careful, distant way men used when trying to convince themselves they weren't talking about a person.
She kept her mouth shut.
Because shouting wouldn't stop this.
Because outrage wouldn't derail it.
Because Pre Vizsla had already decided.
But beneath the calm, beneath the disciplined stillness, something else was taking shape.
A second plan.
One Pre Vizsla didn't see.
One he wouldn't see.
Because if anyone was going to get close enough to Satine Kryze to kill her—
It would be Bo-Katan.
Not that she was going to.
Stars above, no.
She wasn't a monster.
She was a bad sister, maybe. A stubborn one. A furious one. One who had chosen the wrong side of history more than once and doubled down out of pride.
But she wasn't that bad.
No one was killing Satine on her watch.
Bo-Katan straightened as Pre Vizsla dismissed the cell, warriors filtering out in grim, purposeful silence. She waited until the room thinned, until only the hum of machinery and the weight of stone remained.
She unclipped her helmet and held it under her arm, fingers tightening around the edge.
Mandalore was changing.
That much was inevitable.
The question was whether it would survive the process.
And whether Bo-Katan Kryze would be brave enough—or ruthless enough—to make sure her sister lived long enough to see it.
She exhaled slowly, steadying herself.
You always did make things complicated, Satine
...
The first lie Anakin Skywalker told on this trip was that they were going to Mandalore to help Obi-Wan.
He said it with a straight face, too, which was impressive in the same way juggling lightsabers while blindfolded was impressive—technically difficult, undeniably dangerous, and doomed to end badly.
Ahsoka sat cross-legged in one of the Republic cruiser's side compartments, datapad balanced on her knees, pretending very hard to read a treatise on Mandalorian constitutional history. She was fairly certain it had been assigned by someone, at some point, for some reason. That made it perfect camouflage.
Across from her, Anakin paced.
He wasn't subtle about it.
He never was.
Back and forth, boots striking the deck in an uneven rhythm. Too fast to be calm. Too restrained to be openly frantic. He kept stopping like he was about to say something, then thinking better of it and starting up again, hands flexing at his sides.
Ahsoka did not look up.
If she made eye contact, he would talk.
And if he talked, it would be about her.
Not her as in Ahsoka. Her as in Senator Amidala. Padmé. The person Anakin Skywalker thought about with an intensity that could probably be detected from orbit.
They'd had this conversation before. Many times. Usually against her will.
"We should review Obi-Wan's briefing again," Anakin said eventually, stopping short and glancing her way.
Ahsoka hummed noncommittally, eyes still on the datapad.
"You mean the one where he explicitly told you not to come?" she asked mildly.
Anakin scoffed. "He didn't say not to come."
"He said, and I quote, 'This is a delicate political situation and does not require additional Jedi involvement,'" Ahsoka replied. She flicked the datapad with one finger, scrolling. "'Please remain on Coruscant.'"
"That's open to interpretation."
Ahsoka finally looked up at him.
He grinned, sheepish and bright and entirely unrepentant.
She sighed.
The thing was, Anakin wasn't stupid. Not even close. He was brilliant, actually—brilliant in the way people were when they felt things too hard and tried to outrun that fact by being cleverer than everyone else in the room.
Which made it all the more frustrating that he was lying so badly.
"You're not here for Obi-Wan," she said flatly.
Anakin waved a hand. "That's not—"
"You're here for Padmé."
He froze.
Ahsoka watched the truth land in his face like a dropped crate. Surprise first, then resignation, then the faintly offended look he always got when someone pointed out something he'd been hoping would go unnoticed.
"That's not fair," he said.
"It's extremely fair," she replied. "It's also extremely obvious."
Anakin ran a hand through his hair, scowling. "I can care about more than one thing at a time."
"Sure," Ahsoka said. "But right now, you care about one thing louder."
He opened his mouth, closed it, then huffed out a breath and leaned back against the bulkhead.
"Okay," he admitted. "Yes. Fine. Padmé is on Mandalore. But Obi-Wan is also on Mandalore. So, it only makes sense that we'd both be there."
"Except only one of you was sent there," Ahsoka said. "And that one was not you. And yet, you're going anyway."
Anakin shot her a look. "I'm sorry, did I miss the part where you agreed to come along? Because I'm pretty sure I have your written consent somewhere."
She grimaced. "I'm coming so I can hide behind responsible adults and not listen to you angst about your feelings."
"That's not—"
"It is exactly that."
Ahsoka set the datapad aside and stretched her legs, montrals flicking irritably behind her.
"Do you know how weird it is," she continued, "to be thirteen and somehow the emotionally stable one in this conversation?"
Anakin frowned. "I'm emotionally stable."
"You once punched a training dummy so hard you broke your hand because Obi-Wan told you to be patient," she said.
"It was a very condescending training dummy."
She snorted despite herself.
That was the thing about Anakin. He was exhausting. He was reckless. He was a walking disaster waiting for the right moment to happen.
And she liked him.
She hated that she liked him.
He flopped down onto a crate opposite her, elbows on his knees, expression sobering.
"I just… don't like not knowing what's going on," he said quietly. "Everyone's being careful. Political. Obi-Wan won't say anything useful. The Council's tiptoeing around the clones like they're a bomb waiting to go off."
Ahsoka's smile faded.
She felt it too.
Not the details. Not the politics. But the undercurrent.
Something was wrong.
She'd felt it the moment they'd entered hyperspace, the Force shifting around them like a current changing direction without warning. Not dark, exactly. Not yet.
But tense.
Like a held breath.
"Mandalore feels… tight," she said slowly.
Anakin tilted his head. "Tight?"
She gestured vaguely, searching for the right words. "Like everything's pulled too close. Like it's trying very hard to stay balanced."
"That's politics," Anakin said easily. "Mandalore's always like that."
Ahsoka frowned. "No. This is different."
He waved it off. "You're overthinking it."
She shot him a look. "I'm a Jedi. That's literally the job."
He smiled, that easy, confident grin that had talked him out of trouble more times than she could count.
"Relax," he said. "We'll land, Obi-Wan will scowl at me, Padmé will give a speech, everyone will argue, and then we'll leave."
Ahsoka wasn't convinced.
The Force hummed around them, subtle but insistent, like static just beneath the skin. She could feel it even now, a low vibration that made her montrals twitch and her thoughts refuse to settle.
She'd felt something similar before.
On Korriban.
She pushed the thought away quickly.
Ben and Maris were fine. They had PROXY droids. They had a plan. They always had a plan, even when the plan was terrible.
Probably especially then.
"You're ignoring it again," she said.
"I'm prioritizing," Anakin replied.
"That's what you call it when you don't like what the Force is telling you."
He stiffened slightly.
"That's not fair."
She sighed. "Maybe not. But it's true."
Anakin stood again, pacing resuming with renewed intensity.
"You sound like Obi-Wan."
"I've been told I have that effect on people," she said dryly.
The ship shuddered gently as it dropped out of hyperspace.
Mandalore filled the viewport—steel-gray skies, layered cities, the planet's surface scarred and fortified in equal measure. Beautiful in a severe, dangerous way.
Ahsoka's chest tightened.
There it was again.
That hum.
Stronger now.
She rose to her feet, moving closer to the viewport, eyes narrowing.
Something was coiling there. Not one thing. Many. Plans overlapping. Intent sharpening into action.
Anakin joined her, gaze fixed on the planet below.
"Home of warriors," he murmured. "You can almost feel it."
"Yes," Ahsoka said quietly. "You can."
The Force buzzed along her senses, no longer subtle. Not screaming. Not warning.
Just… waiting.
Like a live wire stretched taut across their path.
Ahsoka swallowed.
Whatever was coming, Mandalore was already bracing for impact.
And Anakin Skywalker, as usual, was walking straight toward it—eyes fixed on the wrong thing.
She closed her eyes for just a moment, steadying herself.
This is going to go badly, she thought.
The Force did not disagree.