Prologue
Dhrul ran forward, his eyes stinging with the dust that filled the air, right hand drawing his sidearm and left clutching for a helmet that was no longer at his side. The initial explosion had taken it, along with Zayta and Jan, but it didn't matter. Dhrul was Mandalorian, and whatever enemy they faced, he didn't need a helmet to send them to the Manda. Orange armor tinged beige and grey, hand gripped upon blaster helt, and fist curled, he faced the defilers of Mandalore.
Through the dust and fires, Dhrul couldn't make out who the attackers were, but the distinctive eyes of their helmets made one thing clear. They were outsiders, aruetii. They clenched rifles and marched in stride, a formative army. Only three seemed to be in his vicinity, not that Dhrul wouldn't take an army if he had to, but he was glad for their low numbers at the moment. His right arm shot forward, and he pulled the trigger of his blaster in rapid succession, four crimson beams splitting through the air, casting sparks in the dust, before finding their marks.
A headshot took down the first soldier, shattering the glass of his eye lens and sending out a quick splurt of fluids. Two shots to the chest of the second soldier, dropping him in a heap, yet somehow the man still breathed. The final shot hit the third soldier in the heart, throwing the man onto his back, but he too breathed. Dhrul stalked forward, planting his foot onto the chest of his second victim, and fired down straight between the man's eye lenses. He let out a pained grunt, then stopped moving completely. Dhrul only took note of the white armor for a moment, before moving onto the third soldier, who began attempting to crawl backwards as though it could outpace Dhrul's unhindered stride.
The Mandalorian reached to his back and produced a small hand axe, before driving it down into the soldier's knee, splintering bone and severing muscle. The man cried out in pain as Dhrul dragged him closer, before ripping the blade out and slamming it down onto the soldier's chestplate, only for the weapon to completely shatter in his grip, fragments piercing his face and bouncing off his beskar.
"What the hell?" he asked himself in surprise.
"Cortosis," the soldier huffed out between breaths, a smug aura on his breath.
"Why are you doing this?" Dhrul asked calmly, still in his confusion, before quickly following up in anger, "Who are you!?"
"The Republic's had enough of you savages," the soldier chuckled, causing Dhrul to freeze in place.
After several moments of silence all he could muster was a simple question. "What have you done?"
Ahead of Dhrul, having gone unnoticed until now, a figure stepped forward. The Mandalorian quickly snapped his blaster forward and fired, only for an emerald beam of light to rip through the air and sent his bolt harmlessly away. A Jedi. Dhrul backed away, tossing his blaster to the ground as he calculated his options. Then, he clenched his right fist to produce a retractable blade, and readied the flamethrower on his left arm. If the Jedi wanted to kill him, he wouldn't make it easy.
The two stared at each other through the dust as explosions shook the ground beneath their feet. A Mandalorian and a Jedi, ancient enemies, each ready to send the other to their respective afterlife. Seconds ticked away into what felt like hours, neither one moving, even as ships fell around them and chaos began to form into organized warfare. The Jedi stepped forward. Dhrul charged with a warrior's scream.
"Isn't it wonderful, my apprentice?" Palpatine slurred the last word, almost mocking his once perfect prodigy.
"It is, my master," Vader's words were cold and simple, but Palpatine could sense the pure hatred as he said that final word.
The two stared into a glass container, an ancient suit of orange and grey Mandalorian armor on display. The plaque beneath it read: Armor of Dhrul Skirata, Slayer of Three Jedi. Defeated by Moore Antilles.
"Never forget, Lord Vader," Palpatine spoke in what Vader had begun to recognize as his condescending lecture. "For all their talks of peace and compassion, it was the Jedi who organized Mandalore's genocide."
"But they failed," Vader pointed out.
"Of course they did," Palpatine chuckled, that cold, horrible laugh. "You can't kill something so widespread. So instead they hit it where the Mandalorians would most feel it. Their families. When you can't kill your enemy, you kill the only ones they care about. Sooner or later, your enemies will either take their own lives, or arrive to avenge their loved ones."
"What is the difference?" Vader asked.
"Very good, my apprentice."
Chapter 1
Kal Skirata stirred from his sleep, knowing someone was watching him. It wasn't the first time, and it wouldn't be the last time. He expected to find Mird, Vau's pet Strill watching him, but instead it was one of his sons. Ordo, former NULL Class ARC Trooper and Captain of The Grand Army of The Republic. Of course, the Republic had been replaced by The Empire, and Ordo had abandoned his post in the final days of the Clone Wars, along with a number of Kal's other children.
"What is it, Ord'ika?" Kal groggily asked, sitting up in the chair he always slept on instead of a bed.
"It's raining," Ordo simply stated, his gaze unwavering upon his father.
"Where's Besany?" Kal asked, referring to Ordo's wife, a former Republic accountant.
"Asleep," Ordo replied. "I didn't want to wake her."
"So you wake me, eh?" Kal chuckled. "You're a bit big to sit on my lap now, you know?"
"I know, buir," Ordo replied, calling Kal by the Mando'a word for parent.
Kal rose to his feet, standing over a foot shorter than Ordo, and sauntered over to his unused bed. He sat down, and lifted his legs over the side. Kal then patted the space next to him, and said, "Come on, sit."
Ordo complied, climbing into the bed and laying down next to his father, who wrapped an arm around his son. Thunder sounded outside, and Ordo flinched. "I thought it would get better," he said. "After the war."
"It never gets better," Kal replied. "Not really. But you're strong, Ord'ika. It's okay to be scared, even when there's nothing to be scared of. It means when the time comes for you to face something dangerous, you'll be ready."
"I know, buir," Ordo agreed. "I just wish I didn't have to be scared anymore."
"I know, Ord'ika," Kal said before kissing the top of his son's head. "But buir's here for you. So are your brothers, and sisters, and your wife, and even Kad'ika. Your family will never leave you."
Even as he said these words, Kal regretted them. Decades ago, Kal's wife had left him and taken their children. His son's had disowned him, and it wasn't until a little under a year ago did his daughter finally return to him, after Ordo organized a treasonous rescue mission against the Republic. Then there was Darman, who had abandoned his family for some unknown reason, and Niner who left them to watch over Darman. Both Kal and Ordo thought of them, but neither said anything. They still talked, but there was no denying that they had left.
"Buir?" Ordo asked.
"What is it, my son?" Kal asked, looking down to him, his eyes watering as he saw the grey streak in the boy's hair.
"Thank you," Ordo stated. "For everything."
"Of course," Kal said, his eyes now leaking.
Doctor Quail Uthan had once been a brilliant Seperatist scientist, working on a virus that would kill every clone trooper it came into contact with. In the early months of the Clone War however, she had been forcibly abducted by the Clone Commandos of Omega Squad, her subordinates killed, and all her research destroyed… or so she thought. After spending the remainder of the war in a psychiatric hospital on Coruscant, she was once again abducted by the Skirata Clan, this time to cure the clones of their accelerated aging. After watching Emperor Palpatine use her own virus to cleans her planet of all human life, she fully agreed, and now works tirelessly in the service of her old enemies.
Assisting Uthan is Mij Gilamar, a Mandalorian doctor, whose title she still laughs at. The Mandalorian was a close friend of Skirata's, and had in his own way raised a number of the clones as well. Both had been members of the Cuy'val Dar, and trained the clones over their entire lifetimes. While he too wanted to free the boys of their aging curse, he held a soft spot for Uthan that many would see as a weakness. He was getting older, more sentimental, and longed for someone to spend the rest of his days with.
"Mij?" Uthan asked, calling him by his first name, something very few did.
"Yes, Qail?" he asked, on equal terms with her.
"I think I just hit a break through," Uthan responded as she stared through a microscope.
"An urgent breakthrough, or one that simply speeds the process up a bit?" he asked, not wanting to get his hopes up.
"Both," she responded in utter fascination. "The test cells from Fi no longer age faster than yours, though oddly enough, they seem to age slightly slower. However, Fi is also a Commando, and has different genetic modifications than the normal clones and of course the ARCs. Assuming I manage to perfect this process and make it usable, there's still no guarantee it would work on anyone other than the Commandos."
"But it's a starting point, my sweet," Gilimar said as he approached her, kissing the back of her neck. "How long do you think it could take you to have this version in a usable condition?"
"Maybe six months," she said, biting her lip. "Or six years.
"Would you like me to tell the others?" he asked.
"No…" Uthan quietly said. "Don't get their hopes up, not until I can make sure it's actually safe."
"Alright then, he replied before pulling a small pouch from his belt. "I got you a gift."
"What is it?" Uthan asked without looking up.
Gilamar chuckled and said, "Look at it."
Uthan complied, turning towards the pouch, before snatching it up and opening it. Inside was a small silver ring. "It's lovely," she said. "I thought your kind didn't do jewelry?"
"Only when it's impractical," he replied. "I hope you like it."
"I love it," Uthan beamed as she put it on.
Gilamar leaned down, and the two kissed.
In a crib rested little Kad Skirata, son of the Clone Commando Darman and late Jedi Etain Tur-Mukan. He was almost indistinguishable from toddler-aged clones, were it not for a thin splattering of freckles on his face. Sleeping beside the bed, on a nest made from stolen clothes, sheets, blankets, and even a few pieces of old clone armor, was Mird, Waylon Vau's Strill. Strill are ugly creatures, odd amalgamations of cats and dogs that are also inexplicably vaguely reptilian, possess six legs, and stink worse than a trash compactor. That said, they're excellent hunters, highly intelligent, and value family more than anything. In other words, they're true Mandalorian pets.
The child woke up with a start, sitting up in his crib and looking around. "Dada?" he asked quizzically, causing Mird to poke its own head up.
The Strill looked to the young boy with concern, before realizing everything in the home was fine. It lowered its head back down into its nest, and waited for Kad to fall back asleep.
The Imperator-class Star Destroyer lurched out of hyperspace, appearing as a distant dot in the Mandalorian sky. Amidst the ship's vast crew were eight Clone Commandos, two ARC Troopers, Admiral Verner of the newly erected Imperial Navy, and the newly appointed Moff of Mandalore. Mere hours had passed since the Mandalorian received confirmation on his status, which he couldn't wait to share with his subjects.
Walking through one of the Star Destroyer's many coordiors on their way to a shuttle, was Squad 40. Having once been composed of the former Omega and Galaar squads, it now consisted of only three members. Darman and Niner of Omega Squad, and Rede, a Centax grown clone that had served as a member of the 501st in the final months of the Clone War. All four were dressed in distinctive white armor, slightly bulkier than the normal Stormtrooper armor, with leaner helmets that bore blue T-shaped visors instead of the standard black eye lenses. They each also held a DC-17m with alternate parts tucked into their utility belts. While the rifles were no longer being produced, they were still standard weapons for Commandos.
"I can't believe we finally get to see Mandalore," Niner said to the both of them.
"We've seen Mandalore in training," Rede politely stated, causing the other two clones to exchange a look.
"You did," Darman replied. "We've only heard about it from- from our old training instructor, Kal."
It hurt Darman to talk about Kal. The man had betrayed him in every way possible. He had kept the knowledge of Darman's son a secret from him, while letting other clones know. He had abandoned Niner when he was injured on Coruscant, leaving Darman to stay behind with his brother. He had invited Jedi scum into his sanctuary, one of them a Kaminoan. Darman would enjoy killing her the most when their paths finally crossed.
"How are relations with the locals looking?" Niner asked, sensing his brother's unease.
Rede was quiet for a moment, reading a display inside his helmet, before answering. "Good. The Mandalorians have allowed The Empire to make base in a religious site, and free reign across the planet. They're also working on a contract to supply The Empire with something called Beskar."
So the kid's info on Mandalore was spotty. Niner probed further, "What kind of religious site?"
"The skull of some massive creature," Rede gleefully informed. "A mythic- no, a mythosaur."
At this, the two older clones exchanged looks. The Mythosaurs had been completely wiped out thousands of years ago, and now existed in image only. Whoever had told the Imperials they were allowed access to a Mythosaur skull was either lying, or an idiot. Knowing Mandalorians, it was most likely the former.
"I'd like to see that," Darman chuckled.
"Maybe they'll even let us see the orphanage," Niner joked.
"Why do you want to see an orphanage?" Rede sincerely asked.
"Mandalore doesn't have any orphanages," Darman told him.
"Mandalore doesn't have orphans," Niner specified. "Every child of Mandalore is adopted, should something happen to their parents before they come of age."
"And often when they're adults, too," Darman finished.
"Interesting," Rede quietly said.
The trio entered the hangar bay, where a number of starships rested. The new Tie Fighters that served as one-man starfighters, the new troop transports that bore a minimalist design, and a Kom'rk class fighter painted black and chrome-gold, with a blue jai'galaar on the left wing and the Imperial crest on the left. The ship was a Death Watch member's wet dream, not that there were any surviving members present to see it.
"How can someone be so tone deaf?" Niner asked as they approached their transport.
"It's not red," Darman replied. "They're probably trying to show they understand Mandalorian culture, but missed some details.
"Some pretty big damn details," Niner retorted.
"Not like it really matters," Darman sighed. "It's just some bureaucrat that won't last a week on Mandalore."
The three Commandos walked up the boarding ramp into the troop transport, where a row of seats waited for them against either wall. They sat down, Niner and Darman next to each other with a buffer seat, and Rede across from their middle. They lowered their respective safety harnesses and clutched their DC's tight as they waited. It was a few minutes before their pilot would arrive.
Darman and Niner watched in surprise as a human woman stepped into the cabin, dressed in a grey uniform with a thin durasteel chestplate. She held a helmet similar to the standard Stormtrooper design under her left arm, but it held red accent parks and wider eye lenses. The woman was very obviously not a clone, even ignoring the Kaminoans would never have allowed her to exist. Where their skin was brown, hers was black, and her hair was a dark red color that reminded Darman too much of blood.
The woman spoke, "Greetings, gentlemen," she said that word as if it was an afterthought. "My name is Saren Vo, and I have been assigned as Squad 40's personal transport pilot."
"Looks like old Rori doesn't trust us," Niner said into a private channel to Darman, completely silent to the other two.
"I don't blame him," his brother replied.
"I'm sure you were expected to have another clone as your pilot," the woman continued, not noticing their silence. "Currently, the Empire needs all hands on deck in securing control over rebellious planets. Clone pilots are being rerouted to fighter crafts on core worlds, while us volunteers are now serving as your chauffeurs. I assure you though, I am just as capable as any clone. More so, even."
"Glad to have you with us," Niner's voice came through his helmet's external speaker.
Saren looked at him for a moment, narrowing her eyes as though she was attempting to peer through his glowing blue visor. Then she simply said, "Very well," and dawned her helmet.
The clones watched her enter the cockpit before resuming their private conversation. Niner hated to leave Rede out, but they weren't sure if they could trust the kid. He said to Darman, "Volunteers? She made it sound like a wide-spread thing."
"There have always been volunteers," Darman replied. "It's nothing new."
"Makes me think they don't need us anymore," Niner grimly stated. "I mean, they merged us with ARCs and Centax clones. They certainly don't need Commandos now."
"But they'll always need clones," Darman stated.