Standard disclaimers apply. Fett isn't mine. Neither is Valentine's Day. I'm a lot more upset about the first than the second. This is a darkly humorous fic inspired by Valentine's Day, written by someone who prefers sarcasm to love. Meaning: you will not find mushy romance here, but you will find amusing violence. In fact, it gets rather bloody at the end—Fett took over, and who am I to tell him to stop? Don't read if that bothers you, and keep in mind that this is meant to be tongue-in-cheek!
It was a day of revelry, romance, depression, and commercialism on the small backwater planet. It came every solar year at the tail-end of winter—just cold enough that the skimpily-dressed females would have to snuggle next to their chosen partner to avoid freezing to death while they showed off their physical assets. Red and pink were the colors chosen to represent love on this planet, and they were everywhere. Usually in shapes that were meant to represent hearts, although anyone who had seen the inside of enough corpses could attest to the fact that there existed no creature whose heart looked remotely like that. Strange colors for romance, really; red ought to be associated with bloodshed, and the pink looked remarkably like the inner flesh of a number of species.
But then, on further reflection, it did make sense; love often culminated in violence, as the chill figure at the bar knew quite well. Not from personal experience, of course; he had never dabbled in the area of the psyche known as "romance." But he had certainly been paid enough by those whose love had gone the violent and vengeful path to find unfaithful spouses or jilting lovers.
The man was named Boba Fett, and he had made the mistake of touching down on this pitiful excuse for a planet while it celebrated its annual "Valentine's Day." It was an act that he was sorely regretting, and he had already made a note for his ship's computer to log the date; while it was unlikely that he would ever have the excuse to return to this distant mudball, it paid to be prepared. And there was no way that he was ever going to set foot here in the midst of their yearly insanity again unless the profit-margin was significantly higher.
So far, the normally terror-inspiring hunter had inspired three propositions of sympathetic company, elicited five requests from beings desiring his company, and received two propositions of a decidedly visual nature.
And he had only been on planet for a little over half a standard time part.
Boba Fett did not drink—anything that altered your perceptions was a foolish and risky idea, especially when one was on business—but he had nonetheless felt the need to retreat to a bar. He had picked a rather small and seedy looking one, figuring that the normal population of such places would remain the same here as it did on other planets. There would be the scum, the profiteers, the youths trying to be/look tough, the troublemakers, the swoop-jockeys, the spies, the down-on-their-luckers, the criminals, and those who offered services to or preyed upon all of them. The majority would be smart enough to ignore him. Some would be brave enough to attempt to offer him information, supplies, or other things which they felt he needed for a price. The rest would either flee, for real or imagined reasons, or be the exceptionally stupid and liquor-filled kind whom he occasionally encountered that wished to prove their mettle by clashing with him.
All of that Fett was used to and could handle without turning around. And at this point, he would have welcomed an ambush of all of his worst enemies in one room. Anything to escape from the trite and tawdry pretense of romantic feeling that was seeping through his armor's filters like an insidious smell and gradually inducing nausea in the normally imperturbable hunter. Desperate for an escape, he had swung into the first likely-looking dive, stalked to the bar ignoring the rest of the patrons, and ordered a glass of some strange poison that would sit in front of him until he chose to leave, thus ensuring that the bartender would not feel obligated to attempt to ask him to leave. Most would never dare do such a thing, but it was usually better to pay the obligatory charge and receive the obligatory drink, thus averting any potential time-wasting unpleasantness. Certain things had to be done for the sake of propriety, and there was no real point to be made, no "statement" in refusing the custom save ego, and that was one vice that Fett had seen kill far too many sentients for the hunter to allow himself to fall prey to.
It was only then that Fett had noticed that the inside of the smoky dive had been decorated. In red and pink. With streamers. And those repellent "heart" shapes.
Silently reciting every foul word he had ever heard—which given his profession and proficiency made for quite a list—Boba Fett slumped on the stool in despair. If the holiday had crept into a place like this, there was really no escaping it.
Gradually Fett noticed that the other patrons of the bar were of the same sort he had encountered outside, just of a more disreputable appearance. But there were still an intolerable number of couples attempting to act in the prescribed manner that apparently signified romance, exchanging jewelry and chocolates with the required kiss and sweet mutter. Then there were the couples that had given up on the pretense and were now glaring and/or sobbing and shouting at one another across spilled drinks and ripped packages. There were also a few pairs that had become entwined in acrobatic positions and who had taken the muttering of sweet nothings a bit sickeningly too far. Then there were the depressed un-coupled creatures, either alone or with equally depressed single companions. They were all rather drunk and some where sobbing. Others were thankfully unconscious, but their noisy companions more than made up for the loss of their voice to the cacophony of lamentation and declarations of love.
For a moment, Boba Fett cracked enough to look thoughtfully at the drink in front of him. Oblivion seemed highly tempting right now. With an effort of will, the hunter pulled himself together. He could endure this torment. He had to. Just a few time parts, then he could be gone, never to return to this disgusting stink-hole of a planet ever again, for any amount of money.
Just then a highly tipsy female with two so-called "hearts" stuck to a certain portion of her anatomy in a manner that he assumed was meant to be discreet, or at least to comply with certain planetary decency laws, lurched up to the bar next to him. "You look lonely," she slurred in the earnest manner that only drunks and religious fanatics can pull off. "Dontcha have nobody to loooove?"
Fett shifted away from the creature. "No," he said coldly. It was a tone famed throughout the galaxy for its ability to infallibly end conversations with a single word. Today, it failed.
"You want someone?" she asked brightly.
"No," Fett said again, his voice cold enough to form icicles out of the alcohol dripping from a spill on the other side of the bar.
She leaned halfway into his lap. "You sure?" she purred. Fett stiffened and drew away as far as the immobile stool allowed.
"Yes."
The bounty hunter caught a thin wrist in a grip like durasteel before the arm it was attached to could encircle his shoulders. He twisted it sharply and shoved. The female staggered a bit and glared at him, rubbing her hurt wrist. Fett turned away from her pointedly. With a loud sniff! the creature at last wandered away to torment someone else.
Fett forced his other hand to release its grasp on the blaster at his waist. If he started a firefight, he would make his job ten-times more difficult. He was a hunter noted for his control; he would not lose it now.
Or so he tried to tell himself.
Apparently encouraged by their compatriot's failure—logic must have been bred out generations ago, Fett decided—three other females swooped in upon the hunter.
Boba Fett bristled for a few moments, trying futilely to repulse them.
"But why not?" one of them whined at his negative response. "Everybody wants love, honey."
"You can admit it," a second piped up. "We think a man who can admit his needs is sex-eeeee."
"Go. Away." Fett hissed through clenched teeth. He tried to convince his hand to let go of the blaster, but it was refusing to listen as adamantly as the creatures attacking him.
"But then you'll be lone-leeeee!" the third moaned drunkenly.
"Good," he growled, managing to pry his fingers from the grip of his gun.
"This is Valentine's Day, sweetie!" the first exclaimed. "Nobody's supposed to be lonely on Valentine's Day!"
"That's right," the third mumbled and swayed a bit against his shoulder. "Can't have nobody lonely."
"There are other lonely people here," Fett finally snapped. "Bother them."
The three females pouted. "But you're fame-ussss!" one of them whined.
Fett leaned forward, summoning his most menacing glare. There was no real way to see expressions through the opaque visor of his iconic helmet, yet Fett had found that certain looks could still be communicated perfectly. "Yes," he said harshly. "Do you know why?"
"'Cause you're a bounty hunter!" the third one smiled broadly and nodded.
"A good one," the second put in cheerily and placed her hand on his scuffed kneepad.
"Because I kill people," he said slowly, hoping that it would penetrate their drink- and holiday-fogged brains. "Many people. Like you."
They stared at him a moment, and Boba Fett felt hope well up in his armored chest. Then it died as completely as anything he had ever hunted as they giggled and batted their painted eyes at him.
"Oooh, how sexy!" one exclaimed with a squeal and clung to his arm.
"Would you kill someone for us?" giggled another.
"If they were mean to us?" said the last, moving her shoulders enough to cause the rather large and revealed top portion of her torso to shake.
"Because you love us!" the first one beamed, wrapping her arms around him. She planted a heavily-painted red kiss on the visor of his menacing T-shaped helmet. "Does this come off?" she giggled, fumbling for a clasp.
That was enough
……………….
A few minutes later, Boba Fett could at last relax. His job might have just become a bit more difficult, but looking at it logically he had decided that this was well worth whatever extra aggravation he would have to go through. He leaned against the splintered top of the bar, calmly surveying the red and pink room.
Flames were greedily consuming the alcohol-drenched streamers and "heart" shapes as they lay strewn about the floor. There were no more romantic whispers, no more drunken solicitations, and no more sobbing from the falsely heart-broken. No one was expressing disbelief at his lack of romantic inclination. No one was attempting to force him to participate in their farcical holiday. No one was kissing him. Aside from the faint crackling of fire, the bar was silent. Blood flowed freely, mixing with strangely colored liquors on the floor. Wet globs of pink flesh lay decoratively in the liquid. Silent couples were curled next to one another, having at last achieved that often-espoused wish to romanticallydie together.
Fett glanced down and was touched to see a heart lying at his feet. It must belong to one of those ladies who had expressed such interest in the hunter—and now she had lost her heat to him. Next to it lay a card, covered with lace and more "heart" shapes, spread open on the floor.
Happy Valentine's Day, it read brightly
Behind his red-streaked helmet, Boba Fett smiled.