Part II: A Scoundrel's Word

On top of her new status as Grand Champion of The Great Hunt, the hunter has become Baroness of House Girard and been initiated into a small club of Great Hunt Champions. Her crew is now privy to the fabled Blacklist, a private database of high-value bounties.

Though she's rejected Mandalore's offer to become Mandalorian, the lady rascal pursues the Mandalorian leader's greatest rival: exiled insurrectionist Jicoln Cadera.

On Taris, the hunter and Gault find respite in a makeshift cantina while the carbonite-frozen body of their recent capture is delivered to the main base.

. . . . . . . . . .

"I'm sure it'll just be another minute," Gault raised his voice to address the bounty hunter with an impatient eye roll before turning around to assume the position he'd held for several minutes against the bar.

It was obvious the amateur mixologist behind the counter didn't seem to appreciate serving a Devaronian or a Twi'lek. As with most things that didn't involve easy money effortlessly falling into his pockets, Gault was visibly uncaring towards the bigotry.

It had been a tremendously long day and the expression on his face suggested he'd prefer to pass out from drinking versus exhaustion.

While waiting for the unnecessarily slow-moving bartender to pour their drinks, the bounty hunter took a closer look around the dimly lit cantina. A quick visual scan revealed the presence of Imperial officers ranging from lowly boot lickers to prominent boot wearers. For a make-do watering hole it wasn't half bad. She'd hunkered down in worse outfits than this. At least it had decent music and seemed to be well-trafficked.

The place was a prefab building that doubled as supply shed and hangar for the adjacent Crater Command outpost.

Multicoloured string lights provided atmospheric lighting in the modest space, and furniture was either mismatched or jury-rigged from empty crates or various discarded military issue items. The bar shelf that housed the bottles, for example, was a rectangular aircraft storage compartment. The discoloured burn marks and bullet hole pocks gave it character.

The cheery private who'd invited the Twi'lek — and less so, her associate — into the humble establishment had mistaken the pair for Imperial-contracted Mandalorians. They hadn't corrected him.

The officer had paid for their first round of drinks in exchange for a Mando battle tale. In a tandem storytelling, the two aliens told of Jicoln Cadera and the geroya be haran. The memory of it was still fresh.

"Trust the resourceful Twi'lek to find the one happening place on this toxic planet," Gault said, subtly flavouring the compliment with his typical sardonic tone. He set the drinks down and took his seat. "This is some kind of military moonshine. I don't even wanna know."

"Thanks," said the hunter. "So gentlemanly of you."

"Yeah, yeah. Just don't get used to it."

"Hey. A little chivalry can still go a long way."

"From what I've seen you'd sooner punch a guy in the face than curtsy when he opens a door for you."

"You may be right, but shut up," the hunter replied, eagerly holding up her cup. "What are we drinking to?"

"How about to ..." Gault punctuated his dramatic pause by pensively stroking his remaining unscathed horn. "... you ... replacing my custom-made, one-of-a-kind, three-quarter length, double-breasted Corellian sand panther oil coat with jiang inlaid buttons!"

By the time the sentence ended Gault's voice had climaxed into a screech.

"Oh. My. Goddess. Are you still harping on that? You're alive, ain't you? Get over it already."

"You don't know the things I had to do to afford that jacket," was Gault's acerbic plea. "I posed as an on-call physician on Ralltiir for weeks to find the perfect mark: a doddering octogenarian widow — who was very touchy, I might add. Very handsy. Immensely so.

"I convinced the wealthy old havrap she'd contracted a rare terminal illness — completely made up — and got her to donate a ridiculously large sum to a bogus research facility working on the cure ... which, in reality, was one of my many, many ... many bank accounts.

"Can you even appreciate the type of coordination that takes? It was a very complex shakedown."

"So buy another one," said the nonchalant hunter.

"The guy who made it isn't alive anymore! Died in some freak armormech forging accident."

"I'm sure you could have the coat cleaned," the hunter replied, sympathetically patting her companion's shoulder.

"Honey, the laundry process to remove rakghoul decay and feces from sand panther hide will never be invented. Incineration's the closest thing."

"Gault, you're an absolute wreck and somehow I love it," the hunter smirked. "How 'bout this? Let's drink to Tyresius Lokai. May that sad son of a murglak rest in peace.

The Twi'lek held her glass up high.

Gault reluctantly complied with a half-hearted, "Here, here."

The duo knocked cups and partook of the much-needed drink.

One of the bar's occupants approached the only non-ramshackle item in the room, a vintage jukebox, and selected a jaunty tune the hunter had never heard before.

"Is this what it's always going to be like?" the Devaronian asked after taking a long swig of the nondescript booze. "Pulse-pounding, death-defying dust ups that ruin my wardrobe."

"Pretty much," said the hunter. "The only clothing items I get attached to are my underwear. And ... well ... even then, I'll part with 'em under the right circumstances."

"Sounds like I should get a few more glasses of ... whatever this is in you. Put that to the test."

"And there ends the chivalry," the hunter groaned. "It would take about thirty bottles of this stuff to get me there with you. Two-litre bottles at that."

"I'm liking where this is going ..."

"Never gonna happen, Gault!"

"There you go hurting my feelings again," he said. "You'll never attract a husband with that attitude. I'll have you know I can be quite the charmer. More beautiful women than you have fallen for me. Classier too."

"Never ever." To reiterate her seriousness the hunter slammed her cup on their upside down crate table.

"I see what's going on here," Gault said with a devious smile.

"And what exactly would that be?"

"You forgot all about this handsome face the minute that Mandalorian kid showed up."

"Oh, goddess. Not this again." The hunter threw her arms into the air before folding them against her chest. She leaned back in her chair and rolled her eyes.

"I saw the way you flirted with him."

"Never happened."

"Have you already forgotten how he rolled up behind us in the transformer station, placed a gun in your back and how you conveniently didn't repaint the room in a trendy shade of Mandalorian entrail red?"

"Gault, that was a ploy to disarm him."

"Ohhh, no. I'm not talking about that. A gal like you allowing a man to remain completely intact and alive after pulling a gun on you. That's the most overt request to get crinked I've ever witnessed."

"You're completely full of poodoo, you know that?" she laughed.

"I saw you shoot a guy on Alderaan at the drop of a credit. And he just looked at you wrong."

"It was business, Gault. And do I need to add that you enjoyed the fruits of that labour?"

"All I'm saying is you might as well have mounted the boy right there. I assume you're a power top, right? You've clearly got the hips for it."

"You're awful." The hunter reached over and punched her colleague in the shoulder. "Let's get back to your earlier question."

"Fine. Change the subject just when it starts to get juicy," he said.

"Is it always like this? Yes. It's not a glamorous job, Gault."

"Says the Twi'lek who became an Alderaanian baroness on the last job."

The hunter spat out her mouthful of moonshine with an irreverently loud laugh.

"An extremely rare exception," she responded after wiping her lips to compose herself. "Maybe on the next planet you'll finally earn your tiara."

"I'm seeing a pattern of family drama with these jobs," the scoundrel declared. "The messy business with House Girard, and now this hurt ego and Mandalorian honour nonsense."

"Bounty hunting basics, Gault," the hunter began. "It's all about relationships. Relationships defined by powerful emotions — be it love, hate or a mixture of both."

"Sounds like you're speaking from experience."

"Maybe I am," she replied without elaboration — a point she knew Gault noticed.

"Is that why you let old man Jicoln live?" he asked.

"I let him live for two reasons." The hunter leaned in on the table. "First, the mighty Mandalore can finish his own dirty work ..."

"Agreed. What's the point of having all that shiny armor and a warrior's code if you're not willing to get your hands dirty."

"Yes. Precisely. Second, because that kid doesn't know he's a pawn in some decades-old dick slapping contest kept alive by the leader he blindly follows."

"So, what you're saying is you feel for the guy."

"There's a saying my mother had: until the story of the hunt is told by the manka, history will always glorify the hunter. That kid only knows Artus's version of things, not Jicoln's. And Artus had his entire opposition killed. I looked into it. Makes his story an easy sell."

"That's deep. Too deep for a crappy cantina on a decaying planet after a full day of monstrous things trying to eat us."

"You're right," the hunter chuckled. "Let's talk about you."

"So about these manka cats learning to write holo-fiction thing ..."

"Nice, Gault."

"So, where were we?"

"You were telling me about your last serious relationship with ... I forgot her name. Must be this refresher-brewed booze."

"Nice try."

"His name, I meant. It was a male, wasn't it?"

Gault reached forward and affectionately slapped the hunter on her forehead.

"Behave. Actually, I've got a proposition for you."

"Not this again," she sighed looking up at the ceiling, willing the goddess to give her strength. "For the last time, Gault, I am not putting my mouth anywhere near—"

"Not that type of proposition, you filthy nerfherder," he bellowed. "This isn't a come on. I'm talking about something better than the type of illicit sex I've talked about that's illegal on 23 planets and 129 territories."

"Shut up. Such a thing doesn't exist."

"Money," the Devaronian said matter-of-factly. "I've been thinking of ways we could use your newly claimed status as Alderaanian nobility to start a low overhead 'side business.'"

"No. Way."

"Just hear me out! There's three ways we can play this thing. First, we set up a—"

"A thousand times, no."

"You didn't let me finish!"

"I'd sooner entertain the illegal sex than use that title to profit," the hunter said. "The only ones that know about it are you, me, Mako and ... well, all of House Girard. But I don't want to talk about it. Ever."

"All right, all right. You're no fun."

"If you want to ruin your second chance by getting back right into the same old shenanigans that got Tyresius on a dozen hit lists, go right ahead. But leave me and Mako out of it."

"Understood." Gault let out a defeated sigh. "You really know how to kill an erection."

"Gault!"

"What? You really underestimate what money talk does for me."

"Then let's talk about something else."

"All right," Gault said. "What about this? See that uniformed officer over there?"

The hunter looked around the room, confused.

"They're all in uniform, genius."

Gault exhaled deeply. "The one with the general rank on his jacket. He's the pale-skinned, bald one ... with the beard ... and his legs crossed."

"What about him?"

"Looks rather dapper, don't you think? He's been staring at you this whole time."

"Frag. Let's just settle up and get outta here."

"Pfft. Fine. Prude."

The duo got up and made their way to the bar and its xenophobic bartender, navigating past a very inebriated couple making a spectacle of themselves on the dance floor.

"We'd like to settle up our tab, if you don't mind," the hunter said to the sour-looking man.

"The tab's all paid up," said the grumpy barkeep.

"Paid?" she asked, exchanging puzzled looks with Gault. "By who?"

The moonlighting private nodded his head in the direction of the dapper general.

"General Rakton," the man replied. "Says he'd like to meet the 'lady' before she leaves."

"How very generous," Gault grinned, mischievously nudging his partner in crime.

"It certainly is, sweetie." The quick-thinking hunter faked a doe-eyed glance at her male companion.

"Sweet—?"

The hunter stepped gently, but firmly on Gault's foot to halt him from speaking further.

"Thank you kindly," the hunter said, smiling graciously while sliding a generous tip on the counter. She rigidly moved a few steps away from the bar.

"What are you doing?" Gault asked, sidling up to her with a whisper. "I can be your wingman on this."

The hunter gave the scoundrel a friendly slap on the cheek.

"Not wingman. Husband," she said. "Until we leave this bar I'm Mrs. Rennow, devoted Mandalorian housewife. We entered this cantina based on a lie and we're sure as chaos gonna leave it on one."

"My, my," winked Gault. "Think of the marital pleasures I'll enjoy."

"Not from here to the door you won't."

"Says who? You?" he scoffed.

The hunter nodded.

"Well, let's just see what General Rakton has to say about that," he threatened while slowly moving towards Rakton's table.

The anxious Twi'lek grabbed Gault's arm and aggressively guided him to the dance floor where she amorously wrapped her arms around him and began dancing.

"Happy?" she hissed.

"It's a start."

"I will flay you before we get back to the ship," she menaced.

"Well, if that's the case I'm going to milk this right now for all it's worth."

"Gault, you don't know these Imperial types," the Twi'lek pleaded behind clenched teeth. She discretely looked over to see if the general had noticed her display with the Devaronian. He had. "They are the epitome of sexual oppression. For all their talk about aliens being inferior, they sure like to let their freak flag fly with non-humans when no one else is looking. In the weirdest goddess-damned ways."

"So far, I'm only hearing pros; no cons."

"How about this?" The Twi'lek batted her eyes. "Two dances. I turn a blind eye to wherever your hands wander, we never speak of this again unless under the control of torture droids ... and you let this whole General Rakton thing go."

"Sweeten the deal," Gault instructed, stroking his chin.

The hunter let out a strained, understated shriek of frustration.

"You know I'm just messing with you, right?" he said. "I'll be your wingman or your cock blocker. Just gotta tell me when and where. Maybe we should come up with elaborate hand signals."

The hunter sighed and gave Gault a wet, sloppy kiss on the cheek.

"Sometimes, Gault — just sometimes — you're actually a decent guy."

"Never say that to me ever again."

The half-drunk Twi'lek began seductively trailing her hands down her devious companion's back as a tease. Gault jabbed her in the ribs.

"I ever tell you that you sorta remind me of someone?" she asked.

"He sounds like a total sex bomb," Gault quipped. "Another Devaronian?"

"No. A Bothan."

"Interesting. You'll have to tell me about him when we get back to the ship," the Devaronian said with a tinge of curiosity. "Now, let's go buy the fruitiest drink on the menu, take it to Rakton's table as a thank you and get off this wretched rock."

"Agreed."

"My name will be ... Loxis Valston, Commander of Clan Valston. And you?"

"Umm ... Supisy. Supisy Valston. Wait, do Mandalorian women take their husband's family name or keep theirs? Or do the men take the wife's name? Or do they hyphenate them together?"

"Who knows," Gault shrugged. "We'll make it up as we go along. Just keep those luscious lips puckered up for an exit kiss."

The Devaronian wrapped his arm around his wife and the two of them strutted back to the bar for another round.

Glossary

chaos: hell.

Corellian sand panther: a large, non-sentient predatory feline native to Corellia, highly prized for its fur and venom by poachers and luxury goods consumers.

crink (-ed, -er, -ing): slang, an extremely vulgar expletive, diversely used literally and non-literally to describe sexual acts or to express frustration or ambivalence.

Devaronian: a species of sentient horned humanoids with reddish-brown or (rare) greenish skin tones native to planet Devaron.

geroya be haran (Mando'a) a rare Mandalorian death game challenge invoked to settle matters of honor.

havrap: a non-sentient winged creature that feeds on carrion, garbage and industrial waste.

jiang: a rare pink-coloured Corellian jewel.

manka: a large carnivorous species of non-sentient feline pack hunters native to Alderaan and Tython.

murglak: slang, an unflattering insult referencing a creature widely considered to be revolting.

poodoo (Huttese): "fodder", food eaten by banthas; used offensively to describe something foul smelling.

rakghoul: a vicious semi-sentient beast created by Sith sorcery and transmitted through a mutating plague virus by bites or deep scratches.

refresher: bathroom.

Twi'lek: a sentient species of humanoids with twin cranial tentacles called lekku (singular "lek") native to planet Ryloth.