(I want to give a sincere thank you to The_Erinyes for pointing out that June does not die during the events of Halo: Reach. You are absolutely correct.
It has been a long time since I last played Reach, and that oversight is entirely on me. I appreciate readers who care enough about the source material to speak up and help keep the story grounded in canon where it matters.
Thank you for reading, and thank you for the correction; it's genuinely appreciated.)
Time passed the way it always did for warriors measured in scars, victories, and the quiet accumulation of reputation.
By the time the red plains of Mandalore began to feel like home, Jack had already completed his first contracts as a Fett.
Raid suppression in the Keldabe badlands.Escort missions through pirate-held hyperspace lanes.A quiet retrieval on Concordia that ended loudly for everyone else.
He didn't fight like a Mandalorian.
He fought like something worse.
Word spread quickly.
The offworlder who never panicked.The one who advanced under fire instead of dodging it. The warrior whose shields flared once then never failed again.
Verd Fett stopped assigning him escorts after the third mission.
"He doesn't need them," Verd said.
Jack didn't argue.
Clan tradition required armor maintenance after every mission. Mandalorians repaired beskar with reverence, each dent a story, each scorch mark earned.
Jack used the opportunity for something else.
Quietly. Methodically.
As warriors removed gauntlets or reset armor seals, Cassandra ran micro-scans that were non-invasive, masked as shield recalibration diagnostics.
DNA samples.Genetic profiles.Baseline health markers.
No alarms. No suspicion.
"Spartan," Cassandra reported one night, "I have successfully cataloged genetic data from ninety-seven percent of Clan Fett."
Jack adjusted a shoulder plate. "And the other three?"
"They didn't want recalibration."
"Give it time."
She paused. "You are planning something."
Jack snorted. "You say that like it's new."
As Cassandra worked constantly in the background, integrating Star Wars technology into her databanks, hyperdrives, droids, shield harmonics, and blaster physics.
Then she found something that made her stop.
"Jack."
Her tone had changed. Sharper. Focused.
"Found something?"
"Yes. A recurring genetic reference pattern embedded in multiple Republic and corporate records. The name appears deliberately obscured."
Jack leaned back against the workbench. "Say it."
"…Kamino."
Jack frowned. "That a person?"
"No. A planet.
Cassandra expanded the projection of thin, tall humanoids. Pale skin. Long necks. Laboratories stretching into endless white corridors.
"Kamino is a cloning facility," she said. "Advanced. Precise. Industrial-scale."
Jack's expression hardened.
"How advanced?"
"Capable of producing fully grown, combat-ready soldiers with programmed behavioral parameters."
Jack went very still.
"…How loyal?"
"Depends who writes the code."
Jack didn't hate cloning.
He hated uncontrolled cloning.
To him, Kamino wasn't a moral question.
It was a variable.
A facility capable of mass-producing elite soldiers could become:
a galaxy-ending weapon
a tyrant's private army
or the most powerful deterrent imaginable
Left alone, it would inevitably become the first.
Jack had seen that movie before.
Reach burned because Covenant's overwhelming naval and ground superiority, not overall UNSC incompetence, led to the planet's fall. He knows that this could happen to his new family if another force decides to use this against them.
He wouldn't make that mistake again.
"Cassandra," he said quietly, "I want everything. Ownership structures. Clients. Security protocols."
"I am already inside their systems."
"Of course you are."
"I was offended you assumed otherwise."
Jack almost smiled.
The forge had gone quiet for the night.
Only the wind moved through the Fett stronghold, carrying the distant sounds of Mandalorians at rest. Jack sat alone at his workbench, helmet off, beskar plates laid out with military precision before him.
Cassandra projected softly above the table, no dramatic displays, no unnecessary data.
Just facts.
"You are considering Kamino as a resource," she said.
Jack didn't look up. "I'm considering it as a risk."
"A controllable one."
"That's the goal."
She rotated the projection rows of genetic markers, Spartan identifiers, and ODST profiles layered beneath them.
"You possess viable DNA templates for thirty-two Spartans," Cassandra continued. "Additionally, I retain genetic records for two hundred forty-one ODST troopers recovered from Reach, and prior UNSC operations pulse all training regiments for both ODST and Spartans ."
Jack's jaw tightened slightly.
"That many," he murmured.
"Yes."
He leaned back, eyes unfocused for a moment.
"Spartans don't get mass-produced," Jack said finally.
Cassandra tilted her projection. "That is an ethical stance."
"No," Jack corrected. "That's a practical one."
He tapped the Spartan data.
"These people weren't interchangeable. They worked because they were different. Different instincts. Different reactions. Different flaws."
He paused.
"Make thousands of them, and you lose what made them work."
Cassandra processed silently.
"However," she said carefully, "ODSTs represent a different variable."
Jack nodded.
"They were already elite. Already trained. Already volunteered."
He stared at the ODST profiles.
"If I needed numbers," he continued, "real numbers ODST templates can scale."
"How many?" Cassandra asked.
Jack didn't hesitate.
"Thousands. Eventually tens of thousands."
Cassandra's voice lowered. "That would be sufficient to alter the balance of power in multiple sectors."
"Which is why it's not step one."
He stood, pacing slowly.
"Spartans first. Limited. Controlled. Every clone gets a name, a purpose, and oversight."
"And the ODSTs?"
"Later. If things get worse."
Cassandra paused longer this time.
"You are planning contingencies for scenarios that have not yet occurred."
Jack snorted softly. "That's called experience."
She shifted the projection again, this time to Kamino.
"If you become a client," Cassandra said, "you can dictate terms. Production limits. Oversight. Security protocols."
"And secrecy," Jack added.
"Yes."
She brought up schematics of sleek Kaminoan spires rising from storm-shrouded seas.
"You could fund the construction of a secondary facility. Isolated. Off official records. Presented as an expansion for long-term clients."
Jack stopped pacing.
"…Hush money," he said.
"Leverage," Cassandra corrected. "You would not threaten Kamino. You would make yourself indispensable."
Jack exhaled slowly.
"I don't want them afraid of me."
"That is statistically irrelevant."
"I want them dependent."
Cassandra's projection stilled.
"That is… more effective."
Jack looked at the Spartan data again.
Noble Team.
Others whose names never made it into history.
"I'm not bringing them back," he said quietly. "I know that."
"I am aware."
"But I can make sure what they represented doesn't disappear."
Cassandra softened her tone.
"You are not attempting resurrection."
"No," Jack said. "I'm building continuity."
He turned back to the table.
"Thirty-two Spartan lines. No more. No fewer. Each is treated as its own project."
"And ODSTs?" Cassandra asked.
Jack's eyes hardened.
"They're the fallback. The wall behind the wall."
"If Kamino refuses?"
"Then we pay them more."
"And if someone else notices?"
Jack smiled faintly, without humor.
"Then they notice too late."
Cassandra dimmed her projection.
"Jack," she said quietly, "once this begins, you will not be able to walk away."
Jack placed his helmet back on the bench.
"I walked away from Reach."
He met her projection.
"That's not happening again."
The decision settled heavily, deliberately, irreversible.
Not conquest.
Not ambition.
Preparation.
And in the hands of a Spartan, preparation was the most dangerous thing in the galaxy.
The Fett stronghold gathered in the evening hall.
Not all at once Mandalorians didn't do pageantry but word spread quickly when Verd Fett called a full clan meet. Warriors filtered in, armor worn, weapons present, helmets mostly on. This was not ceremony.
This was business.
Jack stood near the central fire pit, helmet clipped to his belt, Cassandra silent in his ear. Verd Fett took his place at the head of the hall, arms folded.
"You asked for this," Verd said. "Speak."
Jack nodded once.
"I won't waste your time."
That earned him attention.
"Mandalore is strong," Jack continued. "But it's watched. Contested. Politically fragile."
A few warriors shifted. No one interrupted.
"You can train here. You can forge here. You can defend yourselves here." He paused. "You can't grow here."
A murmur ran through the hall.
Jack let it happen, then continued.
"If Clan Fett is going to thrive really thrive you need depth. Space to build. Space to fail without the galaxy watching."
Verd's visor tilted. "You're saying Mandalore isn't enough."
Jack met his gaze. "I'm saying Mandalore is a blade. Not a forge."
Silence.
Then Tor Fett spoke. "You have a place in mind."
"Yes."
Jack activated a small holoprojector on his gauntlet.
A jungle world bloomed into existence dense green canopies, thick atmosphere, towering trees, and ruins swallowed by vegetation.
"Dxun," Jack said. "The jungle moon of Onderon."
Several warriors stiffened.
"That place is cursed," someone muttered.
"Good," Jack replied. "Then people will stay away."
He expanded the projection terrain overlays, landing zones, defensible high ground.
"Dxun is hostile. Dangerous. Alive." His voice remained steady. "Which makes it perfect."
"For what?" Verd asked.
"For becoming something new."
Jack turned slowly, letting his gaze pass over the clan.
"Hidden training grounds. Foundry complexes. Shipyards. Barracks.""A place where warriors are made without interference.""A place where mistakes don't cost us Mandalore."
Jango, standing near the back, frowned. "You want to leave?"
Jack looked at him. "No. I want a second spine."
That seemed to click.
Verd stepped forward. "And the forces you intend to build there?"
Jack didn't dodge it.
"Not an army that answers to politics," he said. "Not mercenaries chasing credits."
He tapped the holoprojector, shutting it down.
"Warriors. Raised properly. Trained correctly. Loyal to clan first."
"And how many?" Verd asked.
Jack held his gaze. "As many as the jungle can break and remake."
The hall was silent now.
Verd turned to the clan. "Speak."
Tor crossed his arms. "Dxun will kill the weak."
Jack nodded. "Exactly."
Another warrior spoke. "It will cost ships. Supplies. Time."
"I have the credits," Jack said. "And Cassandra."
A few chuckles.
Verd studied Jack for a long moment.
"You are asking Clan Fett to expand," he said. "To become more than a house."
Jack inclined his head. "I'm asking you to survive what's coming."
Verd's voice dropped. "You see war ahead."
Jack didn't hesitate. "I see inevitability."
That did it.
Verd turned to the clan and raised his hand.
"Clan Fett has always adapted," he said. "That is why we still exist."
He looked back to Jack.
"You would lead this effort?"
"I'll build it," Jack said. "You decide how it's used."
Verd placed a hand on Jack's shoulder heavy, deliberate.
"Then we go to Dxun."
A low, approving rumble spread through the hall.
Jango's eyes were bright. "Jungle moon," he said. "Full of monsters."
Jack smirked faintly. "Good training environment."
Cassandra spoke quietly in Jack's ear.
"This will alter the trajectory of the clan permanently."
Jack watched the warriors disperse, already talking logistics.
"Yeah," he replied. "That's the point."