Chapter Text
Federal District, Coruscant, 19BBY
Jango Fett has always pictured his cause of death to be amid the heat of battle, an honourable last stand fitting of a true Mandalorian.
Instead, he finds himself falling, falling, falling — surrounded by shards of glass and the mutilated bodies of his vod’e… his brothers. It’s almost pathetic, considering the circumstances at hand.
It could be worse, he thinks, as he plummets to the depths of Coruscant’s underworld. His head aches. The bacta patch plastered to his skull is a gutting reminder of his failure, but he would rather be damned than succumb to the idea that his enemy has already won. He still clings to a fraying thread of hope that his transmission is received before he meets his end, and with each second that passes, his fate draws nearer.
Coruscant is burning.
Originally, Jango Fett had no intention of taking the job that would later take his life; To be the template for an army of unmatched strength. He was a fool to think that Dooku would keep his word, but most of all, to believe that his revenge would end a lifetime of grief only led Jango to where he is now—hurdling through the air, on the brink of death.
He never truly understood Coruscant’s brutalist beauty, yet he can see it now, in the dim twilight, despite its lacklustre grey skies that have been burnt into a hazy orange, now thick with smog and the acrid stench of jet fuel.
In hindsight, he should have seen his death coming, and he should’ve listened to the red flags that his conscience screamed inside his mind to hightail and run for it when he had the chance.
However, he didn’t. And then he ceased to exist.
Now, Jango Fett is just another face in an identical crowd. And finally, after three long years and a second chance to make his amends, his time has ended.
Bogden, 32BBY, ten years before the death of Jango Fett at the Geonosian arena
“You’re aware of how insane that sounds, right?” Jango berates accusingly, staring intently at the cloaked figure standing across him. Wind whistles between the plates of his beskar, and flecks of the moon’s red dust scrape against his visor. He doesn’t have to against the harsh sunlight, but regardless his eyes narrow.
Before his acquaintance can give him a proper answer, Jango begins again. “Listen, I don’t work for free. And what you’re asking is going to cost.”
“I’m sure you’ll find that the Kaminoans will thoroughly compensate you.”
Jango blinks. Part of him regrets accepting this potential employer’s request for a meeting, and his fingers itch for the blasters at his hips. “For access to my genetic code.”
“ Regular access.”
“And what if I refuse?” Jango tests, suddenly aware of his lack of cover. Everything within him screams to make a break for it, but something within suspects that he won’t get very far if he tries. He rakes his memory in a frantic search and settles on every suspicious character he has encountered over the last six months. Nearly everyone. “Why me?” Jango demands, insistant. “An entire galaxy of bounty hunters, and you settle on me? Why?” The man raises his arms and lowers the hood that covers him, and with the hood that drops to his shoulders, Jango’s heart drops to the pit of his stomach. “ You,” he breathes.
“There are few who possess your knowledge and skill set,” the Count of Serenno speaks, and years of anguish and hatred built up in his sunken eyes fill Jango with red-hot rage. “And even fewer who are human,” he continues. “A galactic army all stemmed from one man… no one can claim that legacy. This is your opportunity, Fett.”
It sounds enticing, but the prospect of killing the man Jango still holds responsible for the Galidraan massacre weighs heavily on his resolve. Eighteen, and burning for revenge for something all too recent. He twitches.
“You cannot refuse, Master Fett,” Lord Tyrannus speaks solemnly, and it only enrages Jango more. Despite his qualms, he doesn’t move a muscle. “You’ve taken care of your Death Watch adversaries, but what else have you? The galaxy isn’t forgiving of anyone, much less someone like yourself.”
He’s right, a little, foreign voice in the back of Jango’s mind insists. There’s nothing left to lose.