Growling, Bo-Katan slid her way past two drunks barring the cantina entrance, quelling the urge to vape both of them before they screeched another verse of their inebriated tune. No one would've noticed, though—just about every being in this dive was as stoned as they were, lurching their way between tables as she tried to access the bar. A couple of hazy-eyed Twi'leks sauntered into her, drawing a hiss of annoyance out of the Mandalorian; besides that her brief journey went swimmingly. She eased into the one of the few open places lining the counter, plucked out a handful of credits from her utility belt.
The bartender—a young, yet unnaturally sour-faced human—glanced at the tiny ingots with a dubious eye. "We ain't got nothing here that'd be worth that much, lil' lady," he drawled. His eyes slid over her openly, and if she weren't so hardened by Death Watch training, she may've left a hole scorching in his blunt forehead. "Unless a pretty thing like you could hold that much worth of bantha blasters, mind you."
"Thanks, but I'll pass," she replied brusquely. Strange, how different she sounded from her twin sister. Her sister had this mellifluous quality to her voice, this rich note to it that could've left Dathomiri witches spellbound, and it'd annoyed her to death as a teenager. Boys had never really took an interest in Bo-Katan's gruff, somewhat surly tones; if they had, it'd been someone with a platonic relationship with her, like Vizla or one of her other commanding officers. "I was hoping you could point me in the direction of a certain…fellow."
The bartender eyed her dryly. "Another bounty, I see. Great. Not like we getta see a dozen of you a day or anything."
"Then you'll aid me well."
For a long moment, the man didn't respond to that. Stooping, he grabbed for a bottle of something strong-looking, grabbed a couple of shot glasses, and made a show of filling them for a group of clammy Gutals. Bo-Katan waited patiently, arranging her copper hair into a simple weave until he returned, leaning across the bar.
"If you're looking for someone who doesn't have a mind to be found," the dour human rasped, "then my guess is you're looking for a 'fellow' named Ben. Don't ask me what his real name is; ever since he showed his face in Mos Eisley, he's just asked me to call him by that. A real secretive gentleman, he is, too: always hangs in the shadows, nursin' the weakest ale I got. Only sober bein' in the place, that Ben."
Nose crinkling against his cloying breath—a heavy, meaty odor hung to it like a Kowakian monkey lizard to a Hutt—Bo-Katan felt her intrigue rising. She couldn't recall ever hearing the alias "Ben" before, but there a good chance that the user of it could just be the man she was looking for. After all, Jedi were known to possess an alias, usually of a bland, more common name, and coupled with his abnormally secretive nature, he sounded like a man who'd need to employ a false identity for a while. Toying idly with a credit, she inclined her head to the bartender. "This Ben…do you have any idea of where he came, where he lives?"
The man's prematurely aged features twisted into a crotchety grimace. "Aye, to that first question, I'm not sure I could give ya' a straight answer. You see, this guy, this 'Ben'…he just strutted into town one day, hood pulled over his head, and asked one of my waitresses for a drink. When she be askin' him where he rolled in from, he told her he was a trader from the 'Rim. Ha!" Mouth flat, the 'tender produced a gravelly—if very poor—Coruscanti accent. " 'I'll take your weakest, please; no, thank you, I'm quite happy with ale'…Didya ever hear talk like that coming out of the Rishi Maze? My guess is he's lyin', and he's doin' plenty bad at it."
Noting that accents like that only arose from an extended stay in the Core, Bo-Katan asked, "Do you have any idea when he arrived in Mos Eisley?"
"Hard to say. The fella already spoke Huttese like Jabba himself, but with a touch of Mos Espan talk to it. I'd say he landed on this rock about two standard years ago, and that it took him a coupla weeks to find Mos Eisley."
Again, Bo-Katan's finger played with the credit chips. "And do you happen to know where he might be staying? In town, on the outskirts, in another, closer district?"
An almost pained expression painted his face in shadow, as if ruminating on anything for more than ten seconds were a great effort for him. "Now that ya' be mentionin' it…no, I ain't sure. Rumor has it he lives somewhere beyond the outskirts, but you cain't be none too sure of that theory. As to what I think…" He leaned in closer, a conspiring glimmer lighting his gaze. "I think he lives in the heart of the desert, somewhere beyond the Dune Sea. It's not a place I'd be privy to myself, mind you—it's crawling with thieves, bandits, and those force-accursed Sand People. No ordinary bein' could expect to live fifty miles from one and live to see the end of a planetary rotation."
Yes, but hopefully this 'Ben' is far beyond being average. "I'll be sure to check that out, friend. Thanks for the, ah, assistance," she told him, sliding over her credits. Her lips pulled into an anemic smile. "I hope you were worth my trouble."
Watching the bartender shrivel at her empty threat—killing him wouldn't only be messy, but a waste of time better used—Bo-Katan pushed away from the bar. She donned her helmet, unclipping it from her belt and sealing it to the rest of her armor with a faint hiss. Then she began making her way toward the door, this time facing more resistance as the evening crowd poured in, eyes empty and pockets full. They were hardly different from any of the other patrons, with their slovenly dress and haggard features, and Bo-Katan found their faces melding together behind her helmet's t-visor; it wasn't until a man in a hood cowl slid in past that she paused for a second-look, her heart fluttering giddily as her eyes settled on him.
The man wasn't anything special compared to the other patrons, wasn't stark enough to attract the casual eye, but he was different. He was steady, purposeful, somehow managing to slip through the tangle of limbs and appendages without resorting to his elbows—and able to deftly evade any that shot his way. His clothes were surprisingly well-kept for someone dwelling on Tattooine; besides the average signs of wind-wear, they were in pretty fair condition, his plain tunic miraculously retaining its beige color in a world where a rust-tinted sandstorm was just a blustery puff away. He pulled them tighter around him as he settled in the far side of the cantina, hood pulled well over his brooding eyes while he surveyed the jovial crowd.
Bo-Katan turned on her heal, meaning to leave, then instantly thought better of it. Could this be the oh-so-secretive "Ben" the barkeep had been alluding to? The description matched well enough, with his skulking around the corners like a naughty child, his cloak and his enigmatic air. If so, it might pay to stay out of sight—even after two years, she was pretty certain he'd remembered her armor, and even surer he'd recall the distinctive etching in her Buy'Ce, or helmet. No, it'd be best if she postponed revealing herself when he didn't have a chance to bolt. Keeping a wary eye on the hooded stranger, she opted to wait him out from outside the building, pretending to idly peruse the passersby while she formulated a strategy.
I could always follow him, I suppose, she thought, one booted foot absently sketching shapes into the sand, but what if I lose him? He's no idiot, no matter image Vizla had configured of him. The question is: will I be able to get him alone before he realizes what's going on?
That line of thought conjured up an entire miasma of paranoia. What if he leaves through the back, and I'm left here holding diddly-squat? Then what? If he got away now, I might never find the truth, and I deserve it. It's his fault Satine's dead, in a way. He was pretty much the reason that nasty Maul ever showed his face on our planet in the first place.
Making sure he hadn't somehow melded with any of the outdoor pedestrians, Bo-Katan worked her way to the back of the cantina. She reached the back-exit, checked to see if it was unlocked, then let out a soft string of curses into her helmet. It was unlocked, yes- but she'd completely forgotten to see if her quarry was still in the building before slinking behind it. Sighing, she started to pull open the door…until a hand curled around her wrist, yanking it away.
"Hunters can easily become the hunted," a voice hissed, and Bo-Katan spun around, breathless, to face its owner.
"You…" Suddenly, Bo-Katan lashing out, bringing her armored elbow up and around to his face. The man parried it smoothly, letting it glance off his upraised forearm before he planted a punch on her shoulder, jarring her head against the door. She managed to get in a good blow on his stomach; flowing with the inertia of his blow, Bo-Katan sprung from the wall like a feral cat, snarling as her boot connected with body. He stumbled back a little with the kick, but—to her supreme annoyance—the man had her on the ground after a well-placed jab beneath the ribs.
Struggling to feed her greedy lungs, Bo-Katan just sat there for a while, gasping. And he just…let her. He hovered over her while like a hawk-bat over his prey for what seemed like hours, clear blue gaze trained on her t-visor, hands folded behind his back in crisp, military fashion. The man frowned a little as she began wheezing—he'd done quite a number on her ribs—then stooped down beside her, offering her his hand.
"Thanks," she answered weakly, taking his offer warily.
In the recess of his shadowy hood, the man's expression remained inscrutable. "You should learn to be more cautious—though I hold this incident as an opportunity to repay a debt." His eyes landed on her helmet insignia. "You're Bo-Katan, aren't you? Satine's sister."
Tugging off her bucket—and watching his eyes flash with sudden recognition—Bo-Katan met his gaze. "Yes…and that's partly why I'm here."
He looked baffled. "You tracked me down?"
"Yeah, but don't beat yourself up over it. You just happened to waltz into the cantina at the right time."
A cautious smile emanated from the shadows. "One could refer to it as the 'wrong time', depending on your point of view."
"Hmm…yeah, I guess you could." Clipping her helmet to her belt, she cast him a meaningful look. "But it seemed like the right time to me. I'm looking for answers—answers about my sister. You of all people knew her best."
The man went rigid, his expression edging toward total frigidity. "Just because the Duchess and I had an understanding—political ties, really—doesn't mean I knew her any more than you did."
"You called her 'Satine'," she pointed out, her frustrated tones carrying a bite. "Doesn't that mean anything?"
"It means," he retorted hotly, "that I'm not at liberty to discuss private matters with near-strangers! If you'd really wanted to know, you could've asked your sister before your band of brigands unleashed a monster on her world."
With that, the man turned abruptly, stalking away. A dark, seething part of her wanted to let him do just that, to stand here in a huff while the only man with answers to her sister's past dissolved into the evening. But that final good time with Satine, before Bo-Katan had hared away with Death Watch, when their only care had been continuing their father's legacy, prompted her on. She trotted up alongside him, grasping his elbow and forcing him to meet her gaze.
"Look," she said, refusing to let him wrench his arm free, "I know I made some dumb mistakes in the past, and I know you've made some, too. I mean, why else would Maul have been after you in the first place? There was history there, and history sometimes has a way of painting all aspects of our lives: past, present, and future." Her bright, emerald eyes stung as she added, "you have a chance to allow history to give off something bright for a change—to fill a tiny space of the present with hope rather than despair."
Her quarry let out a shaky sigh. "Your sister was one of those 'dumb mistakes', I'm afraid. It's a time I recall with some…regret."
His eyes softened a degree, and she felt inclined to let her hand fall from his arm—just for a moment. "Regret for what?"
"Idiocy," he replied, dead-pan. "And, though I'm not certain I should be telling you this, I really do wish that fate had dealt differently with us."
Bo-Katan fought hard to keep her brow from shooting clear to her hairline. He'd used, us, she noted; not me, or I. Nonplussed, she canted her head to one side, considering him. "You loved her, didn't you? You wanted to stay with her forever, but she never asked."
The stranger went rigid. "Like I said earlier, I'd rather private matters remain untouched."
"But that's not a 'yes' or a 'no'," she pointed out, bristling. "I said I wanted answers, not half-baked riddles from a rogue Jedi!"
Eye-flashing under his cowl, the Jedi shot her a vehement look. "For star's sake, Mando—keep your karking voice down! Do want to the catch the entire Imperial Army's attention? I'm a fugitive of the law, Katan, and by associating with me you'll go down whenever I do."
She sniffed. "Maybe the Empire's not as bad as you say, fugitive. They killed Maul, didn't they?"
"They most certainly did not. He's too useful a resource for them squander on a whim, and besides, you and I probably would've wound dead by the Empire already if they were in the mood to tie loose ends."
That's what he is, a loose end. Escaped the Purge, but no one really knows officially what happened to him. Kind of like me…except I know I've got a monster who'd like nothing me than wipe out my entire race. "You've changed the subject."
He stood back from her a ways, arm folding over his chest. "You can badger me till the Empire falls, but you won't change my mind: I'm not disclosing any details of my personal dealings with you, so you if you will, please have the decency to stop disgracing yourself by trying." As she started mumbling a biting protest, he added quickly, "but I do believe I owe you something, if not for merely being Satine's sister. She brought light to this galaxy while she was in it, and there's no good reason for it not to shine on a while longer. This," he said, producing something out of his cowl, "should give you the answers you seek."
Before she could even guess at what he'd handed her, he was off, melting into the streets like a spirit winking out of existence. She tried to follow him, attempted to track his swishing cape and brindle boots, but it wouldn't have done her any good. He was part of the now-encroaching night, as one with it as her hands were with the raggedy, leather-bound diary he'd left there.
To be continued…