Star Wars © LucasFilm
He remembered little but for the sharp clang of his helmet striking the barge's hull. Words and voices were buried in murky fog, the soreness of his head and the ringing that pervaded all sound. The close stench of bile, and its bitter taste in his teeth, lingered repugnantly close to his nose.
That fourth drink had been a mistake.
The fuzziness that pervaded his memories and vision was not solely the fault of him slamming headfirst into the barge. He was still tipsy from the four glasses of spotchka he'd downed on Jabba's barge, an all too rash decision he was really beginning to regret.
On principle, he never drank. Anything but total awareness at all times could spell certain doom for a man as hated and loathed as he was. But drank he had, requesting drink after drink until even the barge's bartender had hesitantly questioned whether he did want that fourth shot of spotchka.
His father would be anything but pleased with him...
A groan escaped from his mouth as another wave of pain clawed through his skull, splitting and cracking like a vibroblade. He grit his teeth against the pain and attempted to remove his helmet - but his arms refused to move.
Fear coursed through his veins, flinching at the unwanted image of his arms and legs paralyzed that lingered at the back of his mind. Had the collision with the barge, and the splitting headache that followed it, masked far more worrying injuries?
Slowly, cautiously, he attempted once more to move his right arm. No response. Worrying, but he did not give up. Concentrating on his fingers, he tried to curl his fingers into a fist - anything to ward off the sheer terror of being vulnerable.
Relief flooded through his body when he felt his gloved fingers scrap against his palm, nails driving at his skin with repressed anger. His legs were stiff and in the same immobile status as his arms, but there was just enough give in them for him to know that he wasn't paralyzed.
But if he was not paralyzed, then what was restraining him? He could feel some kind of pressure wound around his thighs, albeit a strange slimy, thorny pressure that seemed to wind tighter every time he moved his legs. The reasoning for the feeling was lost to him, torn away in the pounding headaches from his head striking the barge, but it was danger and wrong all the same.
Determined to understand where he was - or what was holding him immobile - and, hoping that his helmet would help clarify his current position, he strained to loosen the pressure from his left arm. Carefully and slowly, he twisted his wrist, tugging his hand in towards his shoulder, stopping whenever his binds tightened over his arm.
He would never know how long it took to free his left arm from the fluid, ever tightening binds, but, finally, his left arm slipped from the binds and slammed against his armored sides. Nasua pricked at his throat, a constant reminder of his situation, as he moved his left hand sluggishly to the wrist controls on his right arm. It took a few seconds to find the controls for his helmet's scanners, both thermal and normal, and subsequently activate them.
At first, the HUD of his visor flickered, then suddenly blared red before both systems shut down without ceremony. When he tried to reactivate his scanner system, they flickered to life briefly then died once more, with only a small, confusing readout the reward for all his efforts.
His helmet's data provided no valuable information - that or his head, splitting with headaches as it was, could not process any data but for the absolutely foul stench wafting around him. The bile from when he'd thrown up was foul and all too close to his nose, but even it was overwhelmed by the cloying, damp scent of acid and death and something else entirely foreign and horrid.
Wherever he was, he knew he had to get out. And soon.
Using his free left hand, he turned his helmet's light on and turned his head slowly around his surroundings. The light was weak, unable to even illuminate a few feet from his face within this swarming darkness, but it was enough for him to see what was holding him in place.
His eyes widened under his helmet when he recognized the binds - no, tentacles - wrapped around his right arm, both legs and all his chest. The tentacles were thick and slimy, with rows of teeth covering the entirety of the tentacle's armor-like scaled length. Each tentacle moved individually, constricting and twisting at his trapped limbs, ever so slowly pulling him towards its acidic walls.
He was in the sarlacc.
A swear slipped from his mouth, an exhalation of fear that he outright hated. He was never supposed to be afraid - he'd shoved fear into the darkest corner of his memories, right next to his beheaded father - but kark it all if his spine didn't tense and his skin sweat with fear at the thought of what he was inside.
Everyone who had worked for Jabba at one point or another knew about the Hutt's "pet" sarlacc, and the Hutt's obsession with feeding his worst enemies to the ravenous beast. He himself had wondered a few times here or there what it was like for those fed to the sarlacc, but he'd never imagined being trapped within it himself.
But he wasn't like Jabba's enemies, victims both of the sarlacc and their own lack of resourcefulness, he was Boba Fett. And Boba Fett did not sit idly by while death slowly approached him.
With a roar, Boba activated the beskar blade on his left gauntlet and stabbed the serrated knife into the nearest sarlacc tentacle holding him still. The beskar sliced under the hard scales of the tentacle, cleaving the appendage from his right arm with a gyser of blood that splattered over his armor and-
Agony ripped through his body as the sarlacc's acidic blood burned through the cloth of his flight suit, melting it onto Boba's flesh with the distinctive smell of burning flesh. A scream rent from Boba's mouth as his body buckled at the fire burning through his body, his vision swimming in dizzying waves as he scrambled at the severed tentacle still wrapped around his right arm. Blood continued to gush from the sarlacc's severed tentacle, each droplet of blood that touched the unarmored parts of his suit burning his skin and-
Blackness swamped Boba, swallowing him into unconscious, rendering him unaware as the sarlacc wrapped its tentacles over his entire body, pinning his body to the walls of its acid lined stomach. Should there have been anyone but for the beskar covered bounty hunter still alive within the sarlacc, all they would have heard was the sizzling of burning skin and a deep, screechy chortle that rippled from deep within the sarlacc.
Boba awoke to the now familiar burn of acid dripping down his back, opening the wounds of the sarlacc's acid over and over. He did not know how long he had been trapped within the sarlacc's stomach, as he could not see the suns or the sky of Tatooine from within the monster's stomach, but he knew it was long. He could only guess that he had been in the sarlacc for days from the cycle of awake and asleep the beast went through - it digested things faster while it was asleep, and made more snarls and growls when it was awake.
Since his failed attempt to escape the sarlacc on the first day, Boba had been unable to move even his fingers and he could only tilt his head a few inches to each side, for the sarlacc had taken care to constrict his entire body with unrelenting pressure from its many thousands of tentacles.
He had tried to escape a few more times since his first attempt, at least for what he assumed were the second and third days of his capture, but each had only served to anger the sarlacc further. It was all pointless, he knew now, for there was no escaping the sarlacc - not even for him.
It had taken many, many hours for Boba to tune out the constant agony of his skin melting and burning under the sarlacc's digestive acid, but now it was a presence that was just there. A constant quite similar to the constant rain on Kamino, or the oppressive heat of Tatooine - all three a constant presence on his mind.
He was just as trapped here, within the sarlacc, as he had been trapped on Kamino as a child. He had not been back to his birth planet since the day the Jedi, Kenobi, had tracked his father to the water planet. Boba didn't miss Kamino in any shape or form - he despised that planet and its people with almost the same passion as he'd hated Mace Windu - but he'd take his former home over the sarlacc any day.
At least he could have the semblance of independence on Kamino, the ability to walk around, to read books or train at the shooting range with the clones. There was nothing but his thoughts and his impending death to occupy him within the sarlacc. This… this immobility, the sense of something worse eating away at him, wasn't all that new to Boba, even though the sarlacc's prison was vastly different from the prison that was Aurra Sing.
Boba had, quite literally, run into Aurra four months after his father's death, when he found the bounty hunter attempting to pilfer the Slave 1. He had been furious and had almost shot her where she stood - looking back on it, he would have been better off killing Aurra right then and there - but she had wormed her through his shoddy defenses with a disarming smile and a letter from his father telling her to protect Boba if anything happened to Jango.
Of course, like a bantha brain, Boba had believed that the letter was genuine and he'd let Aurra fly with him - not even aware that she was using him for her own gains, not until she'd left him on Florrum. She had him trapped and Boba had never seen it; at least the sarlacc made it obvious, even if it was slowly eating away at him hour by hour, day by day.
He had forgotten his father's lessons in the language of the Mandalorian people long ago, a regrettable loss in his alliance with Aurra Sing. She always bristled - rankled and hissed, even - when he would let slip of his father's language. It was wrong - unwanted - in her presence, and she was always present.
Aurra had taken his father's ship and his father's language from him, and all for naught. There was a deep bitterness at her betrayal that resided within the coldest parts of him to the day. She had lied to him when she told his young, impressionable and desperate self that she would not leave his side like his father had.
But Aurra had not even hesitated to abandon him when the Kel Dor and Togruta Jedi had cornered them on Florrum. She'd abandoned him, left him in the claws of that hated, horrid Jedi - he'd hated all Jedi, not just his father's murderer back then - and took everything from him.
His father's legacy, his ship, his trust, and even the language his father had taken such care in teaching him, had been ripped from him by Aurra. Aurra acted like she cared about him, complimenting him and listening to his anger and hurt and loss, but he knew now that was all for herself. She had encouraged his venom towards his father's killer until all that consumed his every thought was the complete and utter destruction of that man. The destruction of the Endurance had always been her idea, not his, for he would never have gone so far as to destroy the ship and all the clones - the men with his father's face - onboard the ship.
He'd always pretended as if his father's clones, literal living weapons for the Republic, did not exist until the Endurance. It had been easy, easy until he held the rifle to his father-but-not-his-father's face. They were his father but alive, unscarred but still with his father's warmth. He hated that clone at that moment more than he did his father's killer, if only for the thoughts that had screamed through his head.
The clone was father but not, strong and loyal but not his! He was holding his father at gunpoint, seeing his father's confusion and hurt and sadness and kark did he hate it. It had taken years for those nightmares to fade, and the coldness of CT-411's voice took even longer to fade into unhearable, distant memory.
After Aurra, he never again let himself be so unguarded around strangers - all but for Bossk. Boba and Aurra had run into Bossk while hunting a bounty on Onderon. Aurra had attempted to shoot Bossk, who Boba knew she thought was there to steal their bounty, but the Trandoshan had ignored Aurra completely. Bossk stopped in front of Boba, kneeled down, held out his rifle and bowed his scaled head to Boba.
"Little Hunter, son of Jango Kinghunter, by the decree of the Scorekeeper and your sire, I vow to protect you, no matter the cost of life or limb. Should you accept the protection of this follower of the Scorekeeper, then I shall be with you until you are of age to hunt," Bossk had growled in Dosh first, before he'd repeated the same in Basic.
Aurra had tried to convince Boba to ignore Bossk - he knew now that she was afraid of sharing the profit of bounties with the Trandoshan - but Boba had ignored her. And kark had he felt good denying her for once, especially with how her nose scrunched and her fingers hands clenched into fists.
Unlike Aurra, Bossk never had taken advantage of Boba, never preyed on his vulnerabilities surrounding his loneliness since his father's death. The Trandoshan cared about Boba as a person, not as an unhinged weapon like Aurra always had.
Bossk trained Boba, comforted Boba, sat up with Boba when he couldn't sleep for nightmares, Bossk cared. Bossk had protected him after he had been arrested by the Republic, and had been even more fiercely protective of Boba once they had escaped. There was no one who wouldn't realize their mistake in attacking Boba once the Trandoshan appeared, teeth snapping, claws clicking and voice hissing.
Boba and Bossk were a team, a family, until Boba had come of age and his Trandoshan protector bade him farewell. The Trandoshan had saved Boba more times than he could count, and had been like a second father to him - it was Bossk who'd made Boba Boba after Aurra had tried to tear away all of the Boba Jango had worked so diligently to make him. Just as Boba owed everything to his father, so did he owe Bossk.
Over the years, Boba had formed a friendly rivalry with Bossk over bounties - a rivalry like that Boba had once dreamed of having with his father. Boba didn't go after Bossk's hunts, and Bossk didn't follow Boba for his bounties. Not until both had been hired by Darth Vader to track down Han Solo, and the Millenium Falcon, had Boba and Bossk been hunting the same target. The fact he had been in a race against his surrogate father had been exhilarating, a challenge Boba was more than happy to accept.
Bossk had congratulated him on his capture of Han Solo, aided though it was by Vader and his plans, and Boba would have been remiss to not recognize the pride in Bossk's hiss as he spoke. And, though it had been seventeen years since Bossk had been Boba's "father", he had still flushed with pride at the compliment.
It was sentimental and foolish for Boba to care so much about what one Trandoshan thought of his skills as a bounty hunter, but he did. Boba had always sought validation from his father, Jango, and that had never changed under Bossk's charge. The Trandoshan wasn't Jango by any means - no one could replace Boba's father - but Bossk was the closest anyone had ever come to caring about Boba. And, for that, he owed the Trandoshan.
Which only meant he was even more of a fool and a failure to have fallen into the sarlacc as he had. Though he was not dead - yet - Boba knew that everyone who had seen him fall into the pit thought he had died by falling into the sarlacc. What kind of a way to die was that?
A complete disgrace to Jango's name and Boba's own.
A drunken, overconfident fool, knocked out by a blind Han Solo.
How pathetic.
Anger burned at Boba's stomach, choking his lungs and darkening his vision. He would never settle for disgracing his father - not like this.
He would get out of the sarlacc even if it killed him, and he'd take the sarlacc down with him. And then he would find the karking fools who had left him for dead, and remind them why no one ever underestimated Boba Fett.
He just needed a plan and, suns forbid, a streak of Force luck to get out of the sarlacc.
Boba was starving.
His stomach growled weakly every hour, his breath ragged on parched lips. He had rationed every drop of water he stored in his suit so that he only took a few sips each day, but he'd still run out and resorted to drinking his own sweat to sate his thirst. He had to get out before he died of dehydration, damn him.
A groan from the sarlacc yanked Boba from his thoughts, his visored gaze snapping around the creature's stomach anxiously. He had grown accustomed to the sounds the sarlacc made but this one - a guttural, cool snarl that seemed to rise from the very depths of its stomach - was new.
Before Boba could attempt to make sense of the sound he heard, the sarlacc moved. Its tentacles constricted around Boba, expelling all the air from his lungs, moments before the tentacles slammed Boba into the depths of its stomach acid.
The tentacles loosened around his body as his boots and legs and oh Force help him, his entire body was swamped by acid. Boba screamed, a harsh keening that ripped from his airless lungs, as stomach acid washed over his body- under his helmet and over his face, his eyes, his mouth, his nose-
His beskar was worn from the constant acid that had dripped onto his body from the sarlacc, and it could not protect him from this bath of stomach acid. He clawed for anything, any semblance of purchase - something to pull himself up with-
Burned hands scraped against something hard, cool and metallic with armored plating, and with a gasp of shock, Boba pulled himself from the mire of stomach acid onto the wing of a sand skiff. His feet slid on the slick metal, his strength failing him as the sarlacc roared above him with something as close to rage as he thought was possible from the monster.
Desperation had hold of his thoughts, his heart, his breath, as Boba scrambled at his wrist gauntlet for the controls to his damaged jetpack. The jetpack had been damaged when he'd been knocked into the sarlacc, but it was still sturdy and Boba prayed it had enough strength left in it for one last flight. His fingers slipped on the button-
A tentacle slammed against his head, knocking his helmet into the pool of stomach acid with a hollow splash, and sending stars shooting through his head. The force of the hit snapped Boba's head against the metal plating, stunning him long enough for his fingers to loosen their hold on the sand skiff's wings and letting his body fall into the pool of acid desperate to devour him.
His vision wavered as Boba sank into the deep pool, beskar starting to hiss as the sarlacc's acid tried to chew through the tough metal. Anger raged through Boba as a tentacle from the sarlacc slammed over his chest - he heard the crack of his ribs echo through the viscous pool of acid - pushing him down, face first towards his death. His hands shoved at the tentacle, sliding off its armored hide and razor sharp teeth before his fingers smacked against metal.
His helmet!
Boba clung to his helmet, pulling it against his chest as he tried to fight the agony of acid and the tentacles teeth shredding through his skin, his left hand snapping to his gauntlet controls-
A sudden flare burned the darkness and then the tentacle's strength was gone. The sarlacc was shaking, its roars loud even through the stomach acid - roars of pain.
Strength, fueled through Boba's sheer desperation, filled his body and, with a wordless scream of agony, Boba burst out of the pool of acid. His hands snagged the edge of the sand skiff's wing, his muscles screaming as Boba hauled his aching body onto the metal.
The sarlacc was still screeching and there was a strange bubbling coming up from within the pool of stomach acid Boba had just swum out of. Knowing that he had no time to question what had happened, Boba slammed his helmet back onto his head - ignoring the acid that poured down his face and neck - sighted his targeting reticle at the mouth of the sarlacc and prayed.
Please, father, let your armor save me one last time. Please… please, Jango.
The missile fired from its housing on his jetpack, sailing with a loud shriek straight into the beak of the sarlacc. The explosion almost rocked Boba back into the bubbling stomach acid, but he had no time to stumble.
As parts of the sarlacc rained down into its pool of stomach acid, tongue and meat and beak and everything else imaginable, Boba activated his jetpack. The jetpack flared to life, the heat of the flames assaulting Boba's injured, flayed and burned skin as he launched out of the sarlacc.
Sunlight blinded Boba as he burst from the Pit, jetpack screaming as he cleared sand and land and-
His jetpack died midair, a pathetic sputter of exhaust the only warning before Boba's body slammed into the sand dunes below him. Pain splintered through his body as Boba's vision flickered, swam for a moment, then turned black as he fell unconscious.
Chittering awoke Boba, though his limbs would not move and he could barely see as his vision continued to swim before his eyes. He thought he saw two short, cloaked figures peering down at him with beady eyes and pointing as a strange feeling of something being peeled from his chest, his legs, his arms and his-
My armor! NO!
Before Boba could act - though he knew he couldn't have even if he wanted to - Boba passed out, his body exhausted and shaking with agony.
Guttural, loud grunts woke Boba. He opened his eyes to be met by a muffled blackness and, confused, Boba tried to touch his face.
When he moved his right arm, blisters of pain ripped through his body, stabs of lightning that raced millimeters under his skin. Boba gasped in pain, his lungs straining to breath as his arm slumped down onto the bedding underneath him. It was fur, so soft and so smooth that he could barely tell that it was fur, but he knew it was.
"Where… am… I?" Boba gasped out, an act that hurt him just as much as moving his arm had.
A grunt, somehow gentle and caring in tone, preceded a soft touch and then his vision returned with a swath of muted light. Slowly, to understand his surroundings and gauge his situation, Boba shifted his gaze around.
He was in some kind of tent-like structure, with one corner of the structure covered with what looked like decorative furs and trinkets. The roof above him was patchwork in pattern, made of rough skins and open only at the very top and and the side. And, standing just out of his reach, was a Tusken Raider.
Fear shot through Boba's veins as the Tusken, holding a damp piece of cloth in its hands, slowly raised one hand in a placating gesture and growled softly to him. Boba gulped and instinctively reached for his rifle, ignoring the pain that shot through his arm at the movement, but nothing was there. He snapped his head around the structure, desperate to see the beaten green of his armor but there was nothing.
"Kriff," Boba hissed as the Tusken Raider took one slow step towards him, its left hand reaching for him-
The Tusken Raider pointed at his side without a sound, its head tilted slightly with something akin to curiosity as it tapped his side gently. Boba, not really understanding, looked down where the Raider was pointing and gasped.
What little of his skin he could see through the heavy gauze encircling his entire body was red and raw. The acid had chewed away his skin, leaving only ridges and scars where his skin had once been. It looked unimaginably painful but, even when the Tusken Raider gently touched his bandages arm, he felt only a prick of heat.
The Tusken met his gaze then moved its hands, palms up and pushed towards him, a gesture that clearly meant "wait". Boba stared at the Tusken Raider for a minute, then nodded. His body hurt too much to move, and he was not stupid enough to disobey a Tusken Raider while in this condition.
The Tusken grunted - Boba could swear it sounded happy - then whisked out of the structure. Boba breathed, eyes shutting closed as he laid back against the fur and let out a breath.
Tusken Raiders. I'm in a Tusken Raider village and they haven't killed me yet. This one even bandaged me up. What in the kark is going on, and where is my armor?
Boba had killed many Tusken Raiders, both under Jabba's employ and while hunting bounties, but he'd never interacted with one personally. He believed them the savages every being on Tatooine claimed them to be - though not without due cause. More than once he'd been forced to defend himself from a marauding band of Tuskens, and one had injured him severely enough that he had to spend a few days in a bacta tank.
In short, Boba didn't like Tusken Raiders and so that just made his presence here in a Tusken camp weird. He suspected the one who had just left was a healer, and it was obvious they were tending to his wounds… but why?
A moment later he heard a grunt and then the Tusken Raider from before appeared, its arms laden with more gauze and bowls that gave off a strange odor. And, just behind the Tusken, came an electric blue protocol droid.
"A droid?" Boba was surprised at the droid's presence, his brows raising as the droid stopped near him.
"Yes," the protocol droid replied, "a droid. I am Z-R0R, and I serve Hunts In Stars in her quest to communicate with you, the slayer of the Devourer."
Boba blinked at the cold, matter of fact tone the droid spoke with. He glanced between the Tusken Raider and the protocol droid, fingers digging into the fur bedding beneath him. None of what the droid had said made sense to him. What was a Devourer and what was a Hunts In Stars?
Still feeling uncomfortable and very aware of where he was Boba turned his gaze to the protocol droid, lips curving down in a sneer. "Tusken Raiders are animals, from my experience," Boba growled to the electric blue protocol droid standing beside the Tusken healer, "so what in the kriff is going on here?"
A mechanical sigh escaped from the droid before Z-R0R pointed to the Tusken Raider standing near Boba. "This is Hunts In Stars, and the Devourer is what you call the sarlacc. I wonder how a human as oblivious and stupid as yourself could defeat The Great Devourer."
Boba glared daggers at the protocol droid as he opened his mouth to protest. He wasn't stupid-
Z-R0R interrupted him, its voice cool and measured as it spoke. "Tusken Raiders can be violent, it is their culture to protect the land they claim as their own to the death. But they have a strict code of honor concerning those who have helped their tribe.
"The Tribe of Running Sands wish to repay you for killing The Great Devourer. The tribe voted and agreed to help you back to full strength. Hunts In Stars is the tribe healer, and she has sworn an ancient Tribespeople oath of life dept to you.
"Hunts In Stars has been tending to your injuries since a hunting party of the Tribe stumbled upon you. She was not sure if her efforts had helped you, and she is," the Tusken Raider interrupted Z-R0R with growls and snarls, her hands jerking towards Boba as the protocol droid nodded slowly in response.
Z-R0R growled back to the Tusken then turned back to face Boba. "They have named you 'Devourer Slayer' and have all invoked life depts to you. The Devourer ate many of the Tribe's young and elderly, and the Tribe has lost many warriors attempting to slay The Great Devourer. Helping you was the least they could do in return, considering what you have done for them.
"Hunts In Stars will continue to tend to your wounds until you are well enough to walk the dunes," Z-R0R explained, "but she requests that you lay still, or sleep, while she replaces your bandages. She will not hurt you - the greatest of sins for a Tribe healer is to inflict harm on their patients. You are in good hands."
With that said, the protocol droid turned on its heel and swept out of the tent. Boba looked towards Hunts In Stars, who was waiting patiently in one corner of the structure, then let out a drawn sigh. He was not happy with the thought that he was beholden to this "tribe" of Tusken Raiders, but there was no other choice.
Hunts In Stars' hands were soft and careful as the Tusken Raider removed the gauze covering Boba's chest. Though she was very careful with each layer of gauze that she peeled off of Boba's body, he could not help but scream. His skin felt like it had been boiled - the sarlacc's acid had practically melted all of his skin away - and each layer of gauze that was removed set off a new blaze within his body.
He almost blacked out by the time the healer had removed every layer of old gauze, and his breath was labored as Hunts In Stars slowly applied a cold balm over his damaged skin. The balm soothed his pain, cooling his burning skin as the Tusken healer slowly rewrapped his injuries with new, clean gauze.
When she finished, Hunt In Stars put her arm underneath his shoulders and head and pulled him up into a seated position. She moved a small bowl to his lips - Boba almost recoiled at the stench wafting from the cup - and mimed drinking. Boba shook his head in weak protest, nose scrunching at the smell, and met the cold, emotionless mask of the healer's face with a glare.
But Boba's defiance waned as his own strength faded and, with a frustrated growl, Boba drank the liquid. The taste was not like water, but an ashy, viscous sludge that seemed to sate his thirst almost instantly. Hunt In Stars growled triumphantly as she lowered Boba's back to the fur once again, then made an obvious gesture of her hands pressed palms together and held up to her tilted head.
"Yeah," Boba scoffed, "sleep. I know…"
Six months had passed by slowly, each day marking a step closer to full recovery for Boba; whose skin had finally healed from the sarlacc's acid, though it was still tender and deeply scarred. The Tusken Raiders treated him with almost reverent respect the few times Hunts In Stars had allowed him outside of her healer's tent, always bowing to him in the case of the adults or, whenever the young Tusken children - Z-R0R told Boba they were called Uli-ahs - ran up to him with hard scales or other trinkets.
Boba almost found himself liking the Tribe, they were brutal but he could see the care each Tribe member had for each other, especially with the Uli-ahs. He had never felt so much like an outsider before than he had with the Tribe, until Z-R0R started teaching him the language of the Tribe. Boba was by no means fluent in the spoken language of the Tribe, but he had quickly gotten a hand of the sign language the Tribe used while hunting or during ceremonies.
He liked being able to understand the Tribe and converse with them in turn, and his lessons with Z-R0R had turned the once standoffish protocol droid friendly towards Boba. Boba had felt undue pride when he was able to carry on a full conversation with Hunt In Stars about his recovery process - that and to question where his armor was.
Hunts In Stars had looked down sadly when he asked and asked him, slowly and sadly, if he was going to leave the Tribe if he found his armor. Boba had struggled to explain that his armor was his father's, and the last vestige of his father he had besides the Slave 1 - he wasn't planning on leaving the Tribe yet, not when he could only walk a few miles before he collapsed from exhaustion and pain.
She seemed to understand his response well enough to explain that they had not found him with his armor. Hunts In Stars said that the trackers had found sandcrawler tracks near where they had found Boba, a clear indication of Jawa pilfering. Boba had never hated the Jawas or anything else as much as he did in that moment, knowing that the Jawas had stolen his father's armor.
It had taken all of Hunts In Stars strength to calm Boba down and, only after the Tribe's leader, Sturdy Storm, had explained that they had scouts searching for the Jawas responsible for the theft, had Boba finally relented. He had wanted to charge out into the desert in search of his armor, but he knew that would have only spelt certain death for him.
Boba could wait to reclaim his armor, he had patience - being bedridden with nothing but one's thoughts to dwell on had calmed Boba's impatience about leaving the Tribe - and time, lots of time.
Boba stretched his arms over his head and slowly stood up from the chair he was resting on, then headed towards Hunts In Stars tent. His hand had just barely brushed the entrance flap when the sound of high, terrified shrieks tore through the camp.
The Uli-ahs!
Most of the Tribe had left on a ceremonial hunt of a krayt dragon, to honor the passing of one of their elders, and only the Uli-ahs, the teenaged Tuskens and the elderly were left in camp - aside from Boba. There would be no one in camp in time to stop whatever was attacking or scaring the Uli-ahs if Boba did not act. So it was without hesitation that Boba charged towards the sound of screaming children, his hands snatching a gaderffii from one of the absent hunter's weapon cache, and staggered to a stop in front of a bloody scene.
A pack of anoobas were attacking the Uli-ahs and the teenaged Tuskens, the vicious canines tearing at the children with yips of pleasure. Boba let out a roar of rage as he leapt towards the closest anooba and slammed the tip of the gaderffii into the anooba's side. The force of the hit sent the anooba off its feet, a howl of agony escaping from its jaws as it slammed back to the ground.
"Find the healer's tent!" Boba barked - or at least he hoped that was exactly what he was saying, the Tusken's spoken language was very easy to mess up with a simple too high or too low pitch in the growl - towards the Uli-ahs. "Krayt's Crest, get the Uli-ahs to safety and then find the hunting party, warn them of the attack. I will take care of the anoobas."
Krayt's Crest, a Tusken only a year or so away from his first spirit hunt, nodded in response as Boba continued to slam the gaderffii into anooba after anooba. The children vanished from view as Boba struck down a third anooba, though not before its chin tusk sliced through his calf.
Boba roared in agony as his left leg wavered under his weight, the blood from his injury turning the sand below him red and stained with copper. Two anoobas attempted to charge past him, after the Uli-ahs, but a well placed slam of the gaderffii into the closer anooba sent it reeling into its companion, both canines falling feet from him.
The anooba pack continued to swarm Boba, snarling at each anooba that was beaten away or outright killed, their tusks and teeth and claws opening wounds in Boba's legs, arms and chest. He was exhausted - he had not exerted himself like this in months - but Boba continued to fend off the anoobas until, finally, the pack leader howled and fled, the few living anoobsa chasing after their leader as quickly as they could.
Relief flooded through Boba as he leaned on the gaderffii tiredly and drew in a deep breath. Anoobas had been troubling the Tribe for years, but never had the pack made such an audacious attack on the Tribe's own camp. He just hoped that the anoobas had learned their lesson, and had not killed any of the Uli-ahs.
"Devourer Slayer!" Hunt In Stars' growl turned his head to the swiftly approaching healer as she skidded to a stop in front of him. He could hear her concern and duly ducked his head as the healer tsked and gestured towards his injuries. "Come, you are injured. That was brave of you to face the pack alone. The Uli-ahs are safe, thanks to you. We are ever more in your debt, Devourer Slayer."
"It's nothin'," Boba slurred with a smile before he slumped against Hunts In Stars and allowed her to help him back to her healer's tent.
"Devourer Slayer is leaving us," Sturdy Storm rumbled as he addressed the entire Tribe before him, his left hand resting on Boba's shoulder, "he has fought beside us for two years and has protected our precious Uli-ah countless times from the anoobas, boars and raiders interested un taking our young. We found him injured after slaying The Great Devourer and vowed a life debt to him, one which we owe twice over for the continued protection of our young ones.
"We will miss you, Devourer Slayer, Protector of Tribe, but we have always known that you would someday leave us. You have earned your gaderffii and the cycler rifle as a warrior of the Tribe of Running Sands, and the teeth of the krayt, for which we hope the spirits shall protect and watch over you."
Sturdy Storm held out a necklace studded with the sharp teeth of a krayt dragon and beaded with a variety of pearls that each Uli-ah of the village had carved for Boba, then placed it in his outstretched hands. The Tribe leader bowed his head to Boba and then wished him luck, and reminded Boba that he would always be welcome in the Tribe's camp.
Boba returned the nod, thanked Sturdy Storm, hitched his new weapons over his shoulder and headed out of the camp. He could hear the Uli-ahs shouting goodbyes from behind him, and the distinctive growl of Hunts In Stars sounded over all other Tribe voices. Boba looked back at the camp that had been his home for the last two years and waved, bidding them goodbye as he mounted the bantha Sturdy Storm had gifted him and turned its head towards Jabba's palace.
Days passed slowly as the bantha carried him to Jabba's palace, and the Slave 1, leaving him to his memories and thoughts.
After the anooba attack, Sturdy Storm and the rest of the Tribe's hunters had accepted Boba into the ranks of the rest of the hunters, and even had allowed him to follow them on the occasional hunt. Boba had grown strong again while hunting krayt dragons and other beasts of Tatooine, his body having finally recovered from its ordeal within the sarlacc. His skin was scarred permanently and his joints and knees creaked and ached, even though he was only thirty-eight years old.
He felt far older than he really was, and he hated it. Sturdy Storm had told him that his armor had been spotted on a marshal from Mos Pelgo two days ago, and it was then that Boba had decided he had to move on. He owed his life to the Tusken Raiders, but he had always wanted to find his father's armor - lest it fall into the most unsavory of hands and tarnished his father's legacy.
To do that, he needed his father's ship, which he hoped was still parked in the back hanger of Jabba's palace. If someone had taken the Slave 1, even for all of the countermeasures against thieves that he had installed within her over the years, Boba didn't know what he'd do.
He'd lost his father's armor, he couldn't lose the Slave 1 too.
On the seventh night of travel, Boba reached Jabba's palace, which was oddly quiet on approach. Warily, Boba positioned his rifle across his lap and slowed his bantha to a stop some ways from the palace's entrance.
"Go home," Boba ordered his bantha, using the growls of the Tribe's spoken language, before he slunk towards the palace.
Using the shadows to hide, Boba slipped past the main entrance, noting the carbon scouring on the durasteel plating, and snuck towards the hanger. He could hear voices arguing pointedly in Ryl, and then the unmistakable sound of flesh pounding flesh echoed through the cavernous hanger. The corridor opened out into the hanger, where two Twi'leks were duking it out, fists flying as they screamed at each other furiously.
Boba snuck past the two fighting Twi'lek guards, eyes shifting between each ship he passed until-
There she was. Dirty and with chipped paint, the Slave 1 sat proudly in the back of the hanger, the mighty firespray ship of his father's. Boba ran a hand down his ship's side, a small pit of worry escaping from him at the closeness of his ship, knowing that she was still here, waiting for Boba.
The Slave 1 barked a warning at him as a small jolt of electricity coursed down the durasteel plating. Her defenses were still functioning, a good sign that she had not been stripped clean of her hardware and parts.
"Easy there," Boba breathed as he found the data panel that unlocked his ship and pressed an ungloved hand on the scanner.
He had programmed the Slave 1 to respond only to his genetic signature, as good of a protection plan against thieves as he could get - so long as none of his father's clone soldiers decided to get their hands on the Slave 1.
The Slave 1's scanner read his palm signature but the ramp did not lower as it normally would, and the ship made an unhappy noise. Boba glared at the panel then looked at his palm, a scowl pulling his lips down at the scarred hide of his palm. He hadn't thought of the scanner being unable to recognize his scarred hand and, once again, cursed the sarlacc.
With a growl, Boba dismantled the panel, removing the wiring and circuit board so that he could hotwire his ship. Once he'd fought past the Slave 1's defenses, the ramp finally lowered with a sharp clang of metal and a dusting of cobwebs. Boba climbed up the ramp, noting the stale air that permeated the ship. No one had been inside the Slave 1 for years, not since he had left her here at Jabba's palace, and he was glad.
"I missed you," Boba whispered as he climbed up the ladder to the pilot's seat, hand brushing dust away from the yoke slowly. Slowly, Boba lowered his frame onto the pilot's seat and flicked the ignition switches on.
The front panel flickered to life, the targeting computer hissing to life along with the ship's readouts: low fuel, life support system rebooting slowly, and a number of missed holocalls. Boba stared at the recorder warily, his gaze shifting towards the two brawling Twi'lek guards at the entrance of the hanger, then back to the unread messages. He hesitated for a moment then played the messages, if only to rid them from his ship's memory banks.
The first few messages had recorded dates from the day he'd fallen into the sarlacc pit, mostly crime lords, one Imperial and a man who looked like he was wearing clone army, asking for his help in hunting down a variety of bounties. Boba deleted those before playing the next message, a message that made him roll his eyes with a frustrated growl - Graballa was always looking to hire him, but the Hutt could never pay the commission Boba demanded. He kept scrolling through calls until the sight of a Trandoshan stayed his hand.
Bossk's teeth were bared on the holorecorder, his eyes narrowed and arms crossed over his chest, the Trandoshan's body twitching and moving ever so slightly. Anyone who didn't know Bossk would assume that he was angry, but Boba knew this was an uncomfortable Bossk - he wouldn't say "sad", but something quite close.
"Hey kid. Heard about what happened on Tatooine. I know you're tough, but..." Bossk hissed and looked away from the recorder, "I hope you're alright, kid. I never told it to your face, but you were like a son to me. I'm proud of you, and I know Jango would be also.
"But," Bossk snarled, his eyes sparking with a challenge, "you better be ready for a challenge when you get out of the sarlacc. Just because you're my kid doesn't mean I will go easy on you. See you around, kid, and may the Scorekeeper watch over you."
When the message ended, Boba couldn't help but notice that his mouth had turned up in the slightest of smiles. "Yeah," he chuckled, "see you out on the hunt, Bossk."
The Slave 1 pinged readiness and, without a second thought, Boba activated the engines. The engines snarled to life grumpily, as if moody at being wakened from her sleep, but soon the Slave 1 was alive and ready to fly.
He had his father's ship safely back in his hands, now he just needed his armor.
Mos Pelgo could barely even be considered a town, with a main street flanked by a few residences and nothing else. Boba had landed the Slave 1 a mile away from the town, not wanting anyone to see his ship and run the risk of them recognizing him. The one good thing about his scarred face, he didn't look like the clones who had terrorized the galaxy any longer - and, soberingly, he acknowledged that he no longer looked like his father.
Spotting a building with batwing doors and scratchy Aurebesh writing stating that it was a "saloon", Boba walked in, his black wool cloak - knitted by the Tribe after he fended off the anoobas - pulled snugly over his body.
The bartender, an older Weequay, looked up as Boba entered the saloon and, in a tone that wasn't very welcoming, pointed to the bar as he spoke. "You're new around here. Fancy anything to drink?"
Boba sat down at the bar and leaned on his right elbow as he tapped the bar with his left fingers. "Do you have any krayt cactus water, by any chance?"
The Weequay raised an eyebrow at Boba's request but nodded nonetheless. "Not many ask for that particular libation around here. Who are you?"
Boba looked down at the bar and let out a sigh before he answered, "Just a simple man making my way through the universe. I've gotten a sweet tooth for krayt cactus in my journeys over Tatooine and, let's just say, the last time I had alcohol, I got these scars."
"Oh," the Weequay gulped, "I see. Let me get that drink for you, it will be just a moment or two."
Boba grunted in response, then turned and looked out the batwing doors to watch the people of Mos Pelgo. Sturdy Storm had informed Boba that the man who had his armor had been using it to defend his home, Mos Pelgo, from raiders and pirates. The Tusken leader had never had a personal run-in with the marshal of Mos Pelgo, but he'd sworn that he himself had witnessed Boba's armor defending the town.
Boba wanted to see the marshal for himself, see him in Boba's armor, judge the man's character for himself. Since he had escaped the sarlacc and lost his armor, all Boba had wanted was to get his father's armor back, but he knew he did not deserve his armor. He had disgraced himself and his father's legacy when he'd fallen into the sarlacc - Boba Fett did not deserve his armor back yet.
No matter how many of the Tusken Raiders' Uli-ahs he saved, Boba did not believe he deserved his father's armor. He was not a Mandalorian in culture, but his father's tales of the importance and cultural significance of his armor still stuck in Boba's head to the day. To restore his reputation, and his father's legacy, Boba would have to earn it back.
When the Weequay proprietor returned with Boba's drink, he questioned the man on the marshal. The Weequay raised an eyeridge before he eyed Boba up and down cautiously.
"You plannin' to start somethin' with Marshal Vanth?"
"No," Boba said with a shake of his head, "I heard about a man in Mandalorian armor out this way, and wanted to see him for myself. Never seen a live Mandalorian before."
The Weequay chuckled at that before he snorted and jerked his head in the direction of the batwing doors. "He sure ain't no fancy Mandalorian, he just bartered that armor off some Jawas. We know he's Marshal Vanth, but the pirates think he's some guy named Boba Fett. We haven't had nearly as many kidnappings or murders since the marshal started wearin' that armor.
"We can actually sleep at night now 'cause of him, and that armor," the proprietor admitted as he cleaned a glass with a dirty rag.
Boba grunted in response, eyes falling to the glass of cactus water as his fingers tightened around the glass. He had never been a Mandalorian like his father, his ten year old self wasn't interested in culture and history or anything that wasn't flying his father's ship, practicing on the gun range or listening to stories of bounties Jango had always told him. Boba never carried the same pride over his armor as other Mandalorians did, as even his father had - Boba cared about the armor because it was his father's, not because he was a Mandalorian or because he was surging with Mandalorian pride.
He wasn't really sure how he felt knowing a different man, unrelated to Jango, was wearing his father's armor but… Boba took a long gulp of cactus water to distract himself from his thoughts, as hurtful and truthful as they were.
Maybe the armor is better served here, in Mos Pelgo. If the marshal is using it to protect his home… isn't that the purpose of Mandalorian armor? To help you protect your loved ones and friends?
Boba was so deep in his own thoughts that he failed to hear the batwing doors swing open, nor the heavy boots that approached him until he felt a presence next to his left shoulder. Casually, calmly, Boba turned his head to the left and froze at the green helmet looking straight at him.
"New here?" The man behind the helmet asked, his question sounding innocent yet Boba could hear the guarded caution in the question.
"Just passing through," Boba growled before he downed the last of his cactus juice, "I'm not intending to stick around long."
The man nodded as he removed the helmet, revealing gray hair, a beard, and kind eyes. "Good to have ya then. Lannek, throw me some spotchka, why don't you? Need a shot after that mess over at the Syko's ranch. If I never see another anooba in my life, I will die happy."
"You got rid of the anooba pack then, I take it?" Lannek surmised, "Good. The Syko's are good people, they ain't been the same since Verse was eaten by the anoobas."
Boba listened to the marshal and proprietor speak, watching the way the marshal kept glancing out the batwing doors, only to wave or smile at a passing resident. He almost smiled when two children, maybe five years old at most and looking distinctly Twi-lek yet human at the same time, ran up to the marshal and loudly greeted him, their hands touching the worn beskar the man was wearing.
It was obvious Mos Pelgo had seen its share of hardships, Boba could see it in the skinny frames and the skittish way the children stared at him before they ducked behind the marshal's leg. The town was damaged, hurting, and they needed someone to protect them. Some instinct told Boba that the marshal was honest, was a good person, and it was clear that the man did not see the armor as a way to brag or to expand his ego.
Marshal Vanth seemed only to see it as a means to protect his town and… Boba was fine with that. He did not deserve the armor, not when this marshal was using it to protect his friends and residents of the tiny town from harm. Jango's legacy, and thus Boba's, would not be tarnished by a man who only wanted to protect his town.
Satisfied, Boba stood, paid for his drink and headed for the batwing doors. Before he could reach them though, the marshal spoke up, his tone cautious yet friendly all in the same breath.
"Are you plannin' to pass through again?"
"No," Boba answered, "I got what I came for. Thank you."
With that, Boba swept through the batwing doors and headed towards the Slave 1. He had his ship and he had made it through the sarlacc, he didn't need his armor to be Boba Fett. But he would be watching Mos Pelgo closely, for a time when he may once again be worthy enough to claim his father's armor back.