Jango Fett is alive.
Angry and haunted and acting for all the worlds like a caged and starving mudhorn, but alive. It’s been two years since the end of the last civil war, and he’s out there, wandering the stars in reclaimed armor and a temper that lashes out at all he meets. Nobody knows what happened to him, what hurt him, but he’s not dead. He’s not any less dangerous than he used to be.
Satine sends out a call as soon as she hears.
She calls the Mand’alor home.
Satine Kryze, Duchess of Kalevala and elected head of the Mandalorian territories, is in one of the most unenviably delicate political positions in the entire galaxy.
Nobody really cares to recognize that, though, especially five years into this tenuous peace she’s held. She misses Obi-Wan, if only because he’d been there and always ready to hear her rant and moan and bitch about just how messy it was to deal with her people. She misses little Bo, who’d been a pain in the tush since they were children, and disagreed with Satine on anything and everything, but had been more than willing to listen to her complain. She’d been even more willing to poke holes in Satine’s arguments until she wove them all the tighter.
Satine can’t do that with anyone here. Almec likes to dig his head in the sand—annoying, but he’s too competent a bureaucrat to replace right now—and most everyone else is too far down the latter for her to complain to like an equal. Pre lets her, sometimes, but he’s got his hands full with the new web of absolute chaos that is Concordia.
So Satine, as any good politician would, buckles down and hides her frustrations. She smiles when she needs to and appears blank when it suits her, and occasionally makes the kind of cutting remarks that are quickly teaching people she doesn’t need a blaster to be intimidating. She’s good at this. She can hide how angry she is until she’s safe in her rooms with inanimate targets to destroy for practice.
(She’s a pacifist, not stupid. Death Watch, should they have any holdouts, is absolutely gunning for her head. She will not make it easy for them.)
(She will shoot droids. She will throw soldiers. She will not be happy about hurting people, but if words fail to deescalate—and they inevitably will, at some point, because that is simply how much they hate her—then she will not go down easy.)
(Satine is very, very good at fighting. It is, after all, much harder to neutralize a threat with as little injury as possible than it is to simply break their arms and be done with it. She’s had years to get it down to an art.)
And so she goes to her rooms. She plants her hands on her vanity and locks her elbows, glares at herself in the mirror, holding up until the maid is gone. She sighs once alone.
She reaches up to take down her hair.
“You need better security.”
Satine whirls, stunner in hand, and has it trained on the intruder before the sentence is even over.
Armor. Full, proper armor. Helmet. Grey kute. Sitting in her armchair, in plain sight.
She hadn’t noticed them at all. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
“Thought you were a pacifist, Duchess. What’s with the blaster?”
“Guess that works. Not through the beskar, obviously, but it fits with what you’ve got going on.”
Her aim doesn’t waver. “Who are you, and what are you doing here?”
“You haven’t called the guards.”
“You’re armed enough to shoot before they get here. You haven’t attacked yet. I’m willing to hear out why.”
The figure in her armchair huffs a laugh, unhappy but there, just barely loud enough for the vocoder to catch and convey. It’s a very scratchy sound. “You invited me.”
“Your name, beroya.”
The figure tilts their head. “You’re so sure that’s my job?”
“There are few enough roles in Mandalorian society that currently allow for armor to be worn in that fashion. I don’t recognize you, so you aren’t one of my guards or defense force leaders, but you were skilled enough to get into the building. That suggests someone that operates outside of Mandalorian space, at an expert level. The likeliest option, then, is a bounty hunter.”
“These days,” they say.
She does not deign to answer.
The figure watches her for a few moments, utterly still and silent. They shake their head, reaching up and grasping their helmet. They take it off.
Jango Fett, a decade and change older than she last saw him, stares at her.
She lowers her stunner.
They both stare a bit more.
“You could have called ahead.”
“Wanted to see what your security was like, neverd’alor.”
It’s a word that’s been thrown at her as both a neutral descriptor—an accurate one, mostly—and an insult. She’s not sure how Fett means it. She thinks it’s meant to be mocking, but only insofar as it relates to her security being unable to stand up to him.
Civilian leader, it means. Death Watch uses it to call her soft and untested. Others use it to underline how dedicated she is to not being just another Mandalorian warlord. It’s not her actual title, but…
It’s complicated. Mandalore is, always, complicated.
Satine places her stunner on the vanity table. She makes her way over to Jango. She sits in the second armchair at that table. They are at an angle to each other, but Fett pushes his chair around with a scrape to face her directly.
“I wasn’t sure you would come,” she tells him.
“Neither was I.”
Satine presses a subtle button. She orders tea by way of droid. Fett watches her.
He’s judging. She does not know the verdict, yet.
They wait in silence. The tea arrives. There are two pots. One is a Mirialan blend that Satine favors for late nights where she wants to calm down. The other is shig. She tells Fett as much.
He takes the shig.
“Why did you call me, Duchess?”
She eyes him over the cup. It is late, very late, but she’s worked later. She isn’t sure what time it is, for him. “You were once Mand’alor.”
“Less widely recognized than even you, Kryze. Let’s not pretend I was a popular one.”
It’s true. “You were still recognized as the last to have even a semi-legitimate claim to the title. That carries weight. We thought you were dead, and since you clearly aren’t…”
“Might as well have been,” Fett mutters.
She does not do him the disservice of asking him where he was, and why he didn’t come home. She sent out her call three years ago. He’s taken his time. “Your word carries influence, Mand’alor.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Just call me Fett.”
She dips her head to acknowledge that. “Very well, then. Your word carries influence, Fett, among those who refuse to be Death Watch, but do not find my politics to be… palatable.”
He snorts. “You want me to convince traditionalists to be pacifists.”
“Hardly,” she says. He quirks a brow at her. She shrugs. The movement tugs on the seams of her gown, and she wishes she’d been able to change before this. “Being a pacifist isn’t something I can force on people. It’s a philosophy and a political position that I choose to champion, but it’s not something I can make people believe. Seeing the benefits to it, and compromising enough that everyone can come out ahead, however, is something I think is feasible.”
Fett looks past her, unfocused. She waits.
“Heard some rumors, on my way in,” he finally says. “Some are… more concerning than others.”
“Death Watch does love their propaganda,” Satine mutters.
He grimaces. She thinks it’s in agreement. “They said you’d outlawed, or at least greatly discouraged, usage of Mando’a.”
Satine has to fight to not roll her eyes. “Ah. That one.”
“Given that we’ve had this entire conversation in Mando’a and you’ve had zero hiccups,” Fett says, dry as the deserts of Sundari, “I’m going to assume you haven’t been deliberately destroying the language, or avoiding usage of it yourself.”
Not even a little.
“I’ve instated guidelines for signage in major cities to come with a Basic translation or transliteration below for visitors,” she explains, “and for standardized curriculums to include mandatory classes in Basic as a second language; it’s a plan to make galactic trade and politics easier on everyone. None of that involves making people stop using Mando’a, or discouraging its use in day to day life, just… easing the way for people to be able to communicate with outsiders. Basic is an additional skill and subject, just like any other.” 
Fett drinks some shig to avoid commenting on that.
She doesn’t call him out on it.
“I don’t agree with that, entirely, but it’s more reasonable than what people have been saying,” he finally says. “I can understand why they’d take it as a sign that you’re trying to transition Mandalore to a more Core-style way of life, but I don’t hate it.”
She doesn’t need his approval, but… well, actually, she does. If she wants this to work, to make her life and everyone else’s easier, then she does.
He continues. “They said you outlawed armor?”
“That one is more complicated,” Satine says. Fett glares at her. She purses her lips and looks away. “It is, Fett.”
“Then explain why.”
She tries to gather her thoughts, tries to figure out how to explain it so that he understands, without him coming from the same nonviolent place that she hopes to embody. “Armor isn’t illegal. But it is unpopular, socially, and for good reason.”
He sits back, folding his arms. He waits, glaring.
Satine sighs. “Pass me your vibroblade.”
It takes a few seconds. He considers it, visibly so. He hands her the blade, though.
She turns it on and dashes it across her arm, hard enough to leave a bruise.
The fabric is undamaged.
“Battleweave,” Fett says. He sounds… considering. That’s a good sign, she thinks. “All your clothes are like that?”
“Not my innermost layers, but yes, most of my clothing is blade-resistant,” she says. “That is the standard for New Mandalore, if not quite officially. We don’t want to forget who we are as a people, we just… want to move on. We want the wars to end.” 
“Won’t do much against a blaster,” Fett says. “And it’s not… it doesn’t do much for those who wear armor that is generations old in their families. Tradition holds weight.”
“I know,” Satine says. It’s complicated. She told him it was complicated. “In this past year, there have been four shootings on Manda’yaim. One was fatal. Two of them, including the fatality, were caused by licensed security guards or law enforcement. One of the others was a drug deal gone bad, and the last was a domestic incident with an illegal firearm. Four, on the whole planet. Five years ago, when I was still working to phase out public open carry, that number was over twenty. The average in non-New Mandalorian spaces, adjusted for population, fifty years ago? Eighty.
“By limiting blaster carry, the fact that our take on armor is less efficient doesn’t matter. We’ve removed the incentive to carry weaponry in public without license or reason, and so there is less reason to wear armor as a defensive measure. I’m sure there are more deaths by blaster in criminal circumstances and so on, deaths that do not get reported, but by discouraging public violence, the death rate has gone far down. Fett, there hasn’t been a child killed by violent crime in four years.” 
He stares her down. “That you know of.”
“Reporting bias may play a role,” Satine acknowledges, “but even with a margin for error, you have to see that the measures worked. Requiring permits and licenses for various weapons worked. Discouraging traditional beskar’gam in favor of battleweave fabrics to fulfill that cultural cornerstone worked. My actions may seem draconian to you and yours, but…”
“I wouldn’t call it that.” He’s drawling. She doesn’t know if that’s good or not.
“But it worked,” Satine continues, insistent. If she can just get him to understand… “And… and you know that a pacifist cannot gain power unless the vast, vast majority is in agreement. You know that. A pacifist government cannot threaten the people with violence the way a military can.”
His glare is getting harder. “You’re on thin ice, Duchess.”
“I cannot force people into my way of life the way Death Watch can,” Satine says, ignoring the warning. If he wants to take her comment about the military personally, so be it. “I cannot kidnap children and torture them into believing what I do. I cannot put guns to heads and demand compliance, and still call myself a pacifist. But I have the approval and agreement of enough people that we can starve out the hate and violence. It will never be gone, because the nature of sentients is chaos, but it can be stifled. It can be managed.”
He snorts. “Yes, it can wipe out a culture, Duchess.”
“How dare you?!”
Fett does not jerk back in his seat when Satine stands and hisses the words. He barely blinks. There is, however, a twitch towards the blaster on his hip.
She’s surprised him.
“There is no culture to wipe out if everyone is dead,” she spits the words out like hot coals. “There is no Mandalore without its people. If you want to believe Death Watch and their ilk, then fine. Leave. But don’t you dare accuse me of putting doing this to destroy Mandalore, when I am doing my all to save it.”
He is unconvinced. “You could have—”
“You were gone!” Satine snaps. She wants to wring his neck, how dare he? She has built Mandalore back up alone after the war. She did not have an army to back her or even the money her father once wielded. “You were thought dead, your people scattered or dead with you. My father assassinated, my sister gone, my people at war with themselves. Do you know what the numbers were, in the Mandalore of old? Just what it took for our warrior class to exist?”
“It was not a class,” Fett argues. It’s futile. She knows the numbers. “Anyone could become—”
“If they found a teacher,” she interrupts. “If they found someone willing to give them armor, or if they killed and stole and scraped together enough to buy it. If they had the time and the support and the training and then someone to attack.”
Satine plants her hands on the table and leans over it. These numbers are part of why people listen. These numbers are the people.
“Thirty civilians for every warrior, without pillaging being part of the process. That’s how many it took to support the old ways. Less, with droids involved, but thirty civilians for every warrior, Fett.” She gestures widely. He tilts his head, doubtful. “Farmers and doctors and blacksmiths and tailors and bakers and crafters. Teachers and cleaners and inventors and butchers. Yes, that number changes when the warriors take jobs outside of Mandalorian space, but to take jobs within Mandalorian space? Who can afford those rates? It’s not the civilian laborers. It’s the ones who collect their taxes. More often, the warriors had the might to be the ones collecting taxes. That’s how and why so many of the warrior clans ended up with territories.” 
She spreads her arms, and then thinks better of it. She doesn’t know how to explain so he understands. He has to understand. She has to make him understand.
“I was voted in, Fett. I was picked by the people to lead them, because I acknowledged that this system was unfair to those at the bottom, and because most of the warriors were either just as tired of fighting, or they were dead.”
She starts pacing. He watches her, silent. He’s still judging her. She can’t let him walk out thinking she hasn’t done enough when she’s done everything.
“I am salvaging what I can of our systems with these laws,” she keeps going. “Armor is not being discouraged because I want to end our way of life, Fett; it’s being discouraged because it was getting the working class killed off at four times the rate of the rich and powerful. The people who choose not to wear armor are generally the people who weren’t wearing more than vambraces in the first place.”
His face is unreadable, now. She hates it.
“And you had the rest corralled and isolated to Concordia,” Fett says. It’s not casual enough to be a drawl. His voice is tight and she hates that, too. “That part was confirmed by people I know and trust, Duchess. You rounded people up and sent them to a single moon.”
She can’t stop moving. She’s jittering. She is tired and angry and shaking for it. “I gave people options. Those who had skills based in being warriors but were willing to work with me, they have options. The journeyman protectors, security services, training. Children still have to take self-defense courses. I’m a pacifist, yes, but I’m not stupid. I know that Mandalore has enemies, and I know that there’s always a chance Death Watch is still around. We’ve thought them dead often enough before.”
She scrubs her hands through her hair. “I do not have an army, but I have defense systems and volunteers in reserve. We have law enforcement and guards for visiting dignitaries. We even have spies, to figure out where and how and when people are trying to smuggle illicit substances or weaponry through our cities on any planet. Those who pursue legal violent work outside of Mandalore, the bounty hunters and Republic-hired mercenaries, they are licensed and monitored as necessary. If they don’t work for the crime rings or the Hutts, they are in the clear.”
She comes back to the table, and plants her hands on it again. She needs something solid to hold on to. She needs something to ground herself. The lacquered wood will do.
“There are options. I have given people options. The ones sent to Concordia are the ones who refused to bend even the slightest bit. The ones who ranted and raged and accused me of just what you’ve said, ending our way of life. Ending their way of life, glutted as they were on the spoils of their wars, uncaring of those who were forced to work to support them.”
“All citizens were encouraged to learn self-defense and arm themselves,” Fett tells her. She isn’t sure if he’s telling her that she’s wrong, or if he’s just testing her, but it’s infuriating. “Not in every era, but in enough.”
“Mandalore was never a society of just warriors,” Satine hisses. She’d rather yell it, barked like orders. “Even when all citizens were encouraged to learn enough to defend themselves and wear a handful of pieces of armor… Mandalore was an empire. Our days of slavekeeping are not so far behind us, in the grand scheme of things. Yes, there have been some periods more recently where your situation plays out, but only because we had droids to fill those gaps. Nobody at the top, who got there through violence and subjugation, wants nameless upstarts taking what they have.” 
Fett just… watches her.
“Say something,” she begs him, angry and desperate and almost in tears.
“You would work with Jedi.”
Oh, fuck that. “They were not responsible for the tragedy at Galidraan.”
“They didn’t do their research.”
“Neither did you,” Satine snaps. They both glower.
Fett knows that she’s lost as many people as he has, if not all were quite so close. They have even both lost sisters to the machinations of Death Watch. He is not, she thinks, so eager to accuse her of not knowing his pain.
“That firefight should not have gone or ended as it did,” Satine allows. “But the Jedi were called out to a planet in their jurisdiction, where there were many innocent deaths. They were directed to a foreign, heavily armed militia that they were told did not have reason or license to be on the Republic planet in question. Yes, they could have researched, but time was of the essence, your people were deeply suspicious, and you shot first. The proper response to a Jedi standing on a cliff and drawing a saber is to draw your blaster, perhaps, but you escalated.” 
“You weren’t there, princess,” Fett growls out. “It was a trap. An obvious trap. If they’d bothered to pay attention—”
“Obvious to you, and then you sprung it,” Satine hisses back. “All you had to do was hold off on attacking and explain what was going on. That’s it, that’s all you had to—”
“Don’t you dare pin this on me—”
“You,” he says, slow and careful and oh so deliberate, “were not there. Death Watch was taunting us. I had only barely escaped them, and then found my people being menaced by a small army of Jedi. Of course I ordered them to shoot!”
“I read the Jedi’s reports, Fett, and more importantly,” she pauses, and breathes deep, and says, “I have seen the footage recovered from several helmets in the aftermath. My father looked through the records to see if we could get reparations for your faction’s survivors out of the incident, but because they’d asked to arrest you peacefully, and you shot them instead of calling for a discussion to defend yourselves verbally, there was nothing we could do in terms of getting payment from the Republic for the families of the dead.” 
Abruptly, Fett stands. He’s stiff, arms folded, and glaring. She does not wilt beneath his gaze. She’s held her head through worse things than his disapproval.
“I’m going for a walk,” he grinds out, shoving his helmet on. “Make sure your security doesn’t try to arrest me.”
“Of course, Fett.”
She practically spits the name.
He doesn’t answer her.
Security is confused when she tells them to ignore the wandering bounty hunter, especially since she doesn’t tell them it’s Fett, but they listen to her.
He comes back. Fett is clearly angry, still, but he smells vaguely of pastries. Maybe the kitchens helped him calm down.
Satine’s in her nightrobe at this point. It’s not entirely professional, but it sends a message.
I do not expect you to attack me.
I am not afraid of you.
Fett looks her up and down, and then scoffs.
She offers. “More shig?”
“You’re a Duchess.”
“That’s not an answer. Would you like more shig?”
Fett rolls his head so she knows he’s rolling his eyes, and the takes the helmet off. He drops into the seat. “Fine. Shig. Back to my point: you’re a Duchess.”
“Perceptive, aren’t you?”
“Don’t mock me, ad’ika.”
“I am not a child.” Satine snaps. “I’m certainly older than you were when you held your title.”
She is, actually. Fett lost his title at twenty-two, with his supposed death on Galidraan. Satine is now twenty-three.
“You said this was a worker’s revolution,” not her words, but close enough, “and yet you, a Duchess, someone who inherited her wealth and titles, are the one in charge.” 
She shrugs. “I’m popular.”
“Don’t give me that,” he says. “I was born to a farm family. I only ‘joined the warrior class,’ as you put it—”
“I really didn’t, but alright.”
“—by chance. My family was killed, and I was adopted by Jaster Mereel. By that measure, I’m closer to your ideal symbol of the revolution than you are.”
Satine sets her tea down. “You do understand that my policies are in an attempt to prevent deaths like your family’s, correct?” 
“Not the question.”
“Yes,” she says, little more than a sigh. “I’m a Duchess. Yes, I was elected to the head of our new government. Yes, I am far from the perfect representation of what we were attempting to do with our changes, but I am trained. I am skilled as an orator, as a legislator, as a diplomat. Most importantly, to people looking for stability in our peace, I am a known quantity, tried and tested.”
She settles back in her chair. “I am trying to provide tools of social mobility, especially for the coming generations. Our education is standardized, for all that I’m having trouble implementing it across all planets in the system. Such things take time and resources and coordination, which I’ve often had to direct towards more immediate concerns, like famine stopgaps. It’s only been five years since the war ended. Three since you came back on the map.”
“Freed myself. Six years, not three, but it took a while to… get back on my feet.” 
She considers this. She is not surprised. She doesn’t think he wants to discuss it further. “Just so. My hopes are that, with a standardized and thorough education system available to all, our people will be able to move into positions of higher government and such without necessarily having the connections and specialized tutoring that I had as a child.”
“Plenty of systems say that,” Fett says. “Few, if any, actually follow through.”
“Just because something is hard does not make it not worth doing,” Satine says. “You know that better than anyone.”
“Not sure how I feel about getting lectured by a brat.”
“Get in line. You’re not the first person to say that today, and you aren’t even the tenth this week.”
He glares at her. She refuses to be intimidated.
“What do you want from me?” he finally asks.
“First, I’d like to know what brought you here now instead of any time before?”
Fett looks away. “Got an offer for a job, a few weeks ago. A big one. The kind that takes a man off the map for years, sometimes. It got me… thinking about things.”
“A job? That’s all?”
“I’m just a simple man trying to make his way in the universe, Duchess.”
“Bullshit,” she says. She can see him gearing up to mock her vulgar language. She doesn’t let him. “A simple man does not a Mand’alor make, Fett.”
“I told you not to call me that.”
“And I told you to cut the crap.” Not explicitly, but it had been more than implied. “You spent three years dodging my calls, Fett. Longer, avoiding your people. I do not have time for half-truths or understatement.”
He swirls his shig. He’s thinking. She can let him do that, but she is tired of having to defend herself to this man. She’d been eager, at first, but if he’s not going to help her keep their people alive, then he should just… leave.
“Someone’s expecting a war,” Fett finally says. “They want me involved, training the troops, teaching strategy, providing… certain material. It’s years away, yet, but all I know is that if I don’t agree, they’ll find someone else, so I agreed. The job is outside of Republic space, but the army is for the Republic, so there’s nobody to drop a tip off to for legal handling, because nobody has jurisdiction. I have two years before they would need me on planet for more than a few weeks a year, since they’re still in the planning and testing stages.” 
She feels her face heating up, rage rising.
“You,” he says, “have a Jedi in your pocket.”
And just like that, her anger leaves her.
“He’s not mine.”
“Call it what you will,” Fett says. “If anyone can deal with this mess, it’s the Jedi.”
“You hate the Jedi.”
He looks away. “The project involves cloning me. In… untold numbers. They keep telling me that the boys will be meat droids, not people, but…”
His hand drifts up to his neck. There is a scar there, faint but still a little red, of where once lay an electric collar. It may fade, with time and treatment.
Obi-Wan’s hadn’t been anywhere near as obvious.
“You want me to call the Jedi for this,” Satine says. “Even though you hate them.”
“Not immediately,” he says. He doesn’t look at her. “I… not until some of the boys…”
They likely haven’t been made yet.
“They deserve to exist,” he snaps to her. “The money is already there, somewhere. The contract says the army is for the Jedi, so they’ll have… some kind of influence. The clones deserve at least a chance at life.”
“The Jedi wouldn’t do that. They wouldn’t order—”
“I haven’t seen any around,” Fett says. He won’t meet her eyes. “But they’re in the contract. If nothing else, I can… I can raise and train them in ways that would work to… to terraform Mandalore again. All the materials and funding are already there, especially if a Jedi renegotiates the contract.”
“You want me to sign off on you helping make an army.”
“I want you to keep them from being a slave army.”
Satine presses the heels of her palms against her eyes. “And what happens if the Jedi shut it down?”
“Then I want at least the one clone that was promised to me.”
She doesn’t examine that. She can’t. Not tonight, not without breaking.
Fett asks, pressing, again, “what did you want from me?”
“Political support to help manage the traditionalists,” she says. It’s the most important part. She doesn’t have to bring up the rest, not now. “And I’d like for you to run the region’s defense forces. I don’t want a standing army, few do, but the Journeyman Protectors are a good program. They just… can’t cover all of Mandalore’s systems. I planned to ask you to take up that role, since having you there would also encourage those on the fence to go to jobs that suit them, instead causing trouble on the holonet.”
“You want these people in positions of law enforcement?”
“Not entirely,” she admits. “But I’m not expecting you to take in Death Watch. Just… the centrists.”
It’s a short term for wide spectrum, but he knows what she means. New Mandalore is hers, these days, but the movement has been around for some seven hundred years; they were born of Dral'Han. Death Watch is newer, much newer, but there are plenty that gravitated to them. ‘Centrist’ manages to encompass all the rest. 
Of course, centrists are… she doesn’t want to say ‘a dying breed,’ but the past centuries have only drawn more to New Mandalore’s cause, as people realize that war is destroying them, while those who seek it simply… well, the people who choose to go to war are the ones to die in it. She doesn’t like it, but Satine doesn’t like many of the things that happen in her territory. She doesn’t want the centrists dying in wars that don’t need to happen, doesn’t even want Death Watch actually dead, but the stark reality is that commandos run into blasterfire and get gunned down regularly. Their widows and children sometimes take up their cause, and sometimes they mourn so fully that they swear off war entirely. It’s a common, tired narrative, and New Mandalore grows every time the warriors go to battle.
It’s not that nobody thinks of who they leave behind. It’s just that someone has to pick up the pieces, and it’s New Mandalore as often as not.
Satine doesn’t think Fett would appreciate this line of reasoning.
“Call your Jedi,” Fett says. “If he can get the clones handled…”
Satine purses her lips. “You’ll support my rule?”
“Advisory,” Fett warns her. “And I sure as hell won’t be a yes-man for your politics. I will fight you on it.”
“With words, not blasters.”
He has the gall to roll his eyes at her. She’s almost charmed.
“Call your Jedi.”
“He’s not my Jedi.”
 Specifically inspired by signage in the Balkans, namely Serbia and Greece, where highway signs and the like all come in both the Latin alphabet, and in Cyrillic (Serbia) or Greek alphabet (Greece). Relatedly, many countries encourage English from a young age for the reasons above; Satine’s encouragement of Basic as an element of curriculum is like teaching English in Greece or Serbia. Learn it because it’s everywhere, and it’ll be useful to know.
 When reviewing clips of New Mandalore, I found that the texture and paneling of New Mandalorian fashions reminded me of Kevlar. Having New Mandalorians wearing space Kevlar as a way to marry their pacifism with tradition struck me as a fun and interesting way to approach some of what we see in the show, especially with how often Satine gets roughed up without her outfit taking damage.
 These statistics are a marriage of several real-world stats, as well as canon statistics and extrapolation. Australia, one of the many countries with strict gun control laws, has an average of 3 gun-related murders per million per year. The planet Mandalore, according to Wookieepedia, has a population of about 4 million people due to the glassing of several centuries prior; that population is approximately 81% human. This does not match visuals from the earlier TCW seasons, but later visuals suggest that the design team has walked back the ‘make them look Scandinavian’ plan after being challenged about the racism of it. The site also does not provide a date for this statistic, so it may be from after the Empire decimates the planet post-TCW. As it is the only statistic on hand, this is what I’m using.
With Satine’s particularly strong pacifism, the battleweave, better medical care (like bacta), and the Star Wars reality of blasters having a ‘stun’ setting… I think it reasonable to say that if a country like Australia can have 3 ppm gun deaths, then Mandalore can have 1 ppm, which means four deliberate shootings per year on the planet, one of them fatal.
I imagine people get very creative with knives, when it’s time for a crime of passion.
 These ratios are about average for the feudal knighthood system I researched. Mandalore, after all, has industrialization. That said, a spaceship likely takes significantly more people and resources to create and maintain than a horse. Sure, you have to feed a horse, but you don’t have to mine anything to make it.
 Some people like to use Sparta as an example of a Mandalorian-style “every citizen is a soldier/warrior, even the women!” Sparta, however, had a lot of slaves that helped maintain their way of life. Comfort and war does not come cheap.
The Mandalorian attitude towards slavery seems to vary by clan; some free slaves, some are… less moral. They then accuse each other of not being ‘real’ Mandalorians, in the way that the entire system goes back to ‘no true Scotsman’ on a regular basis. Mandalore was definitely enslaving planets four thousand years prior in the KOTOR era, but it’s been a very long time since then. Given the general energy of Death Watch and some of the Cuy’val Dar, along with the galactic attitude towards slavery, I imagine it’s very likely that a portion of Mandalore’s more traditional clans kept slaves in more recent history. Since recorded history stretches back tens of thousands of years in the GFFA, the ‘recent history’ that Satine references is several centuries prior. That isn’t necessarily a long time even for the real world, as far as archaeological studies go, but it’s even less time in the Star Wars universe.
As Mandalore apparently attempted a genocide less than 200 years before this fic is set (the Mandalorian-Ithullan war), recent enough that Jaster specifically addressed it in his codex, so. That indicates a few things about Mandalore’s moral stances in recent history.
 All canon to Open Seasons, the only material to show what happened at Galidraan. I’ve compared it (on tumblr) to Interpol showing up in France, finding a heavily armed American paramilitary group that they’ve been told does not have permission to be here, and then requesting the militia stand down and answer questions about why the hell they’re in France… and then the Americans open fire, except instead of Americans, it’s Jango.
 This is not canon. There is no indication that Satine knows what happened on Galidraan, or that she would have known either side of the story, just the official Republic statement. That said, I wanted to touch on it, so I’m going with the idea that Qui-Gon told her the Jedi side since he’d dealt with Dooku’s post-incident venting, and that she’d previously gotten the footage through her father so she could see the True Mando viewpoint, via an objective manner like audio-visual helmet recording. I also think that, if there were such a complete destruction of that nature, Duke Kryze would have at least tried to get reparations for the spouses and children of those who died at Galidraan.
 If you can’t shoot your feudal lord, you can collectively refuse to fill up his gas, make his food, clean his house, stitch his wounds, make his clothes, or pay his taxes… and then you can go around and steal his ammo for good measure.
This is a simplification and metaphor, since the actual history of New Mandalore is much more complicated, but this manner of thinking is a major influence on why and how New Mandalorians managed to survive over seven hundred years as a lasting activist movement.
 Jango’s parents were armed and fighting, though not in armor. This is only passingly relevant, however, and one of many things that Jango doesn’t say, and Satine doesn’t know.
 Timeline clarification, which doesn’t necessarily match up to all of canon, but canon rarely matches up to itself on this matter, so. This timeline is set up with the current canon that Obi-Wan is 25 in TPM, and the fanon that the year on the run was somewhere between 16-20 for Obitine.
Jango 22 , Obi&Satine 13: Galidraan
J 28, S 17: Escape from spice slavery; assassination of Duke Kryze, Satine goes on the run with the Jedi
J 29, S 18: has his bearings and the resources to get around, building up resources while keeping his identity quiet for a few years; end of the latest Mandalorian civil war
J 31, S 20: Jango finally starts giving his name to more than a select few; word reaches Satine that Jango is alive, and she puts out a request to have people tell him to visit her
J 34, S 23: this fic (two years before The Phantom Menace)
 Timelines differ between Legends and movie canon. I like the Null and Alpha batches, conceptually, so I go with the Kamino project starting several years prior to TPM, rather than the ten that Jango cited. We can say he was using another planet’s years.
 Legends canon places the origin of New Mandalore as a movement at 738 BBY, following the Mandalorian Excision, AKA Dral’han, or the Annihilation, in which the Republic glassed the planet. The True Mandalorians, and Death Watch in response, were founded c. 60 BBY, by Jaster Mereel and Tor Vizsla respectively.
New Mandalorians were initially in many government positions after the Excision due to Republic interference, and then faded in and out of influence as the clans gained and lost power over the years. Current New Mandalorians absolutely believe in their philosophy for its own sake, often due to trauma (e.g. Satine’s year on the run likely cemented her pacifism).
Barring traitors like Almec and Pre, we can read the New Mandalorians as taking this philosophy for its own sake, not hunger for influence. Given Satine’s time on the run and what Legends gives us of the Mereel/Vizsla conflict, I imagine New Mandalorians just spent a few decades, possibly a century or two (if it goes back to the Ithullan genocide), as the less powerful, less influential faction of politics, while more militaristic factions and clans jockeyed for power. Following Korda VI, Galidraan, and the assassination of Duke Kryze, I would think that many lower-class traditionalists or disillusioned former warriors were pushed towards peace out of a hope that it would offer them more than war did. This is why I chose to paint Satine’s statistics for before her rule as being set in a period where the widespread violence was fairly recent even before the civil war.