Topic: Boba Fett Fanfic "A Warrior's Armor"

Shutting a portal behind him, he removed the helmet – his father’s helmet, his helmet. Holding it with both hands, he felt the dense weight of the Beskar sinking into his palms as he held the heirloom in front of his chest. With his left hand, he gripped his fingers around the bottom edge of the helmet, taking his right thumb to gently brush away a thin layer of sand and grime from a cheek mottled with scars and a chipped coating of green paint. 

With the damage from the Sarlacc and, to a much lesser extent, the marshal Cobb Vanth, there was more silver than green, revealing the dun gleam of the Mandalorian alloy beneath.

Dad would polish the Beskar, Fett recalled fondly. Like Din, his father Jango had chosen to let his Beskar breathe, its luster a menacing promise.

“It doesn’t matter if they can see me. I’m coming for them,” his father had told him.   

Every scratch, nick, dent, and deformity in the armor had origins – Fett mused he had once been able to recollect the various encounters, scraps, and struggles that had conceived the markings on his kit.

For each blemish was a story, the armor a saga of survival.

I've been a fan of Fett for so long but never worked up the courage to write him before! Let's just say I find the new source material on The Mandalorian very inspiring. I started a mini-fic on AO3 after watching the season finale of The Mandalorian -- watching events unfold surrounding Fett's return got me thinking about what it meant for Fett to reclaim and re-paint his armor, while reflecting on his origins. I love a good dive into a character's psychology - so as a warning, this is very much that kind of story. :)

Planning to post at least one more chapter in the coming weeks (2nd chapter is mostly drafted right now).

Direct link to AO3 because of course I want the hit ;)

A Warrior's Armor: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28219233

Rating: General Audiences
Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply
Category: Gen
Fandoms: The Mandalorian (TV); Star Wars - All Media Types
Characters: Boba Fett; Jango Fett; Fennec Shand; Din Djarin
Words: 1807

Summary: Boba Fett has reclaimed his armor, but he recognizes that both he and the Beskar are not the same as they once were. An exploratory deep dive into Boba Fett's complex relationship with his inheritance (and his father) and why a new coat of paint was in order. Another chapter coming soon.

Snippet:

Shutting a portal behind him, he removed the helmet – his father’s helmet, his helmet. Holding it with both hands, he felt the dense weight of the Beskar sinking into his palms as he held the heirloom in front of his chest. With his left hand, he gripped his fingers around the bottom edge of the helmet, taking his right thumb to gently brush away a thin layer of sand and grime from a cheek mottled with scars and a chipped coating of green paint. 

With the damage from the Sarlacc and, to a much lesser extent, the marshal Cobb Vanth, there was more silver than green, revealing the dun gleam of the Mandalorian alloy beneath.

Dad would polish the Beskar, Fett recalled fondly. Like Din, his father Jango had chosen to let his Beskar breathe, its luster a menacing promise.

“It doesn’t matter if they can see me. I’m coming for them,” his father had told him.   

Every scratch, nick, dent, and deformity in the armor had origins – Fett mused he had once been able to recollect the various encounters, scraps, and struggles that had conceived the markings on his kit.

For each blemish was a story, the armor a saga of survival.

I'll plan to post this to the BFFC Fanfiction section once it's completed (I'm honestly not sure if you can edit / add chapters to stories once posted on BFFC?)

This is a good fic. I especially love the "flashback" part; I'm a sucker for that kind of thing. :)

As for your question at the end, that's something you'd need to ask Admin about, if you haven't already.

“You’re forgetting their purpose,” Jango’s voice was stern; the very tone his father would use when Boba did something that disappointed him. It told Boba he should remain out of this conversation.

But he was awake and awfully curious. Why would one of the clone trainers need to talk to dad in the middle of the night? Boba rolled quietly out of bed and tiptoed up to the bedroom door he had left slightly ajar. The main chamber of the apartment was dimly lit with a torch Boba had left on for Jango’s arrival, offering just enough illumination for him to perceive the space.

“And what purpose is that? Cannon fodder? For a Republic that doesn’t recognize their citizenship?” The other voice challenged. Boba peered through the gap between the door and the jamb and saw a short, thin silhouette backlit from the bright light spilling from the corridor into the apartment.

“You think that doesn’t make me uneasy? You know what you signed up for.” Jango stood rigid, his silver beskar reflected the low light from the iridescent torch as he turned around to face the other man, that stark silhouette, still standing in the threshold.

“And you know as well as I that I didn’t have the full story when I agreed to this job,” the other man’s voice was quiet, but simmered with ire. He took several steps into the apartment, the torch light revealing his weathered face. Boba recognized him as one of the Mandalorians who trained the commando clones.

“Easy, Kal,” Boba saw Jango’s body language shift to a more relaxed posture. “Boba’s sleeping, let’s not wake him over our spat, shall we?” He pulled over a stool for Kal and gestured for him to sit as he took a seat in an adjacent chair.