Boba Fett

An indie RP blog for Boba Fett and Ailyn Vel, two hunters who wore that infamous mask. Mun is 21+ muses ages vary by thread. Characterizations are based on classic Fett from LEGENDS but Sequel-muse interactions are welcome. And remember: no disintigrations.

[abarvelikethat]

Boba Fett’s ship is not named Slave I on this blog. Because yeah that’s not a great name, and also honestly that name stopped making sense canonically as soon as AOTC retconned the ship’s original owner to be Jango instead, and we got his backstory of being shipped into slavery after Galidraan. Why would Jango want a constant reminder of one of the worst times of his life clawing at him like vibroblades every time he boards his ship or docks at a spaceport?

All right, I hear you ask (because apparently I’m pretending that I’m speaking to an audience of mando’ade curious to learn more about their weird new Mandalore; I’m Goran Beviin now I guess), so then what will we name this ship that has the same cold, unattached sense of disposability as Slave I through Slave IV did? Well, Firespray I is an option I suppose, and does have the merit of sounding cool, and being straightforward and obvious...

That’s good, but I think we can do better. Because there’s still a little too much individuality there. Choosing the name of a specific type of ship only works if you’re planning on sticking to only flying the same sort of ship in the future, and I don’t think Fett had any such intention. I think he’s too pragmatic, too much of a practical man. We need a name that will work for the next ship, too; after all, that’s why it ends with a numeral. Because this ship is disposable, and Fett expects that there will be a II someday. We need to be a little more generic.

So, then: disposable, generic, detached. What name to choose?

Ship I.

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Riduurok Entye

@kadbejetiise​ | the Emperor’s Quarters

“Solo,” Fett said. He held very still after he spoke in case she reacted with instinctive violence. He would have (and regularly did) if someone had somehow sneaked into his ship and called his name like that, and while Fett was wearing a full set of Vasur’s beskar, he wasn’t stupid enough to take unnecessary chances with a Jedi and her lightsaber no matter how durable his armor. Especially not a Jedi that he had trained to fight.

He probably should have announced his presence with more than that. He also probably should have come in through the front door instead of a back window, but old habits died hard even when they were hard on old knees. Besides, he’d figured that the new empress -- or whatever she’d decided to call herself; Fett couldn’t imagine that Organa was too thrilled with her daughter’s new position, whatever title she chose to go by -- would appreciate the discretion of a more subtle entrance.

Fett had generally preferred to operate under the visibility of his reputation rather than relying on the subterfuge of anonymity, but in some ways he was more notable now than he’d even been, even with half the galaxy still convinced that he was someone else wearing a dead man’s suit of armor. Being the Mandalore wasn’t the same as being the head-of-state of any other world, but it still carried some weight. Especially, Fett assumed, in the Imperial Remnant. The Empire and Mandalore (the planet) had a past. So did the Empire and Mandalore the man, but that was all business.

And it wasn’t business he was here on today. Hence the uncharacteristic awkwardness in his posture, in the way his booted feet shifted slightly against the too-plush carpet under them. Fett’s entire life had been all business before he’d let Shysa saddle him with this Madalore fierfek, and he’d never learned -- or cared to learn -- how to operate outside that arena. But Fett always paid his debts, so Mandalore he was and Mandlore he would remain. Even when he’d almost have rather jumped back down the sarlacc’s gullet than do what that job required.

“Have an invitation for you. Figured you’d rather not get it through diplomatic channels.”

Not that the Mandalore of Mandalore couldn’t deliver a social invitation to the wife of the Imperial Remnant’s new emperor, but people would notice that. That would be official, and would thus require some sort of official political response. One battered old Mandalorian bounty hunter disabling the security system and slipping in unseen through the window was a very different thing, and much more to Fett’s taste. He had a feeling it would be more to Solo’s, too, at least provided she didn’t try too hard to kill him for startling her.

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Boba Fett: Agent of Doom is one story that, in my person reading of canon, unequivocally features Ailyn Vel in the armor. The timing works out, sure, but it’s really the content that sells it for me. Not just in the way that old Brighteyes convinces Fett to take the job...

[img desc: a comic page with Boba Fett and Slique Brighteyes negotiating a job]

Fett: Tork obeyed orders. Murthé obeyed Tork. No wrong. Brighteyes: Tork went back to the Azgoghk, yes he did. With the doctor, with crew of slavers, with former ship’s crew. Repaired the Azgoghk, righted it, and begins his work again. Emperor is dead. This is so. Empire is gone--this is so. He steals species and kills them. What right has he now to do this, bounty hunter? What right? Fett: The price? Brighteyes: All that my people possess. One hundred credits. Fett: Fett: You know who you mock?

[img desc: a comic page with Boba Fett and Slique Brighteyes negotiating a job] 

Brighteyes: Know that you were Boba Fett. Once, that was a name to conjure fear, yes it was. That was before the Jedi fed you to the sarlacc. That was before Han Solo escapes you so many times. Some now ask--is it the same man beneath the helmet? Brighteyes: Many species put out contract on Tork and Murthé. No one will touch it. Impossible, they say. But Fett could do it. Yes, he could. If you do this, it will not be because of the money. It will be so that all know who is Boba Fett. Yes. Fett: Fett: Yes. Brighteyes: We will provide the location of the ship. We will provide specifications gleaned from old Imperial files. Yes we will. You will provide us with the heads of Murthé and Tork--if you are Boba Fett.

...but even more than that, it’s the way Fett reacts in the end after the job is done. When he brings the heads of the Imperial butchers to the dying man who hired him and Brighteyes says he doesn’t need the proof, because he is Boba Fett.

Tell me this isn’t a perfect story to have it be Ailyn in the armor, right?

[img desc: a comic page of Boba Fett returning to Slique Brighteyes after the job]

Fett: Brighteyes. Tork and Murthé are dead. Brighteyes: If you...are here...they must be. Money...is on...table. Fett: Here’s proof. Brighteyes: No need. You say...they are dead. Then they...are dead. Brighteyes: After all...you are...Boba Fett...yes, you are. Fett: Fett: Yes.

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Still working on the blog, but like for an early starter!

If you have a preference for era, canon, or which Fett you want, let me know.

[abarvelikethat]

Legal Liaison

@intelandryshcate​ | CORSEC OFFICES

Fett didn’t do a lot of work on Corellia. It wasn’t because there wasn’t business in her line of work to do there, but simply because most of that business got cleared-up by local talent long before the bounties got posted to off-world databanks. This was a special case, though -- as evinced by the fact that Fett had gone to the effort of taking a meeting with local law enforcement prior to embarking on the job, rather than just flashing her guild license and ignoring them.

Bounty hunting had always existed in a quasi-legal gray area, but the Empire had made it outright legal and all the worlds under its sway had to follow suit. Corellia had always had a looser relationship with law and order than more systems anyway, so this was one Imperial law that they were happy to embrace. That didn’t mean that operatives of Corsec always were, though, so Fett wasn’t relying on a warm welcome from the officer she’d been scheduled to speak to.

Fett walked into the small office, letting her armor jangle. In this case it wasn’t to intimidate but rather to announce; while it was unlikely that whatever duty sidearm the agent inside was carrying would have the necessary firepower to punch through Fett’s armor, startling her into shooting would get this conversation off on the wrong foot.

“Agent,” Fett said, her helmet’s vocabulator scrubbing her speech of any identifying characteristics as well as all possible emotional inflection. “Operative Loor should have commed you to expect me.” A pause; Fett was still getting used to the reality of being Fett, but she’d already learned that a bit of theatrics rarely went amiss when dealing with other sentients. Then, “I am Boba Fett.”

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