Disclaimer: I don't think it's a secret that George owns everything…
THE HUNTED
Location:
Tatooine
Target:
Eliszar Quintauff
Species:
Duros
Description:
Male, 5'10"
Age unknown
Numerous burn scars, neck and chest
Objective:
Capture
Additional Intel:
N/A
The ramshackle cantina was bustling with activity. The sound of glasses clattering against countertops, and the offensive smell of pipe smoke wafted through the air; mixing with the drunken laughter and crude shouts of the taverns' unruly patrons. Peering through the tinted lens of his distinct Mandalorian helmet, Boba Fett intently scanned the faces of the various customers while he slowly and deliberately sauntered between tables. What a dump, he inwardly grumbled to himself. Hopefully, this won't take long. I need a change of scenery…
Not breaking his stride, he attentively made his way toward the back of the saloon when he spotted a group of rowdy drunkards cackling in delight as they partook in a game of cards and gulped down mugs of ale. Several onlookers averted their eyes and pretended not to see him as he continued on his way, and he couldn't help but smirk in satisfaction at the open display of fear that the mere sight of his menacing armor evoked. It was known to many throughout the galaxy; just like his name, and the reputation that went along with it. He was still young, but already his exploits had become the thing of legends. Some had even gone so far as to label him Lord Vader's right–hand man, given the numerous assignments that the infamous Imperial leader had entrusted him with carrying out since his rise to power.
But it was not because of Vader that he had returned to Tatooine. It was Jabba the Hutt who had recently contacted him and requested his presence on the forbidding desert planet. Apparently, there was a large sum of money that needed to be collected and he was meant to collect it, one way or another. Of course, after everything that Jabba had done for him following his fathers' murder at the hands of the Jedi so many years earlier, he couldn't refuse. Not that it was the first time he had done business with the Hutt clan… far from it. This was just another of the countless contracts that he could add to the long list. And as always, he knew that he would be well–compensated for his trouble.
Boba slowed his pace and instinctively trailed his fingers across the handle of the pistol resting at his hip once he reached the table of cardsharps. Sitting with his back to him, one unsuspecting gambler remained oblivious to the bounty hunters' arrival while his companions suddenly fell silent and forgot their game. After a moment, he shifted his focus from the cards in his hands and glanced up at the other players; eventually detecting their apprehension.
"What seems to be the problem, boys?" the Durosian questioned, following their gazes until he finally noticed the ominous figure standing behind him. "Who are you, eh? What do you want?"
With a subtle tilt of the head, Boba caught a glimpse of multiple burn scars running down the gamblers' throat when he turned to address him. "You have a debt to settle. I'm here to make sure you settle it… in full."
"Is that so? How unfortunate for me," the gambler mocked with a dismissive wave of the hand. "You are no doubt referring to the Hutt? Tell that overgrown slug that he'll get what he's owed soon enough. Right now, I have a game to finish; and I'm afraid it's invitation only."
"I'll give you one chance to come along quietly," Boba retorted, his patience already beginning to wear thin. "You won't get a second."
Casually turning back to the game and retrieving his mug of ale from the surface of the table, the Durosian chuckled in mild amusement and took a swig of the frothy beverage before replying. Unlike his flustered companions, and much to Boba's irritation, he seemed to have no trouble maintaining his composure.
"Well, I certainly do appreciate your consideration," he said with a smug grin, flippantly returning his attention to his cards. "Now, if you would be so kind as to pass along my most sincere apologies, and beg the wise and mighty Jabba's forgiveness for the tardiness of my payment…"
"Why not beg him yourself?"
Delivering a swift kick to the nearest leg of the Durosians' chair, Boba knocked the impudent gamblers' seat out from under him. Without warning, he was sent crashing to the floor. He landed at the bounty hunters' feet, and quickly reached for a small blaster hidden beneath his vest. Boba, however, had spotted the concealed weapon the instant he had approached the cardsharp, and had been anticipating the brash move. Drawing his own sidearm from its holster, the Durosian froze when he took aim and trained the pistol on his heart.
"Let's not do anything foolish, gentlemen," Boba calmly warned, shooting the other gamblers a sideways glance as several leapt up from their seats. "My business is with Quintauff, not with you. Is he really worth dying for?"
There was a slight hesitation before they exchanged anxious looks and sat back down. Shoving what remained of the Durosians' chair aside with the toe of his boot, Boba motioned for him to stand with a curt flick of the wrist. Realizing that he had no choice but to comply, the gambler grudgingly picked himself up off the dirty ground.
"Weapon… slowly."
Glaring daggers at the bounty hunter, he reluctantly obliged and tossed his blaster to the floor. Once again, Boba Fett had his man.