Tatooine.
A desert world with a long history as one of the galaxy's primary hubs for crime, slavery, mercenary guilds, and bounty hunters.
A planet controlled by the Hutts, where most of their illegal business operations and profits were conducted. From podracing and slave trading to complex spice smuggling, weapons dealing, and worse.
Four Mandalorians walking together drew attention, though not as much as some might expect. To most observers, seeing four Mandalorians moving as a unit demonstrated solidarity and sent a clear message that they weren't easy targets. Many foolish individuals had tried to claim Mandalorian equipment over the years.
Most residents were accustomed to seeing bounty hunters of all species wandering the streets, as Tatooine served as a safe haven for such professionals.
Mos Eisley Spaceport was notorious as the cantina where the most criminals and bounty hunters congregated. It was here that one could find the most lucrative contracts and opportunities.
Dax glared at a particularly scruffy-looking human with obvious intimidation.
"Are you certain he's here?" Dax asked.
"Absolutely," Spar said with conviction. "This is his most frequent haunt."
The four Mandalorians paused outside the cantina entrance for a moment before Spar entered first, followed by the others.
Standing at the tavern's threshold, they surveyed the bar and its patrons. Most continued conducting their business—whether personal or professional—while others quickly noticed the armored warriors and attempted to maintain distance.
Amid the bustling crowd, it took Spar some time to locate their objective.
"There," Spar whispered, and the others followed his gaze to a young man sitting in a booth with several companions.
The youth appeared to be in his late teens, with dark hair, sun-weathered skin, and brown eyes. Accompanying him was a female Palliduvan with gray skin and an elaborate ponytail, a Trandoshan, and another human who was slightly older with his hood drawn up.
"You three stay back," Spar ordered.
"Are you certain about this, Spar?" Fennec asked.
"Trust me, my brothers," Spar said, approaching the booth. "If anyone tries to interfere with this conversation, handle them carefully."
Fennec observed their leader, then patted his companions on the shoulders. "Come on, vode. Let's get some drinks."
As Spar approached, he was quickly noticed by the booth's occupants.
The young man glared at Spar with obvious hostility, his eyes focusing on armor he knew all too well. "What do you want?"
Spar simply shrugged. "Just conversation. Nothing more."
"With whom?" the Palliduvan asked suspiciously.
Spar lowered his head slightly before responding. "With Boba."
"Excuse me?"
"He means me, Aura," the young man clarified.
"Do you want to speak with him, Boba?" Aura asked protectively.
"Actually, I need to speak with him privately," Spar said more directly.
"What if he refuses?"
"This is extremely important," Spar said with meaningful emphasis.
After removing his helmet, Spar was immediately scrutinized by Boba's companions.
"What's a clone doing here?" asked the hooded figure.
"Looks like a deserter to me," the Trandoshan growled.
"Then why is he wearing Mandalorian armor? Did he steal it?"
"I actually earned it," Spar corrected. "Isn't it reasonable for a son to speak with his father?"
"Don't try emotional manipulation on us, clone," Aura sneered. "We know Jango Fett died on Geonosis. Boba was there—he recovered his father's armor himself. We've been with him ever since."
Spar raised his hands peacefully. "Fair enough. I acknowledge that I'm not exactly Jango Fett. But unlike all the other clones, I carry his memories—his actual memories."
Boba frowned at this revelation. "That's supposed to mean...?"
Spar exhaled slowly. "Jaster Mereel."
Boba's eyes narrowed at the mention of that name.
"So what does that name mean to me?"
"More than you might realize," Spar said carefully. "Considering what Jango told you about him. How Jaster raised him, how he followed in his footsteps to become Mand'alor." He leaned closer. "You are the inheritor of Mereel's legacy."
Boba maintained a hardened expression, but something flickered in his eyes.
"Everyone," Boba said, looking down at the table. "Give me a few minutes."
"But Boba—"
"Please, Aura. Just this once."
Aura glared at Spar with obvious threat. "If anything happens to him, I'll kill you myself."
"I understand."
Aura reluctantly left the booth, followed by the others. Each was hesitant to comply, but the Palliduvan's authority made them obey and relocate elsewhere. They didn't leave the cantina entirely—just moved far enough away while maintaining visual contact with Boba's position.
"What do you want to discuss?"
"That should be obvious," Spar said, sitting across from his... brother, in a sense. "Through his memories, I understand how much Jango missed being Mandalorian—missed his people. Your people."
"He was exiled."
"No," Spar shook his head firmly. "Jango followed the ancient ways—the ways of the true Mandalorians. Death Watch and the New Mandalorians simply branded him as such. He was our rightful Mand'alor because Jango inherited Jaster's will and title. Jango was his son in every way except blood."
Boba kept his head down, but his shoulders were visibly trembling.
"Why are you telling me this?" Boba asked harshly, his eyes flashing with anger.
"I want you to come home to your people."
"I was never Mandalorian," Boba stated flatly.
Spar smiled knowingly. "You understand our language. You know our customs, even if you don't fully recognize it. Your father taught you everything he knew before Geonosis. I simply want to help complete what he left unfinished."
Boba's fists clenched tightly as fury crossed his features.
"I know you want revenge against the man who took him from you. But that's not what your father would want. He wanted you to live, to have a life, to—"
"What do you know?!" Boba roared. "You claim to have my father's memories?! Then you should know he killed Tor Vizsla in revenge for his adoptive father's death! How can you lecture me about revenge?"
Spar sighed and leaned back, staring at the cantina's ceiling with distant eyes.
"The thing about revenge, Boba," Spar said quietly, "is that having those memories—experiencing that perspective—gives you wisdom." He smiled bitterly. "Sometimes, carrying all those memories is both blessing and curse."
They sat in uncomfortable silence.
"Revenge gained Boba nothing," Spar continued. "Killing Tor felt satisfying initially, but let me tell you what Jango lost afterward. His clan, his brothers and sisters—all dead. His title was stripped, his pride and honor stolen. Now tell me, Boba—does that sound like something you want for yourself?"
Boba remained silent.
"I reclaimed the Mand'alor title to honor Jango's memory, hoping to pass it to you—his son and rightful heir," Spar said sincerely. "Please, Boba. Come home. Your people, your clan, will welcome you with open arms."
Boba said nothing in response.
Spar sighed again and produced a small communicator, placing it on the table before Boba. "Take time to consider this. You don't need to decide now—our doors will always remain open to you. When you've thought it through, use this to contact me. I'll help you find your proper place in the galaxy."