I apologize for the following gratuitous use of Mando'a!

Oh wait...no I don't.
(But I'll translate anything, if you need me to.)

Mirta's Shabiir

Mirta understood now. She'd thought it had just been Fett being Fett, her ba'buir his typical grumpy, detached, disagreeable chakaar self. But he'd been right. She wouldn't tell him, but it didn't matter. He'd know.

Her scowl was hidden by the yellow-and-gray helmet that covered Mirta's sweaty curls and harsh eyes, but Mandalorians never seemed to have a problem reading one another's expressions behind those opaque visors that defined their culture to aruetiise. Boba Fett did not exactly—especially in his granddaughter's opinion—count as a Mando, but he could read through that T-slit just like a true vod.

And he always knew when he was right. Even when that wasn't as often as he seemed to think it was. Mirta absently drew her blaster, flicked the safety back and forth to test that it didn't need oiling, and slid it back into the leg holster strapped across her armored thigh. She wasn't going to shoot the slimy piece of osik, but there was no harm in being prepared.

It gurgled, and probably spit up all over the back of her cockpit. "Rangir," Mirta spat, quickly unbuckling her crash restraints. Her beskar'gam would do more to prevent injury than some flimsy strips of webbing, but the webbing had the benefit of keeping her in her seat if the ship started taking violent hits. It was hard to reach the piloting controls when you were being tossed halfway across the cockpit by unexpected turbulence or turbolasers. And Mirta wasn't in the habit of taking unnecessary risks; it was one of the few things she had in common with her grandfather.

Maybe she should start to take his advice more often. It wasn't a happy thought; theirs was not a happy family. But Fett had lived to be very old in a profession that didn't often go in for retirement benefits past the end of a blaster rifle, and even Mirta had to admit that he had proved to be a pretty clever Mandalore (now that he'd finally shifted off his shebs and started doing the job properly). But once it got past the basics of fighting and weaponry, Mirta just didn't like listening to him. Even when he was right—no, especially when he was right—it rankled.

So she'd taken the job, even though ba'buir said it was a bad idea, and he'd been right, haar'chak. Mirta managed to make the two steps between her chair and the bundle that was strapped down in the back of her cockpit as menacing as if she'd been leading a troop of Mando'ade down a dark gauntlet, and scowled down at the merchandise she should never have picked up.

But she had, and now the slimy, filthy, stinking creature had vomited slop all over the floor of the cockpit. A woman with less self-control would have riddled the thing with smoking holes, but Mirta restrained herself to just stabbing it in the side with yet another sedative. They didn't actually do much good, but it made her feel better to poke at it with the sharp needles. She swatted at a globule of slime on her kama. No reward was worth this.

Ba'buir had less scruples than a carrion fly, but he did have odd peculiarities about bounty selections that might, in another person, have been called morals. One of them was no small children. To which Mirta has responded heatedly that since she'd never abandoned her own ik'aad, she had no guilty conscience in the matter, and would damn well take the job, thanks very much.

But she understood, now. Fett wasn't big on bowing to guilt, and he certainly wouldn't have let emotion get in the way of making credits. He didn't refuse to take child-jobs because of moral qualms; ba'buir did it because children made for the most annoying merchandise that Mirta had ever heard of.

Especially when the kid was a Huttlet.