Side note: listen to Battle of Heroes by our music god, John Williams, as you read this.
It was cold and dark as the invasion began with
Mandalore's sensors on the planet registered it first not as a hostile contact, but as anomalies. Shadows where nothing should be. Gravitational distortions that didn't match trade traffic or patrol patterns.
The warships of dozens slid into real-space with surgical precision, emerging from hyperspace and slip-space almost simultaneously. They formed a layered shell around Mandalore high orbit, mid orbit, and interdiction range, locking the system down in under three minutes.
At the heart of the formation, Jack's command ship on the UNSC Black Reach took the lead.
It was all angles and mass, an evolution of an old UNSC heavy cruiser design, stretched and reinforced into a carrier-cruiser hybrid nearly two kilometers long. No exposed bridges. No ornamental towers. Just armored planes layered atop one another like overlapping plates of some enormous predator. And the hull was dark, matte, and dense enough that Republic sensors struggled to penetrate it. Beneath the outer titanium composite lay reinforced neutronium alloys, with beskar-reinforced segments protecting the command deck, reactors, and FTL cores.
Layered deflector shields shimmered faintly around it, not a single bubble, but stacked fields tuned to different threat profiles. Energy weapons bled off against the outer layer. Ion effects are dispersed against the inner polarization grid.
Twin MAC cannons ran the length of its spine, their rails faintly glowing with kyber-stabilized focusing arrays. Each round carried enough kinetic force to tear through a capital ship in a single, terminal strike.
Along its flanks, turbolaser batteries and point-defense systems tracked targets in perfect synchronization. Missile pods sat cold and ready, Archer-class warheads upgraded with Star Wars guidance packages capable of retargeting mid-flight.
The Black Reach was not here to duel fleets in battle, but dominate in space.
Cassandra's voice was calm on the command deck.
"Fleet deployment complete. Orbital control achieved across all primary vectors."
Jack stood at the center of the recessed bridge, hands behind his back, visor lit with cascading data. The bridge had no windows, only holographic projections and redundant systems layered deep within the ship's armored core.
"How many ships?" he asked.
Cassandra highlighted the formation.
Heavy cruisers form the backbone.
Escort destroyers and frigates are maintaining interdiction.
Carrier platforms loaded with dropships and fighters.
Logistics vessels are already moving to establish supply chains.
"Sufficient assets to seize and hold the Mandalore system indefinitely," Cassandra replied. "With reserve capacity for expansion."
Jack nodded once.
"Begin Phase One."
Space went dark.
Mandalore's orbital defense network didn't explode; it simply stopped working. Sensor relays froze, then began feeding false data. Traffic control continued issuing clearances to ships that were no longer there.
Defense platforms drifted, intact but inert, their command authority quietly overwritten.
"Orbital awareness degraded to twenty percent," Cassandra reported.
Dropships detached from the fleet in clean, disciplined waves.
They weren't Republic LAATs or Separatist landers. These were hybrids of Pelican-derived frames reinforced with Mandalorian armor philosophy. Angular hulls. Minimal profiles. Heavy thrusters designed for hot insertions. Inside them waited the ODSTs. They no longer looked like the shock troopers of old.
Their armor retained the familiar ODST silhouette, heavy chest plating, reinforced greaves, sealed helmets, but it had changed.
Beskar-lined pauldrons sat over the shoulders, etched with subtle Mandalorian sigils. Chest plates bore angular ridges inspired by beskar cuirasses, layered over energy-diffusing composites. T-visored helmets had been reshaped, still unmistakably ODST, but with the hard, predatory lines of Mandalorian helms.
Shield emitters were integrated cleanly into the armor's profile, invisible until activated, with black, gray, and muted steel replaced by parade colors.
As one, the ODSTs locked their harnesses and checked weapons.
No speeches, no chants, just readiness.
A single Mandalorian anti-orbital missile streaked up from the surface, defiant, desperate.
It never reached the fleet. A Basilisk war droid intercepted it effortlessly, detonating the missile far above the atmosphere. The explosion flared briefly, visible across the night side of the planet.
A precision strike lanced down from orbit, severing the offending clan's command uplink. The surrounding city remained untouched. Power grids stayed online.
"Ground forces standing by," Cassandra said.
Jack watched Mandalore rotate beneath the fleet storm clouds crawling across continents, cities still unaware of how thoroughly they had already lost the sky.
"Deploy atmospheric control," he ordered. "Begin insertion."
Basilisk war droids descended first, cutting through the clouds like armored meteors. Dropships followed, their silhouettes vanishing into the planet's iron-gray atmosphere.
Above it all, the fleet held position silent, disciplined, unchallenged.
Mandalore had not yet fallen.
But it no longer controlled its orbit, and that meant the war in space was already decided.
As the dropships punched through the cloud cover and flared hard over the city outskirts, landing with precision that spoke of rehearsed violence. Ramps dropped. ODSTs poured out in disciplined lines, shields flaring once as sporadic blaster fire struck and failed.
Mandalorian defenders rushed forward in small numbers, clan guards, city militias, proud and brave and utterly unprepared.
They charged like individuals, and they died like individuals.
The ODSTs did not advance screaming. They did not rush. They moved the way Jack had taught them, slow, overlapping, methodical. Shield walls advanced. Precision fire cut down defenders before they could close the distance. Jet-assisted flanks shattered any attempt at cohesion.
Cassandra tracked it all from orbit.
"Ground resistance strength remains below five percent of projected threat levels," she reported. "No centralized command. No reserve formations."
Jack watched feeds scroll across his visor helmet cams, tactical overlays, heat signatures blinking out one by one.
"They were never meant to fight a war," he said quietly. "They were meant to police dissent."
The capital fell without ever realizing it was under siege.
Under Duchess Satine's rule, Mandalore had dismantled its war doctrine piece by piece. Training grounds converted into civic centers. Defense budgets gutted in the name of peace.
It was a peace without teeth, no way to prove itself.
So when Basilisk war droids descended into the plazas, ancient shapes reborn in fire and shadow, no anti-armor units were waiting. No kill zones prepared. No layered fallback positions.
Just stunned civilians and scattered guards firing in panic.
The Basilisks landed hard and went to work, did not rampage but executed.
Command buildings were breached with surgical force. Communications hubs were seized intact. Shield generators were shut down, not destroyed. Every movement was deliberate, restrained, merciless.
ODST squads followed in their wake, armor marked now with soot and scorch but moving as if on rails.
One Mandalorian guard tried to rally a defense near a transit hub.
"Hold the line!" he shouted, Beskar flashing as he raised his rifle.
A shielded ODST stepped forward, took the shot square in the chest, and didn't slow. One return burst dropped the guard instantly.
The rest broke.
Cassandra updated Jack again.
"Casualty ratios exceed ninety-to-one. Enemy forces are disintegrating."
Jack didn't react.
In the lower districts, resistance never even formed.
Former warriors now peace officers, hesitated. They waited for orders that never came. Some tried to stand their ground out of pride. Others fled.
The ODSTs advanced regardless.
They swept streets clean in coordinated arcs, shields overlapping, drones marking targets before weapons ever fired. Jetpacks flared as squads vaulted obstacles, taking rooftops, sealing escape routes.
Any Mandalorian who laid down arms was ignored, but any who raised them was removed.
It was brutal and efficient.
It was exactly what happened when doctrine met ideology.
From orbit, the fleet remained untouched.
Clan leaders argued over comms that no longer reached one another. Old rivalries flared even as their world burned around them.
Cassandra highlighted the truth in cold numbers.
"Mandalorian combat capability reduced below sustainable levels. Remaining resistance is symbolic."
Jack exhaled slowly.
"Stand down, heavy elements," he ordered. "Secure remaining population centers. No reprisals."
"Confirmed."
Below, the last organized defenders were cut down outside a former military academy, its weapons long since decommissioned, its grounds now a public garden trampled flat under armored boots.
The irony was not lost on Jack.
By nightfall, Mandalore was silent.
Dropships hovered over government districts. Basilisk war droids stood sentinel atop buildings that had once flown pacifist banners. ODST patrols moved through streets unchallenged, weapons lowered but ready.
Cassandra spoke once more.
"Planetary control achieved. Effective resistance eliminated."
Jack closed his eyes briefly.
Duchess Satine had wanted peace.
She had gotten vulnerability instead.
He opened his eyes and looked down at the conquered world through the holotable.
"This didn't have to be a massacre," he said quietly.
"But it was inevitable."
And Mandalore, proud, broken, unprepared, had paid the price for forgetting how to fight.