KEYnote: I want Satine to be a character we love to hate, which means making her motivations less dumb and her character more interesting.
AN: For everyone home or just bored on a holiday (or like me has to stay with the puppies for the sky fire).
P.S. Thanks, Muffin!
Chapter 9 - It's a Trap
Silas couldn't hack the Senate's servers, but she could tap into the Republic's travel database.
Some things were still restricted.
Travel warnings were not among them. The basic protections were in place to keep pirates from working around any such warnings.
But Silas had talents, easily sliding by them.
"Sweet Manda," she breathed.
"What is it?" Jango demanded.
"Um, well you were right… Only it's worse than you suggested."
A sinking feeling filled his gut, "How much worse?"
"For starters, the True Mandalorians are listed above Death Watch as 'guilds' of galactic concern."
Jango cursed, that wasn't great.
"Oh, and it says here someone among the two groups is harbouring a serial killer. Apparently, multiple small crewed ships have been found with their passengers slaughtered."
And one of their own might be that person.
"And the Jetii?" he asked.
Silas went perfectly still.
"Silas?" he questioned.
Still, she did not move.
Jango leaned over her shoulder, and at first, he didn't understand.
But then he did, and he wished he hadn't.
The larger numbers were dates, framed by a time period of a hundred years.
In that time period…
The Jedi were elite fighters. No Jetii was common, not all of them were the best at fighting or the most diplomatic, but they all made up a society where only the extraordinary were knighted.
It wasn't even comparable really to a supercommando.
If you were physically fit and if you worked hard enough, you could succeed.
A Jedi Knight wasn't part of the elite just because they trained to be, but also because they were born to be. Jaster's history lessons had pounded that into his head. The Jedi in their height of power had carved a line of blood and terror through the Mandalorian Empire.
A single Jedi could kill a hundred commandos.
But the number on the screen?
508.
Five hundred and eight Jetiiese were murdered over the last century.
Jango realised it was a karking miracle that the Jedi hadn't declared war on Mandalore already.
Silas turned on Jango, "You have to tell the Mand'alor."
He took in a harsh breath through his nose. "I know."
oOo
Jaster had not made much progress with the Kyrzes. However, he had been doing well with Kryze's people.
The New Mandalorians were coming around to the Codex. For while Jaster was seen as a pioneer, a leader of a new order, in truth, the Codex was simply the written principles and values of Mandalorians that had existed since the dawn of their society and of the time of their most revered ancestors.
Different clans had different versions, different phrasing, but all of it amounted to the same. The same core foundation that had sustained and driven them.
But Mandalorians had been fractured for too long, only coming together to conquer others.
Jaster's goal was to bring them together not for empire but for their ade.
Beskar was a fine thing, but their resources were finite. What their children deserved of them, on the other hand, was not.
Speaking of whom, there was a chime at his door.
Jaster looked up from his desk as Jango let himself in.
Montross, who was sitting in the corner seat of his suite with a datapad, sneered as they teased the boy, "How's the princess, Alor'ika? Or should I ask, how was she?"
"Kark off, Montross," Jango retorted, almost board.
Jaster swallowed a smirk and he gestured to the man to excuse himself.
Montross grunted as he rose, departing without another word.
"Buir, we have to talk," Jango said.
"About what?" Jaster asked, a cold thread of worry tugging through his gut.
Jango was doing so well in his training. He was in the middle of a growth spurt and how he trained his muscles now would partially determine his capability as an adult.
But if his son had had enough then it would have to be enough.
Of course, his ad picked a much more worrisome topic.
"It's about the Republic."
Jaster sighed and motioned to the bed, "Have a seat."
Jango sat on the edge of the bed, "Silas and I did some research."
Well, at least his son listened to him. Never act on any fear without investigation.
"Our people are listed on their travel bans. The True Mandalorians are listed as being more dangerous than the Watch."
"We've been framed," Jaster bit out.
He was fighting for stability, clawing the Mandalore system back from the brink of an all out civil war. The last thing they needed was the Republic sticking their nose in it.
"They think there is a serial killer hiding within one of our fractions."
Jaster's gaze narrowed as he watched his ad continue to fidget. He kept watching his hands which were always so steady despite his young age.
"The serial killer chops up their victims on small ships, leaving them to be found. Nothing is ever stolen, it is just slaughter with our sigil painted in blood."
Fury raced through Jaster's veins, but he kept himself in check.
"The last victims were Jetiiese, and Jetiiese ade," he said, voice faltering at the end.
Jaster felt his control slip a bit, "Have I not taught you enough about the Jetiiese to break your fascination with—"
"We've killed five hundred of them," Jango blurted.
"What?" Jaster snapped.
"Mandalorians," his son replied, boldly even as his hands fisted. "In the last hundred years have killed over five hundred Jetiiese. Buir, the Republic could declare war on our system any day and the Order, at least, would be justified."
"Ad'ika—"
"Five hundred Jetiiese is five percent of their population, Buir," Jango argued.
Jaster felt terror chase back the fury and silence filled the room.
The Jetiiese were never more dangerous than when they felt justified. They were not a people who preached revenge, except maybe when it came to their Padawans. There was a reason for the saying "If you kill a padawan, make sure his master is also dead".
But no, when justice and revenge fell on the same side of the scale, that's when they removed their veneer of peacekeeping.
Unsurprisingly, it coincided with the presence of the Sith.
The Jetiiese were magical warriors with the blessings of the stars literally upon them.
Jaster had, in the last few months, won over what was likely the majority of sympathizers that any one faction could boast.
The Jedi were capable of wiping out their entire faction.
The last time the Jedi went to war with the Mandalorians, both their numbers had been larger. However, it had been mostly proportional, except back then the Mandalorians had been united.
Now? A single hit team of Jetii Knights could likely disseminate an entire faction.
And Mandalore didn't have the unity to go to war with the greater Republic.
"Buir?"
Jaster looked up at his son, who was rightfully worried.
Jango fidgeted again, and for a moment, Jaster thought he saw red on his ad's wrist. Jaster reached forward to catch his hand.
His greatest fear was confirmed as he yanked his sleeve up.
A red sigil was inked into his son's skin, the wings and rising star of the Jedi Order.
Jango looked down at his wrist, blanching, as if this was the first time he had seen it, as if he hadn't known it was there.
"Who told you there was a traitor among us?" Jaster growled.
"Buir, I didn't—" Guilt made his voice sound younger than he was.
"You told me the dreams had stopped?"
"They did!"
"Do not," Jaster seethed. "Lie to me."
"They had stopped, buir, it was just one dream and I didn't take his word for it. Silas and I—"
"He's marked you! You've been marked!" Panic and rage filled him in equal measure. "Have I not taught you—"
"He's Obi-Wan Kenobi, he's the Lost Son, he's one of us, Buir!"
"It's a trap, Jan'ika!"
"It's not, he's real!"
"Obi-Wan Kenobi is dead," Jaster snapped. "The Lost Son was lost. Killed by the Jetiiese a millennium ago. And even if he wasn't, even if he miraculously survived and lived as long as his buir, then he would still be centuries along his march with the ancestors."
But Jango was stubborn. "The Jedi believe the dead are never gone, you taught me and my buire taught me that we carry our ancestors with us. Obi-Wan Kenobi is one of us."
"Is he?" Jaster asked, sitting down so he could take his ad's face between his hands. He needed him to understand. "Is he? Or is he a manifestation of what you want? The son of a Mand'alor? A boy who lost his people? He is for you what Kenobi has been for many since that time. He is a tragedy. And he is hope. That despite everything he might not be dead but lost, and what is lost can be recovered. But it has been a thousand years, Jan'ika. He is a fantasy, one that the Jetiiese can use their magic to manipulate you with."
Jango was shaking, "He hasn't asked me for anything."
"No," Jaster agreed. "But he's earned your trust, he's gotten you to doubt us, and he—whoever he is—has marked you."
Jango was shaking, "Buir—"
Jaster pressed their foreheads together, "I won't let them take you."
"Buir— I'm sorry."
Jaster pulled him into a tight embrace and shushed him, "No debt, ner ad'ika. No debt. You are my son, and you are not lost. You are not alone."
And whoever had dared to mark his son for a slave would find the full wrath of the Mand'alor brought down upon them.
oOo
Montross had to go to the city to contact Tor.
Listening to Jango through the bugs he planted, Montross knew the boy wouldn't stop.
Unfortunately, killing the Alor's ad would lead him to tear the galaxy apart to find whoever was involved.
But if the boy disappeared?
Well, Montross couldn't think of a better way to destroy Jester and distract—if not dissolve—the True Mandalorians.
oOo
"Feemor," Qui-Gon breathed, following that flash of bright blonde through the thicket.
The trees were dark here but everything was bathed in the Living Force. Every pebble, every leaf, and root rang with it, glowing in his mind's eye.
He couldn't enjoy it, couldn't focus on it as he felt the thread of his Padawan leading him forward.
"Feemor!" Qui-Gon yelled into the night.
He ran faster as the broken bond between them, tugged taught.
Not quite as it had been but—
Laughter echoed around him.
Xanato's laughter.
That bond too, shattered as it had been seemed to— be reclaimed.
Qui-Gon took the Living Force into himself, the light and the darkness filling him and spilling over. He couldn't tell where he began and where the Forest ended.
When he used that strength to run… he felt as if he was soaring.
He had never felt so connected to the universe.
"Feemor! Xanatos!" he called to his fallen Padawans.
His sons.
Taken from him by the Mandalorians.
He didn't know how long he ran through the night, he didn't know if it mattered.
Dawn started to bleed through the canopy when he came upon a cave.
For a moment, Qui-Gon hesitated, as he stared into the abyss of the cave.
He had no way of knowing what was in there, the Force did not speak within it, it reverberated like an impossibly large bell being struck. Pulsing, almost.
"Master Qui-Gon?"
He jerked forward as Feemor paused to look over his shoulder just past the mouth of the cave.
The only light against the darkness as Xanatos continued on without breaking stride.
Feemor, however, offered Qui-Gon a gentle smile, holding out his hand.
Qui-Gon stepped forward, and the ground gave out beneath him.
He fell.
And he kept falling.
He hit the surface of a still pool, leaving him to fight the inky depths.
He managed to get his head above the surface for one clean breath before a riptide caught him and he was swept into the cold.
Water rushed around him, ripping him through underwater tunnels. He could not see but he felt it as he was slammed into stone on all sides.
One hit made him gasp, and the next thing he knew, he was breathing in water.
He was drowning.
He wasn't sure if he passed out or not, but he was eventually dumped into another cavern.
He threw up water, his lungs burning.
Eventually, he was able to take his bearings.
The room was lit by a small pyramid that glowed like a burning house.
Qui-Gon had been Dooku's apprentice. He knew exactly what this thing was, exactly the mistake he had made in letting himself be led here.
But even knowing it was a trap, even knowing his Padawans were dead, when he saw them…
Feemor and Xanatos reaching for the Sith holocron, Qui-Gon yelled, scrambling forward.
He tripped over his sodden robes, his limbs shaking as if all his strength had been stolen from him. He felt empty, and only determination and desperation had him moving forward.
He snatched the holocron off the pedestal, away from his Padawans who disappeared.
The formative bonds that had reformed burst, worse than they had at their initial deaths.
The pain was all consuming and the emptiness…
He would have done anything to be freed from that emptiness. So when a hand touched his shoulder, and the Living Force opened itself up to him, he fell into the embrace of darkness without resistance.
It hurt.
Force, it hurt.
But the pain was better than the emptiness.
Better than letting go of all he had ever loved.
oOo
AN: Thoughts, quail, or feedback pretty, please?