You don’t understand, I need a crossover where these two meet so badly I can’t stand it! Both are “medical professionals” in some capacity and both like animals. Omega likes to collect dads and Herbert is Dad Shaped, so she would absolutely try to give him a Crosshair-style domestication arc. Herbert gives off “morally dubious with adults, great with kids” vibes, so I also think he’d like Omega. Omega would be obsessed with Archimedes the dove. There would be chaos. Something would explode.
Omega, you are the dejarik champion of the batch. That means you're smart. It would have been smarter to fire a stun ray directly at Wrecker. He is a big target, and you are a good shot, you cannot miss. But instead you get his attention, and then stand there for roughly a full 8 seconds or so, INSTEAD OF FIRING STUNS! Child, are you stoopy?
Summary: Boba Fett is his father's only child, even if millions of men share his face. That doesn't stop Omega from calling him her brother, or from trying to win him over to her side. It worked with Crosshair, after all.
Four times the only unaltered clones of Jango Fett encounter one another throughout their lifetimes.
The first time Boba sees her is in a dingy cantina on a space station he doesn’t even remember the name of. He’s just finished an easy solo bounty—needed space from the rest of Krayt’s Claw after some banthashit argument or other, their loud, bickering voices grating on him like durasteel on durasteel. He is seated at the bar, nursing a bitter-tasting liquid that he’s probably, technically, still too young for.
The bartender hadn’t asked, hadn’t cared, had just slid over his order and swiped his credits up. No one questions a bounty hunter in Mandalorian armor. Who knows if the guy had even realized he was serving a teenager. Boba keeps his helmet on whenever he’s alone, lifts it only high enough to tip the alcohol down his throat every so often. He’s just had a growth spurt, might even be as tall as Jango now.
He’s thinking of his dad. Wondering if Jango would’ve been the one to offer him his first drink, maybe after a successful hunt together. Instead, it had been Aurra, sneering and laughing when he choked on the shot of spotchka she’d shoved at him, the same way she’d sneered at him later when he hadn’t been able to pull the trigger to kill the clone commander on their hunt for Mace Windu.
The girl walks in with a pack of mercenaries. The men with her are dressed in well-worn armor, blasters conspicuous at their hips. One’s a giant, at least two meters tall, built like a tank, the teeth of some creature painted on his visor adding to the overall effect. Boba knows better than to catalogue just the most obvious threat, though. The other two men may be smaller—one seeming inattentive with his nose buried in a datapad, the other scoping out the crowd—but he has no doubt they know how to use those weapons to their advantage. The scuffs on their armor prove they’ve survived enough to be dangerous.
It’s strange, paired with the way the one with a wicked-looking vibroblade tucked into his vambrace has a gentle hand on the girl’s shoulder. She’s out of place in the rough crowd, a few years younger than him maybe, pulling her helmet off to reveal a curly head of blonde hair, smiling and chattering at her closest companion. Bubbly. Not something you see a lot in places like this, although the energy bow strapped to her back says maybe she’s more used to them than she should be.
There’s something familiar about her. It nags at the back of Boba’s brain, trying to penetrate the slight buzz from the alcohol. He doesn’t turn his helmet even slightly, but uses the expanded view in his HUD to keep an eye on her.
The girl splits off from the mercenaries to park herself inconspicuously in a shadowy booth as they approach the bar. The bartender leans in to listen, then jerks a thumb in response to their inquiry, and they disappear into the back.
If he recalls, the bar’s owned by some small-time underworld broker. Whatever business the mercenaries have with him, it’s none of his. Boba takes another sip of his drink.
The girl materializes out of nowhere like a kriffing ghost. He has no idea how she snuck up on him, and he very resolutely does not jump, although maybe he flinches a little behind his helmet.
“Hello,” she announces brightly, giving him a little wave as she hops up on the stool. Her accent strikes again in his mind like the ringing of a distant bell. Her feet dangle, kicking back and forth playfully.
Boba grunts and refuses to turn his head toward the little weirdo, on principle. She should be scared of him, not friendly. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to talk to strangers, kid?” he growls in his best imitation of his father.
The girl’s brow furrows in concentration. “You seem familiar. And you’re barely older than me!” she tacks on, with an eyeroll for good measure.
Curse his teenage lankiness, the way he still doesn’t quite fill out his father’s armor.
But if she recognizes something about him—does he actually know this girl?
Boba finally shifts to get a fuller look at her face. Brown eyes under a heavy brow. A strong, wide nose. Round chin. Light brown skin. He can’t remember every seeing her before, but something about her…
On his HUD, he pulls up the facial recognition software that he uses for tracking down bounties. It glitches, unable to connect to the holonet database. There’s something wrong with his helmet. Frowning, he pulls it off to examine the wiring.
The girl gasps.
“You’re a cadet!” she nearly shrieks, delight spilling out onto her face. “How did you get off Kamino? How did you get away from the Empire?”
This time Boba can’t hide that she’s caught him off guard. His helmet slips from his grasp, thunking awkwardly on the bar top. All of a sudden the familiar nature of her accent in his ears is less a bell, more like a thundering gong.
He hasn’t heard it as much since the war ended. Hasn’t had to see the endless marching repetitions of his father’s face, either, all dead or dispersed or disguised behind their helmets now. That voice only echoes back to him when it issues from his own throat, the face only reflected in mirrors.
His head is swimming. He hasn’t had enough to blame the alcohol.
“How— how do you—” he stammers, although already a part of him knows exactly how she’ll respond.
“I’m a clone, too!” the girl announces, radiating pure joy. Her chest puffs out with pride. “My name is Omega. You’re my brother!”
Boba’s never seen her before, he’s certain of that, now. Not this girl, specifically. With the exception of his minder, Taun We, Dad had always kept him away from those blasted Kaminoan experiments, and he has no doubt that’s what she is. Not a matching, perfectly enhanced specimen. Something else.
He clenches a fist and slams it against the bar. She doesn’t flinch, but she does frown.
“I am not a clone,” he snaps hotly. He shoves his helmet back over his head to hide his face. It’s easier to look at her like this, through the filter of the HUD. It still isn’t connecting to facial recognition. He stands up, ready to abandon his drink; he’ll head back to Slave I and tinker with his armor until he finds the problem.
The girl is confused. “But…of course you are. Do you not remember? Are you alone? You could, you could come with us, we—" She’s staring up at him plaintively, all sincere concern.
Boba hates this girl. Hates her the way he learned to hate his first friends, identical little boys he played with when his father was gone on hunts only for them to grow at twice his speed and leave him behind. Hates her the way he hated when the cadets who’d been smaller than him a year ago would call him little Boba once they started to tower over him. Hates her the way he hated seeing the back of the Firespray as it flew off into the stormy Kaminoan sky.
“My name,” he hisses, hand going to his blaster on instinct, “is Boba Fett. I am my father’s son. I am not like you.”
“Omega!” his father’s voice shouts. Boba looks up on instinct; it is so easy to forget, easy to keep looking for Jango every time. The mercenaries are back, helmets at their hips, blasters trained on him. They are his father, but not, not even in the way of most clones—defectives. The closest approximation is the one with the vibroblade, though the long hair and dark tattoo shading half his face set even him apart. The growl is the same, though, the exact same, when the clone orders, lowly, “Omega, step away from the bounty hunter.”
Omega blinks at the other clones, then back up at Boba. “But, Hunter,” she protests. “He’s— he’s just a cadet, he needs our help!”
Boba scoffs. Slowly, telegraphing his movements, he moves his hands away from his holster and holds them out at his sides. The beskar would protect him if he took a hit, but half the bar is staring at the confrontation unfolding before their eyes, and he doesn’t feel like receiving the attention of a firefight right now. He wants to take his ship into an asteroid field and blast space rock into tiny bits and scream until he feels better.
“I don’t need anything from clones,” he replies disdainfully.
The girl looks at him like he slapped her. “But—”
Boba turns and walks away. He tries to imitate the slow, confident hunter’s stride he’d seen from his father, not the petulant stomping that Aurra always called sulky. He isn’t sure if he’s successful.
In any case, none of the clones follow. He goes back to Slave I and tries to forget he ever saw her.
