Chapter Text
It is pure carnage. Boba steps over a humanoid-shaped pile of plastoid armor and frowns. This wasn't what he was expecting when they both experienced the extreme discomfort of being hurled backward in time. He hadn't expected them to land in the echoes of a battle. He glances around the ship's deck, looking for some sign of other life, and finds nothing. His jetii is a whisper behind him, moving like a phantom in the opposite direction.
They had really karked up.
"We shouldn't have just destroyed that artefact," he sighs.
"Probably would have still hurled us backward," Cal points out. Boba shoots him a bemused look but has to agree. Sith artefacts were just bad news all around. They always just feel bad. He can’t put a finger on it, though, it is just a sense he gets when he is near them. He supposes it was better to destroy it than to allow the Empire to toy with it. Cal had brought his lightsaber down hard and then the world fell apart around them.
Now, they are stuck amongst the carnage.
He shifts his attention and crouches down, staring intently at the intricate designs painted in green. Clone troopers. They've been hurled back to the Clone Wars. He frowns, tilting his head to the side slightly. Who are they?
What vode died here?
Are they vode he knew?
"What happened here?" The question is rhetorical and a mistake. He spins on his toes the second he realizes he shouldn't have asked. Cal is reaching out toward a fallen trooper. "No!"
He watches as eyes roll back while the jetii's whole body locks up.
BeeDee whines.
Kark.
He knows better than to ask things like that!
Boba doesn't waste a second closing the space between them, his jetpack roaring loudly. He wraps an arm around Cal's waist, supporting him as best he can, and just waits. He learned a while ago not to try and pull the jetii free of an echo. He can feel the tremors racing through Cal's body and it hurts. He wants to smooth each angry muscle, wants to stop the pain. Instead, he can only press his helmet to the side of Cal's head. He bites back reassurances, but only because he knows Cal is someplace where he won't hear them for a bit.
Time crawls.
There is no telling what horrors his jetii is seeing in those karking Force echoes. The first time Cal had experienced one around him he had thought the di'kut was dying.
A gasp, and then, the body he is holding relaxes against him.
"Droids. Separatist droids," Cal wheezes. Pain dances around the words, tangled up with exhaustion. Not an easy echo then he thinks.
Boba flexes a gloved hand against the jetii's hip. BeeDee warbles uneasily.
"I think…" Boba watches as Cal bites his lower lip, unease clear in his features. The jetii looks at him before frowning. The scars on his face pull and draw attention to how some of the normal color in Cal's face has bled away. "I think," Cal starts again, "we are near the beginning of the war. They were part of the 41st."
Were.
They were part of the 41st.
Boba glances down at one of the dead troopers while a new sort of anger bites at the edges of his mind.
"Who ordered this attack? I'm going to kill them." He means it too. This is a chance presented to him, a chance to stop so much of his family from dying. He can prevent Ponds-
"Boba if we do that we'll change the future. Are you sure?" He knows Cal is only asking to make sure and that Cal also wants to stop the purge.
How could Cal not want to stop the slaughter of the jetiise?
"Yes. We are going to bring down the Empire before it can rise."
He pretends not to hear the soft sigh that escapes his jetii. He just shifts enough that he can press his covered forehead against Cal's. A faint sound escapes his jetii. He knows his helmet has to be cold, painfully so, after that echo.
"Don't back down," he presses. "We've fought to make the galaxy a better place for years and this, whatever this is, is how. We didn't ask for the artefact, but I am going to use what it has given us."
Cal averts his gaze, but nods. Boba can feel the way his grin is razor-sharp beneath his helmet. He snags Cal's chin with his gloved fingers and gives a faint press. All Cal needs is a faint nudge in the right direction. The jetii snorts with laughter before finally smiling. Ah, that means he has nearly won!
"Fine, I'll be your blade," Cal breathes out, giving in to what Boba wants.
"I knew I could count on you," Boba says, pleased. "Now, let's figure out how to get off this ship."
The journey from the deck to their escape is full of blazing orange and sparking clankers. Cal makes short work of any remaining droids. The main force, the one that had obliterated the clones, has long since escaped. All that is left are stragglers, the ones barely fit to fight. They were most likely left to salvage intelligence. Boba is going to tear the clanker factories down and burn the planets they are on. The war, if he has his way, is going to play out extremely differently.
They eventually stumble into the hangar and there, amongst the silence, they find plenty of ships to pick from. Unused ships because his vode never had a chance. The Separatists are going to pay for destroying what is his! He feels hot inside his armor while his anger boils upward. Cal glances at him over his shoulder with a look of concern.
He raises a hand and motions that he is fine.
“None of these is my ship, but we can worry about finding her later,” Boba says instead of addressing his rage. His jetii smirks before heading straight towards a smaller ship instead of a troop transport.
────── {⌘} ──────
Cal looks uncomfortable with the scarf over the lower half of his face and Boba sympathizes to an extent. He offered to paint his armor, but his jetii had pointed out no one knows that version of him yet. The helmet works perfectly fine as a mask. There is no need to change his armor, which is something Boba is secretly thankful for. He likes the current color scheme of his armor, it was one he had decided on years ago. Green, for duty. Red, to honor his buir. Gold, for vengeance. Maybe, he muses, after they destroy the beginnings of the Empire, he will repaint his armor. Maybe.
“Everyone keeps staring,” Cal hisses over the comms.
Boba flexes his gloved finger at his sides. People are staring. Perhaps landing on the nearest planet hadn’t been the best call? He had made that call to gather intel and supplies. He is used to people being cautious around him, but this is different. It sets his senses on edge. It is almost like people aren't used to seeing a Mandalorian or a jetii... or maybe just not together? They do make an odd pair if he thinks about it.
“Just keep walking like you belong,” he replies finally. “Do that space wizard thing where you are at peace or whatever.” A loud scoff fills his ears and he grins beneath his helmet. Cal is most likely rolling his eyes at that remark. Which is fine, since he notices the way his jetii relaxes slightly beneath his muted green poncho.
The air around them is dry and he can see signs of a drought everywhere. Weeds that are normally hardy are withering along the walking path. The settlement is probably having issues getting supplies if he knows anything about war. Bandits will have sprung up to prey on the already-pressed people of this place. Bureaucrats are probably lining their pockets instead of helping, which only adds to the suffering.
Cal is going to want to help them.
Boba shifts his head to glance at a dusty network terminal. He jerks his chin up, letting his helmet carry the motion, and Cal instantly peels off toward the prize. BeeDee hops down and pries the terminal’s cover off with a bit too much zeal. Boba moves to block them from a normal line of sight. BeeDee gets to slicing while humming to themselves. Boba can't help thinking, once more, that their droid is odd.
“They are having issues getting relief supplies,” Cal mutters. Boba squeezes his eyes shut for a moment before breathing out. Yeah, he called it. “Looks like the Trade Federation is trying to strong-arm them into joining the Separatist movement by promising aid.”
“And?” He already knows the answer.
Cal is silent for a moment, clearly thinking. “...we could kill the Trade Federation leader,” the words sound pained.
Boba feels like he has gotten a fresh uj cake as a gift. He smiles, all teeth; and doesn’t turn down the idea. That wasn't the answer he had been expecting, but it is so much better than he could have hoped! Cal has spent far too long fighting at his side, spent far too long trying to survive the Empire. The once strict moral compass is wavering.
“Jumping straight to eliminating a target, I’m proud. Seems my lessons on bounty hunting have finally paid off,” Boba purrs in delight. He has clearly been a good influence on his jetii. He can think of all sorts of ways he wants to reward that decision, fun ones that involve BeeDee being elsewhere.
Go after a leader in the Trade Federation is exactly what they do. It takes far longer than Boba would like, but Cal seems happy to help every sob story out there. He is no longer able to count on both hands the number of times they’ve done something to help people affected by the war. Stealing back supplies, taking down raiders, putting out fires- Cal always jumps straight into being a karking Jedi. Boba is proud of him and helps right beside him, but his focus is always on the prize.
Death to the Empire.
They will rip the foundation right out from under Palpatine before he can fully build on top of it.
It is too late to save his buir, he knows this, but he can save a decent chunk of the vode. He isn’t exactly pleased about saving all the jetiise. There is one jetii, in particular, he’d like dead, not that he will tell Cal that. His jetii doesn’t need to know that Boba doesn’t want to save all of the Order. Mace Windu... Boba wants to cut the man's head off with his own lightsaber. It isn't going to happen so he just keeps lending his hands to Cal’s crusade of helping and doesn’t mention a word about what comes after they stop the war.
He ignores the whispers of a Jedi with an orange blade that travels with a silent Mandalorian. He ignores the folk tales spawning across the stars. At some point, he knows the stories will get back to both Mandalore and the Jedi Order. That will be a problem he will deal with when the time comes, until then he has a job to do. He also has a jetii to yank into dark corners or throw onto his bed after hearing particularly wild tales. Hearing praise just makes him want to wreck Cal in the best way, over and over.
Weeks later they finally corner their prey.
Nute Gunray ends up huddled amongst the trash in a Nar Shaddaa alley after a long chase.
“Jedi,” Gunray warbles out. “You must at least talk of surrender.”
Boba is disgusted. How is this sniveling person one that holds such power? He tightens his grip on his blaster and merely waits. Cal is standing there, debating. The orange blade is casting a glow over everything and everyone in this hallway, but it isn’t moving toward the kill. Yet.
“The Order and the Republic didn’t send me,” Cal finally says. His jetii's stance is indifferent like Gunray doesn't matter. Which, Boba agrees, is true. Gunray is not that important in the bigger picture, but his death will send a wonderful message.
“But you are still a Jedi,” Gunray protests, scrambling back a foot. “There are rules you follow!”
What an insect.
Boba shifts his finger to the trigger.
“You were willing to let entire planets starve for a war that you know is pointless,” Cal snaps.
“The Separatist movement is” – Boba shoots the ground a mere inch from Gunray’s hand. The sleemo lets out a yelp and Boba sneers beneath his helmet.
“There is nothing wrong with wanting to leave the Republic, but there is something wrong about forcing others to do so. You can’t complain about others doing that to you and then turn around and do it to others. That is called being a hypocrite,” Cal states in a surprisingly calm voice.
“What type of Jedi are you?” Gunray cries out loudly. Boba can pick up on the threads of horror and disgust tangled up in those words.
“The type raised in war,” Cal replies. The orange blade twists and Boba can read the indecision in that action. Cal has killed and drenched his hands in blood, but always still hesitates. Boba settles the matter for his jetii, he fires and watches the look of shock that washes over Gunray’s face before all the light leaves those large eyes. Cal merely switches his lightsaber off and doesn’t say a word.
“He isn’t the only one we need to take care of,” Boba reminds his jetii. Cal glances at him over his shoulder, eyes glowing above the scarf thanks to the neon lights above them.
It is a bit eerie, but also extremely attractive.
────── {⌘} ──────
“Master Jedi,” the small Twi’lek girl calls out. Cal stops in his steps and turns towards her. He crouches down, getting on her level, and Boba feels something twist inside his chest. It is a sight he wasn't aware that he had wanted to see before. Maybe, after the war, they can raise a family together?
“How did you know I was a Jedi?” Cal asks, amusement dripping from his words.
“I’ve heard the stories,” the girl says matter-of-factly. Her skin is a soft blue with vibrant indigo markings on her lekkus. She can’t be older than eight, he thinks. “Can you save them?”
Boba winces. The scarf and poncho must be too obvious if even children can pick Cal out from tall tales. The stories have certainly spread wide, most likely carried with the space traders and the survivors. He’s not sure if he needs to tell Cal to change what he wears or if he should let it continue. The stories have to eventually reach the ears of those he wants to slaughter. They might grow curious enough to crawl from their fat nests, which would make them extremely easy targets. He's torn and decides to worry about it later.
“Who?” Cal shifts on the soles of his boots, attention fully on the young girl. BeeDee peers over the jetii’s shoulder, curious as well.
“My family. The fruit seller said you help those in need. Slavers came.”
Boba tenses.
Cal is going to want to help.
Hours later, with his body pressed against the edge of a cliff, he can’t help thinking how right he was. The girl, Runi, is pressed up against him, attempting to mirror his movements. Her breathing is labored from the climb and he can’t help the way he smirks. She had sworn up and down she could handle it and had gotten all sorts of offended when he offered to carry her. Now all he can hear is her breathing.
She is stubborn and Boba approves.
“Where is he?” She tries to inch forward and Boba grabs the back of her dress to stop her. She squirms at being caught.
“Just trust him,” Boba tries to say kindly. Runi gives him an extremely impressive glare. Ah, so not that kindly then. He cocks his helmet to the side slightly and then jerks his chin toward the scene below. A silent order for her to pay attention and one she manages to pick up on. She gazes down while holding her breath.
He can see a flash of orange down in the slaver’s camp below. His body tenses as he waits for the yelling. None comes at first. The orange flashes around the edges multiple times. “Not going easy on them,” he points out over the comms. A sort of pleased feeling coils in his abdomen. Cal is taking out the scum without remorse.
“Don’t distract me,” Cal volleys back.
The brilliant orange reappears in the middle of the camp just before the shouting starts. Red streaks fill the space, but Cal’s blades just glide through the air violently. He doesn’t want to pull his gaze from the sight below, but he does long enough to put a gloved hand over Runi’s eyes. She protests loudly and small fingers tug at his.
"Shh, this part isn't for you, ad'ika," he mutters. A small foot kicks him in the side, but he keeps his hand securely over her eyes.
The fight is over quickly.
Silence echoes loudly in his ears. He waits for some sort of sign from his jetii, holding his own breath.
“Kark,” Cal’s voice crackles over the comms.
Something is wrong.
“What happened?” He knows the answer even before he asks.
“They’re…already dead. Looks like they tried to fight back- I was too late.” There’s hurt in those words, a raw type of pain.
“Kestis,” he hisses, “this isn’t your fault.”
Boba glances at Runi and feels his chest twist again. They can't just leave her. She had become their responsibility the second Cal had knelt down to talk to her.
Boba aches.
The war has messed up another life and created another child of war.
They need to stop it soon before it creates more people left behind.
Hours later, Runi’s asleep, finally, bundled beneath Cal’s poncho on their ship. Boba leans against the doorframe and frowns deeply. They are supposed to be taking down the Empire before it can grow, instead, he is watching a small child. He knows they could have just left Runi on that backwater planet, but he also knows what would have happened to her. The soft thrumming of the engine is barely a comfort. They are stuck with her, he realizes with some resignation. This wasn't what he had meant when he had thought about starting a family with Cal.
The galaxy sure had a twisted sense of humor.
Cal slips into the room silently, and flashes a tight smile at Boba, before dropping down on the seat next to Runi’s. “She’s finally asleep,” his jetii says softly.
“We can’t take a kid to war,” Boba points out, and doesn’t mean it one bit. The thought just keeps playing over and over in his head, a broken message of warning. Runi is a part of their Clan now, he just has to tell Cal at some point.
“The war already came for her,” Cal counters before he rubs his face with a hand and sighs loudly. Runi shifts closer to him. Boba’s back twinges in sympathy. It looks highly uncomfortable. He can still see the image of her crying loudly as Cal tried to comfort her, the bodies of her parents buried in makeshift graves on the edges of their farmland.
“...she’s going to have to learn to defend herself,” he finally says. Cal glances up at him, eyes dark, and frowns. Message received. There’s a faint nod, and then, Cal is back to paying attention to Runi. Boba's shoulders relax thanks to the knowledge that Cal is fine adding the girl to their family. A small hand has somehow found Cal’s gloved one and is gripping for dear life.
They are going to have to rework their plan to stop the Empire. Also, find proper clothes and such for the kid.
Cal presses the back of his fingers to Runi's forehead while Boba watches. His eyelids flutter before that bordering-on vacant look settles over his face. An Echo. Boba waits, silently, displeased. He has no idea why his jetii has decided to fall into an echo. He doesn't have to wait long to find out why, thankfully.
"She was loved," Cal whispers.
Oh.
Boba digs his fingers into his biceps while he tries not to uncross his arms. Cal is feeling guilty. Karking side-effect of being a jetii. The man feels everything.
"It wasn't your fault," Boba says while trying to control the volume of his voice. "If you hadn't been there then she'd be begging on some corner or worse."
Cal fixes him with a look, argument trapped between lips.
Cal, Boba knows, has a bleeding heart.
"It wasn't your fault," he repeats.
They don't talk about Runi again, instead, she just settles into their lives as if she has always been there. Boba spends more time chasing after her while trying to get her to eat something healthy than he spends on plotting who to murder next. Runi insists on wearing ponchos just like Cal and tries to change her stance to be just like Boba's. He just holds her every time she gets overwhelmed. He rubs her back when she cries. He's caught her more than once with his helmet in her lap while she sleeps, mouth open and her head nearly rolling off the back of a chair.
Runi is like having another BeeDee around. Thankfully, BeeDee is more than happy to play babysitter whenever they have to stop and take down another figurehead in the war.
"We should just head to Coruscant," Cal says days later. He's lounging in a chair, Runi sitting on his thigh. She is focused on tying something around his jetii's wrist.
"And do what?" Boba rests his blaster on his knee and gives them his full attention.
"Kill Palpatine."
That's something Boba has thought about for a while. He bursts into a sharp smile. Finally, Cal is on the right page!
"Look!" Runi holds Cal's arm up, ruining the conversation, and Boba bites back a laugh. The thing she is showing off is a bracelet made of twine and poorly colored the same color as Runi's markings. Color smudges against Cal's wrist and Boba doesn't even want to know what she used to color the thing. That is a Cal problem.
"It's gorgeous," he praises. "Do I get one too?"
"Nooo," Runi cries out before bursting into musical laughter. Both Boba and Cal freeze. Runi laughed. Runi had actually laughed finally! Boba wants to steal her from his jetii and twirl her around, but he resists. Kids, he remembers, are quick to bounce back. She'll be just fine with them, he is now positive of that little fact.