Chapter Text
“You’ve missed a bit,” Jango observed cheerfully in flawless Basic, tapping the deck with the toe of his armoured boot. A stubborn island of green slime clung there. Before Obi-Wan could muster a reply, Jango had already turned back to the two guards and slipped into rapid, clipped Mando, that Obi-Wan had no chance of following.
Obi-Wan glared at the smear with mounting irritation. Lubricant, viscera, or something else that had burst during the last battle. He shuddered and scrubbed harder, jaw tight, gaze fixed accusingly on the man who had thwarted two escape attempts with infuriating ease.
Jango must have felt the heat of Obi-Wan’s glare, because he glanced back. His grin widened into when he caught Obi-Wan’s scowl.
“You’re doing fine, ad’ika,” he called, smugness oozing from him.
Obi-Wan inhaled, counted to five, and turned away gritting his teeth, ‘son of a Sith.’ He hissed under his breath, he bent again to the stain, wondering, not for the first time, why he was cleaning deck when there were perfectly functional cleaning droids aboard this ship.
Yet every morning for five consecutive days, after breakfast in the medbay, he’d been escorted, always escorted, to some quiet corner of the vessel and handed cloths, brushes, a bucket, and a task.
Menial work. Busy work. With two guards. A bit like the slavers ship, except these guards teased, joked and often snuck him treats. His guards, Samyin and Tana, would watch him do his cleaning, often giving him unwanted advice, or clapping his shoulder when he finished. They spoke Basic just fine, but delighted in conversing mainly in Mando. They seemed determined to teach him Mando, along with several choice phrases he was quite certain were rude.
For all the drudgery, the chores had their advantages. Moving from one end of the ship to the other each day gave him an excellent overview of its layout, and his guards, surprisingly patient, obligingly translated glyphs for him whenever he paused to study them. He was learning Mando fast. So Escape Plan Three was in its early stages but coming together quite nicely.
“Ha’rjairyc,” Samyin commented, leaning in to inspect his progress.
Obi-Wan mouthed it, then tried it aloud. “Ha’rjairyc.” He frowned. “And that means…?”
Jango snorted from across the corridor. Tana rolled his eyes.
“It means you’re doing adequately,” Samyin said, elbowing Tana before adding in a conspiratorial undertone, “It can also mean messy. Depends on tone.”
Obi-Wan scowled. Both guards grinned.
O|O
“Nu kyr’adyc, ad’ika—olaror haar’chaaj. Ven’briyc ni slanar bic cuyir Sowr pirunir bal dumplingse.” Samyin grinned.
Obi-Wan frowned trying to parse the different syllables. Something about dumplings maybe?
“Lunch, ad” Tana clarified as he gently guided him by the shoulder down the corridor. Obi-Wan counted the doors as he passed, if his calculations were right. The elevator was around the corner then two decks down to the main canteen. However if he had memorised this route correctly, he should be able to take a glance up a side corridor with a glyph that he thinks means escape pods…he thinks. And sure enough, he sneaks a quick peak as they cross in front of the next corridor, there it is; set of three glyphs glowing neon green faintly. Obi-Wan allows himself a small smug smile of his own. A plan was forming.
As they entered the ships’s canteen, Obi-Wan faltered, the last few times he had come the area had been almost empty, not so today. Now over two dozen Mandalorians lounged about, eating, chatting, relaxing. Some in under suits, some in armour all helmet less.
Obi-Wan shuddered as everyone turned to look. The Mandalorians lit up at the sight of him.
“Vod’ik!” one shouted. “Obi’ika!” called another.
Someone ruffled his hair as he passed; Another pinched his cheek, they all seemed to find Obi-Wan hilariously amusing. It was disconcerting, and not ideal in his aim to keep a low profile, so he could remain nameless, to slip away quietly and unobserved.
Sighing, he dropped into the nearest seat. A bowl of spicy stew and a single doughy dumpling were set down in front of him, a fragrant meaty steam curling up into his face.
“Vor entye,” Obi-Wan murmured, just before practically inhaling the meal. He was hungrier than he cared to admit, and he tried valiantly to ignore the encouraging smiles and curious stares aimed his way from every corner of the room.
Samyin leaned in at his shoulder, voice low and warm, his hand giving Obi-Wan a sympathetic pat. “Briikase, ad’ika. Anii’la ganar haa’te taabir te nor parjii bal te laandur.”
From across the table, Tana hollered, “Arue’tal—dinui te ad’ika kyrayc! Mhi hokanir haar kar’ta shebs-laar; urak te nor’ika shimur!”
A chorus of “Oya!” rose up instantly. Obi-Wan hadn’t the faintest idea what any of it meant, but whatever had been said seemed to satisfy them; the Mandalorians promptly settled down. Allowing Obi-Wan to turn to the serious business of eating.
The stew packed a punch; rich, smoky, and threaded with a slow, creeping burn that at first tingled pleasantly on his tongue. By the end of the bowl, however, Obi-Wan was gasping, eyes watering, his tongue ablaze, as he flapped his tongue around trying to cool it.
Samyin chuckled and set a mug of bantha blue milk in front of him with an amused wink. Obi-Wan shot him a grateful look before gulping it down, wheezing through the attempt to extinguish the fire in his mouth.
He exhaled, wiped a pale-blue moustache from his upper lip, and managed a fervent thank-you in Mando.
“Copika,” Tanu murmured back.
A shadow fell over him just as Obi-Wan started licking his lips and wondering whether there would be a jelly cup today.
Obi-Wan blinked up, then up again.
A mountain of a being loomed above him: easily eight feet tall, with arms like tree trunks and a mottled green, boarish complexion; Gamorrean-adjacent, if Obi-Wan had to guess. The brute glowered down, breath huffing like a bellows.
“Hello there,” Obi-Wan tried, then corrected himself quickly. “Su’cuy.”
The bruiser grunted, leaned down until their noses were almost level, and thumped a fist against his own massive chest.
“Haxion ne bulla Tchali.”
Obi-Wan stared blankly. “…Su’cuy?”
The Mandalorian huffed, loudly, and thumped his chest again, slower this time. “Haaa-xi-ion… neeeee bullaaaa… ttchh-aliii.”
“Oh. Yes oh, right. Uh …Haaa-xi-ion ne bullas ttchh-alie.” Obi-Wan repeated obediently, trying to match the cadence.
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Tanu shaking his head.
“Haxion.” Samyin growled in warning, his eyes disapproving.
Haxion ignored him entirely. With a booming “Oyaaaa!” he swooped in, scooped Obi-Wan up as though he weighed nothing at all, and plopped him onto his massive shoulders.
“WAHT! What…what are you doing…Put me down..put me down you over grown oaf!” Obi-Wan wriggled, horrified, but Haxion simply caught his hands and pointed them skyward. He unleashed a jubilant run of Mando, half the canteen erupting into cheers; the other half watching shaking their heads.
“Pew pew!” Haxion declared triumphantly, moving Obi-Wan’s arms like twin turret cannons as he paraded him around the room.
“Haxion…NO. I absolutely insist you put me…down!” Obi-Wan spluttered indignantly.
The Mandalorians cheered louder, right up until the sound died all at once.
Jaster stood in the doorway. And Jaster looked… displeased. Obi-Wan inexplicably felt guilty.
“Haxion.” Jaster said, voice echoing with cold, controlled authority.
The giant froze mid-stride. “Alor,” then, very slowly, he lowered Obi-Wan to the ground in front of Jaster. Obi-Wan immediately took the opportunity to edge closer to Jaster and well out of Haxion’s reach.
Haxion immediately launched into what could only be the Mando equivalent of a very heartfelt apology. His eyes darting guiltily at Obi-Wan.
Jaster rested a steady, heavy hand on Obi-Wan’s head. What followed was obviously a stern, clipped reprimand, when Jaster finished, the Mandalorians erupted into cheers again.
“Come along, ad’ika,” Jaster said, his tone softening as he looked down at him. “Punishment duty is over. Perhaps a game of ni-kart?”
Obi-Wan nodded in relieved agreement and fell into step beside him. Jaster dismissed his escort with a flick of his fingers, then placed a gentle guiding hand on Obi-Wan’s back as he steered him out of the room.
“Jaster? What did you mean about punishment?”
O|O
“Draar entye,” Obi-Wan crowed triumphantly.
“You sure ad?” Jaster cocked his head a half smile on his face.
Obi-Wans grin faded, scowling he looked back at the board. Eyes flickering over the pieces one by one. A tongue poking out as he concentrated. Everything was in place his attack was solid , there was …oh no!
“Neh,” he smacked his hand against his forehead as he realised his mistake.
Jaster chuckled, and smoothly took Obi-Wans piece. “Draar entye,”
Obi-Wan whistled in appreciation. “I did not even see that, you must have been planing that twenty moves back.”
Jaster grinned. “It’s called the Krayt Sting manoeuvre, your opponent is so busy defending and attacking your front, that they never see the sting in the tail.”
Obi-Wan frowned as examined the game again with fresh eyes, he glanced up at Jaster who raised an eyebrow as he sipped at his mug of kaf.
“Sneaky, another game? Please?” Obi-Wan looked up eyes wide in appeal.
Jaster chuckled, “alas ad, duty calls, we are docking tomorrow. Repairs are needed and I have duties planet side I have avoided for far too long.”
“Docking?”
“Yes ad , we are returning to Mandalor, and you ad’ika, are going to the foundling school.”, Jaster smiled fondly and tapped obi-Wans nose. “So best behaviour ad.”
Obi-Wan just stared at him utterly horrified. “A school, “ he parroted weakly.
“Yes and that reminds me.”
Jaster rummaged through his utility belt and drew out a narrow silver band, its surface smooth and unbroken. At a glance it might have passed for ornament, but its shape echoed the clean lines of Mandalorian vambraces far too closely to be decorative.
He took a still stunned Obi-Wan’s hand without asking. As he did, Jaster leaned in, muttering a few quiet words in Mando and cast Obi-Wan a sly sleek look.
The band closed with a faint hiss.
Shocked Obi-Wan lowered his gaze to the seamless ring now locked around his wrist. A shackle disguised as jewellery? When he brushed it with his fingers, it answered with a soft, steady hum.
A tracker, most likely. Possibly a monitor. Or both.
He could break it. The Force answered him easily enough, the mechanism would probably give with barely a thought. But snapping it free would only matter if he could run immediately afterward. For now, discretion was the wiser path.
Kriff! Still a school, was easier to run from than a battleship. This was maybe …probably good news.
O|O
Jango sauntered into Jaster’s cabin. Old books lined the bulkheads in mismatched shelves, their spines worn smooth from years of handling, Mandalorian histories, starship manuals, old galactic poetry in half-forgotten dialects. Buir was such a nerd, thought Jango fondly.
Between the shelves sat the remnants of war. Armour plates rested on a workbench beneath a reading lamp, one pauldron polished to a dull sheen, another stripped down to wiring and power couplings. A pair of vambraces lay beside a datapad filled with annotated schematics, handwritten notes crowding the margins.
Flimsi was everywhere, clipped to boards, weighted under an eclectic mix of trophy’s, layered across the desk in careful disorder. Old star charts shared space with handwritten missives and hardcopy reports, some bearing the seals of clans. A battered Mandalorian banner hung behind the desk, scorched along one edge, its colours faded.
Jaster himself was reclined in his chair, boots propped comfortably on the desk, a thick book open face-down beside his elbow. He cradled a tumbler of something dark and viscous, a bottle Darkeith whisky on the table, the good stuff, the kind that burned going down and lingered afterwards. The soft glow of a vidscreen painted his features in a pale light.
Onscreen, Obi-Wan slept.
Jango grinned. “You’ve got it bad, old man.”
Jaster didn’t bother looking at him. His eyes flicked upward in a long-suffering roll. “Samyin says you’ve been popping by twice a day to check on our little miscreant.”
Jango leaned against a table. “He’s fun to tease. And isn’t that what big vodes are for?” He paused, then added, “Heard Haxion tried to poach.”
That earned a low grunt. Jaster took a slow drink. “I’ve had twenty requests cross my desk in the last five days. Haxion was just more… physical about it.”
“How’d Obi-Wan take the good news?”
Jaster’s mouth tightened. “He doesn’t know. He’s still looking for a way out. Samyin confirms he maps the ship while he works. Pays close attention to our language, too…Samyin thinks he’s been eyeing the escape pods.”
Jango’s brows rose a fraction. “He’s competent, I could post extra guards. Lock down certain access points.”
Jaster snorted softly. “Relax. Samyin’s been helpfully mis-translating the signage for the garbage chutes.” A grin tugged at his mouth. “Even if he runs, he won’t get far.”
Jango exhaled through his nose. “So. Reluctant?”
“From Kang, we know he’s trying to return to his master,” Jaster said, tone flattening. “No matter how badly he was treated. That kind of loyalty doesn’t form on its own. His slave indoctrination runs deep.”
Jasngo’s gaze drifted back to the vidscreen, to the sleeping ad who didn’t yet understand who he belonged to.
“I’ve given him our signal of intention,” Jaster continued. “But he has to complete the initial stages of integration at the foundling orphanage before I can claim him…Fully.”