Boba,
I’m sorry to hear about your father. Though I didn’t know him well, I knew him to be a great man.
As far as finding siblings, you’re right. We are scattered few and far between these days. I wish I could do more, but the best I can give you is some stale info. There were rumors a few months back that a sect of Death Watch revolted and relocated to a planet near your coordinates. I’ll transmit the location with this message. This might be your best bet at finding others who won’t be openly hostile to your cause.
Stay alive,
Kefaj Mereel
Boba Fett closes his datapad as the footsteps behind him draw closer. He’s so close, it would do him no good to mess it up now.
“What are you doing, brat?”
Deep breath. “I’m taking the Slave out for a day or two, Aurra.”
Aurra scoffs, dropping down into the seat next to him and propping her feet up on the table. Boba swallows his disdain. “Says who?”
“Says me. You said I have the rest of the week off, so I’m taking it. What I do with it is none of your business.” Boba crosses his arms and tilts his head back, trying his best to imitate the frown his father used to break down businessmen.
“Like hell you are. You may have some time off, but that doesn’t mean you can just take the ship.”
“It’s my ship!” Boba sits up abruptly, slamming his feet onto the duracrete floor. Something crunches. Gods, he hates this place. “It’s my ship and I’m letting you use it, so while we’re on break, I’ll do what I want!”
Aurra laughs. “It’s cute that you think I care,” she drawls in that tone that makes Boba want to punch what’s left of her teeth straight down her throat. “You’re not taking it.”
“I am.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Yes, I am.”
Aurra sits up, too, slamming her palms on the table hard enough to knock a glass over. “ Listen to me, brat. You do what I tell you to, and I’m telling you that you’re not taking that ship anywhere. It’s ours now, like it or not. I’m sure your dear old daddy is just rolling in his grave about it, but you lost it.”
Boba shoots to his feet, anger lighting him up like a live wire. “Don’t talk about him! You don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.” He stands over her, relishing the height advantage and the fleeting feeling of control. She’s shocked, he can tell. She should be. Usually, he doesn’t fight back this hard.
Then, she stands, and Boba nearly trips in his haste to back away. She’s more than half a meter taller than him and he has to crane his head to look her in the eye. “You’re not taking the ship, brat. That’s final. No more arguing.”
“Yeah? Well, I’m not sure how you’re going to stop me.”
Then, with a burst of absolutely - bantha - shit - crazy - what - are - you - thinking - Fett - she’s - going - to - kill - you inspiration, Boba turns on his heel and sprints out the door.
“ Fett!”
Somehow, he manages to get out and lock the door behind him before she grabs him, but he’s not stupid enough to think that’ll stop her for long. It does, however, give him enough time to crawl into the ventilation shaft.
The rest stop they’ve been crashing in is a hunter hide-out, the kind Boba’s been in a million times before. It’s housed inside the remnants of an old factory and, for whatever reason, the air vents are huge. Huge enough that Boba makes good time crawling on his hands and knees towards the docking bay.
He’s got to be fast. Even with the advantage of the vents, there’s the possibility that Aurra could call ahead and have someone else lock the bay down. Escape attempts aren’t out of the ordinary here, so their success generally depends on which side the property owners are on. Boba prays that he still has a cute little kid face.
Alright, right here, straight, left, and down, oh, this isn’t going to be fun. Boba braces his hands on either side of the shaft and eases his way down a level, dropping once he gets within ten feet of the bottom. His boots hit durasteel with a deafening clang and he kicks out the panel in front of him, running straight into the docking bay.
“Hey! What’re you doing, kid?” Someone tries to grab his arm as he passes, but he shrugs them off. The Slave I is just on the other side of those crates, so close he can feel the controls in his hands. He just has to make it a few more meters.
“Stop that kid!” Kark, that’s Bossk. Now everyone is looking at him. No time to stop. Just keep running, Boba.
He slams the button to lower the ramp and climbs on as soon as there’s room, closing it again behind him. Now, up the ladder, around the corner, through the door.
“Shut the bay down! Don’t let him leave!”
Kriff kriff kriff kriff he’s so screwed it’s not even funny. They’re going to shoot him out of the sky. His hands slip on the controls as he powers the engines up, bringing the ship to life. “Come on, baby. You can do it.”
The sequence of events required to get the ship in the air is second nature at this point, and Boba’s flying by the time the first blaster shot rings out. He gets some distance, then turns around in mid-air.
“ Ret’lini.”
He blasts the kark out of that docking bay. He hopes Aurra Sing dies painfully. Then, he’s gone, headed for Aq Vetina.
For whatever fucking reason, Kefaj neglected to mention that Aq Vetina is currently a warzone. When Boba comes out of hyperspace, he’s staring at an armada of CIS battleships, all unloading their cargo of droids and explosives onto the planet’s surface. Fortunately, there don’t appear to be any Republic troops in the area.
Unfortunately, the Seppies are concentrating on the area that Boba’s been directed to.
A little creative maneuvering and a lot of lying about pursuit of a CIS bounty (thank the gods for outdated chits) gets Boba down to the planet’s surface within a klick or two of the supposed Death Watch deserters.
Boba would rather not be approaching anyone affiliated with the Watch, even if they’d supposedly forsaken the cause. Plenty of those Mandos still know the name Fett, and it’s not a pleasant association. Boba can’t blame them; he doesn’t want anything to do with them, either. Still, they might be his only shot at getting something of his heritage back, no matter how bitter of a taste they might leave in his mouth.
As he approaches their camp, the voice of his buir echoes through his head.
Remember, Bob’ika. Should you ever find yourself lost or stranded or orphaned, you find more Mandalorians. You go up to them and you tell them, “My name is Boba Fett. I’m the son of Jango Fett and I need your help.” You got that?
“Yes, buir.” Boba fidgets with the loose vambrace as he approaches the Death Watch camp. No matter what Kefaj had said about them deserting, the scene in front of him is undoubtedly a Watch encampment. It’s got their logo all over it and Boba’s never seen anyone else with that specific tent arrangement. “Dank farrik,” he mutters, resting a hand on his blaster. He steps into view of the first watchman.
The woman starts, but quickly regains her composure. “Kid, what the fuck are you doing out here?” She puts a hand on her own blaster, eyeing his weapons.
Boba straightens, trying to make the most out of his still-insignificant height. Kid or not, he’d faced worse than her and come out on the winning end. “Seeking asylum,” he says. “My name’s Boba Fett, I’m Jango Fett’s ad , and I need help.”
“Yeah, I’m not buying that one.”
Boba has prepared for this eventuality. He pulls up Jango and Jaster’s chain codes, trying not to tear up at the sight of his father’s name. “Look. This is his vambrace. I’m his kid. Anyways, why would I lie to you about being part of a family you hate?”
She turns her helmet to face him fully for the first time. “You’re not being serious, are you?”
“Deadly. Swear it on the gods and everything.”
“ Kriff,” she swears, and turns on her comms.
“Jango is dead?” The man in front of him, the one who’d insisted Boba sit and then remained standing for the entirety of their conversation, looks at him in disbelief.
“Yes,” Boba says. “I don’t know what’s so confusing about that.” He crosses his arms over his chest, ignoring the way the too-large vambrace bites into him.
Standing Guy throws his head back and laughs. “Oh, he’s had it coming for a while. Tell me, who did it?”
Boba sees red. He’s halfway out of his seat before a fully armored commando puts a hand on his shoulder. “Peace,” they say. Then, to Standing Guy, “Have some decency, alright? He was the kid’s father.”
Standing Guy rolls his eyes but backs off. Whoever the commando is, they must carry some weight. Good to know. “Anyway, what exactly are you here for, kid?”
Boba opens his mouth to answer, but finds he has nothing to say. What is he looking for? Heritage? Family? His father’s head back on his shoulders? He has nowhere to go, nothing to turn to but the vague knowledge that he is Mandalorian. He’s never even been to Mandalore. “I want to join a House,” he says. “I want to reinstate Clan Fett.”
“ Ha!” Standing Guy holds onto the back of his chair as he laughs. “That’s a good one, kid. Clan Fett is gone; Mereel’s on its last legs. You might as well just join another family.”
Boba bristles. “No, I want to-”
The tent door bursts open, fabric parting to reveal a girl a little older than Boba, helmet off and hair in disarray. “They’re in the village,” she pants. “It’s now or never.”
“Fucking hell,” Standing Guy curses, jamming his helmet back onto his head. “Kid, you stay here. We’ve got some clankers to kill.”
A blaster bolt zips over Boba’s head, leaving the smell of burnt hair in its wake. He hits the ground hard, rolling behind a stack of crates and pressing himself against the wall of the alley. Okay, maybe he should have stayed in the tent.
No. No, he’s a Fett. He’s seen worse than this. He’s survived worse than this. He’s taken down a Republic cruiser, for the gods’ sake. Some droids aren’t going to hurt him.
In all honesty, he’s not sure why he followed the commandos into town. Morbid curiosity, perhaps, or a desire to see them in action. He’s got to know what he’s signing up for, after all.
Whether or not his decision was the right one, he’s here now, right in the thick of it as the CIS army tears the village apart. The Death Watch isn’t being particularly cautious, either, destroying the homes of the people they’re claiming to fight for and creating an atmosphere of fear so strong Boba can taste it. The village won’t last long, and when it falls, there won’t be many survivors.
Boba sprints out of the alley, heading for the rows of houses he’d seen on his way in. Maybe, if he can get on top of one, he can scout a way out of this mess. He covers his nose with his arm as he crosses the street, trying to avoid the acrid smell of burning flesh and blaster fire. Someone screams. An explosion ruptures the window of the shop he passes. The street is littered with bodies. Almost there, almost there…
A group of droidekas round the corner, shields up and blasters at the ready. Blast!
Boba’s not going to make it to the next alley over, let alone the scaffolding he was aiming for. He’s dead if he doesn’t find somewhere to- there. A storm shelter with the door still unlocked. Boba wrenches it open and drops inside just in time for the bolts to begin flying. Safe. He’ll wait here until the fighting is over, and then…
And then.
A whimper cuts through the darkness and Boba draws his blaster, spinning so quickly that it hits something, something that gives with the blow and makes another small, distressed noise. A kid.
Incredulous, Boba digs his flashlight out and shines it into the face of the small, human boy who’d startled him. He’s not much younger than Boba and looks unharmed other than the new bloody nose he’s allowing to run freely down his face. Kriff it all the fucking hell and back.
“Who are you?” Boba insists. The kid just stares at him with those huge eyes. He’s dressed all in red just like the other ill-fated inhabitants of Aq Vetina, and the little hood that covers his hair is torn and dirty. “I asked you a question,” he snarls. “Who are you? Do you not speak Basic?”
The kid bites his lip.
“Where’re your parents?”
A shaking hand emerges from the sleeve of the robes and points over Boba’s shoulder, up to the trapdoor. Boba closes his eyes.
“Sorry,” Boba mutters, giving the boy what he hopes is a sympathetic look. It’s hard to tell these days. Everything feels so jumbled inside that he never knows what’ll come out when he tries to say something. “Listen, I think the fighting up there is almost done. I have a ship. When the shooting stops, do you want a ride or something? I can take you anywhere.”
“Bob’ika, never forget how lucky we are to have this ship. It’s your home, you hear me? You can take it anywhere, fill it with anyone or anything you see fit, but it’ll always be your home.”
The boy shakes his head, pointing over Boba’s shoulder again and stomping his foot.
“Your parents are dead, vod. I’m sorry, but they’re not going to protect you now.”
Another point. Another stomp. The beginnings of silvery tears.
“If anything ever happens to me, you run, Boba. You don’t wait for me or try to bring me with you, you just run.”
“Come on, kid, you’re gonna die here.” Boba glances over his shoulder at the distant sound of shouting. The commandos are retreating. “I know you want to wait for them, but we’ve got to go.”
Ni su'cuyi, gar kyr'adyc, ni partayli, gar darasuum.
The kid nods.
“Good. Let’s get moving before they start checking for survivors.”
Ahsoka stares up at the sky, marveling at the stars. They’re gorgeous here, a totally new array of constellations scattered over the velvety blue night. And, of course, the Firespray-31 lowering itself down onto the rock outcropping.
Whatever reason Boba Fett had for visiting a Republic encampment, he hadn’t felt obliged to share over the communicator. Ahsoka’s still not sure how he got her frequency, but that’s past. She’d already gotten a new one and wiped the old channel just in case he’d run across it on the black market.
His message hadn’t been particularly informative at all, actually, just a terse, “Meet me here, it’s important,” followed by a set of coordinates and his name. She wouldn’t have come at all, but something in the Force told her to take the chance. Master Kenobi’s been telling her to follow those feelings, so she’s standing on the edge of a cliff in the freezing Kashyyyk night waiting for Boba to land.
The Slave I descends with that particular slow elegance possessed only by ships with gyroscopic components and the exit ramp hisses open. Ahsoka tenses, ready for the betrayal she feels is all too likely. She should have brought Rex.
Aurra Sing is nowhere in sight when Boba comes down the ramp. In fact, none of his usual bounty hunter buddies around. The only person walking beside him is a young human boy swaddled in thick red robes.
“Ahsoka,” Boba calls. “You came.”
“You didn’t kill me on sight,” she says as the pair approach. The kid is walking a half-step behind Boba. Scared, then. “What do you want?”
“Nothin’,” he says, stopping a few meters away. “Just for you to find somewhere for him to go.” Boba puts a hand on the kid’s shoulder and ushers him forward. “I don’t have room for a plus-one.”
“ What?” Boba came all this way to drop a kid on her? “Where did you even get him?”
“Don’t worry about it,” Boba drawls, pushing the kid forward again. He doesn’t want to go. “Go on,” he says to the kid. “She doesn’t bite, not if you don’t have any political opinions.”
“Boba, I can’t just take a kid,” Ahsoka protests. The kid stumbles towards her, stopping to hover awkwardly between the two of them.
Boba shrugs. “Didn’t say you had to keep him.” He turns on his heel and starts back up the ramp. The kid stares after him.
“Boba, wait!”
He stops, not bothering to turn around.
“You could stay, you know. We have programs for people like you.” Orphans, she doesn’t say. Traumatized children. Victims of wars they wanted no part of.
“ Ha,” he scoffs. “Don’t even want to know what kind of ‘programs’ your lot runs.” But there’s something behind his words, an echo in the Force like lonely pain.
Before she can say anything else, he’s gone.
“Well, I guess it’s just you and me, kiddo. Well, you, me, and the three hundred troopers back at base camp. You hungry?”