As far as space-stops go, the Last Chance Space Station wasn't very
important. Situated on the route between two obscure planets, it boasted
nothing dramatic or exciting. People of political consequence avoided it,
not on purpose, but because they had no reason to stop there. People of
illegal consequence avoided it because there simply was nothing worth
taking advantage of there. As a result, the Last Chance was filled with
people of Little-Consequence-to-Anyone, an unofficial title that suited
them just fine.
Unlike its more sophisticated counterparts, the Last Chance was rather small and boring. On the first level there were docking and storage bays, on the second there were sleeping quarters, a motel, a rent-a-droid service, and a small holo-communications chamber. The third floor mostly consisted of a restaurant, two souvenir shops, and four neon-lit cantinas.
It was in one of these cantinas, known as the Lost Jawa, that Andrew Hyde now sat, contemplating his Dekenbrian Ale and Boba Fett's tardy arrival. The man from Tatooine hunched his shoulders deeper into his cloak. Space was cold, and the small space station did little to warm its occupants. He surveyed the room unsuccessfully for the familiar Mandalorian armor, and then turned his attention towards the small stage in one corner of the room. On it a young woman sang, microphone in hand, while a green-skinned Twi'Lek female coaxed noise out of a strange-looking instrument. The patrons, mostly humanoid, lounged at tables around the perimeter of the room, and several bartender droids manned the circular counter in the center.
Andrew regarded the singer absentmindedly. She couldn't be older than twenty-two or twenty-three, and her accent held a hint of Corellia. Andrew did not know many Corellians, but the ones he did know, he didn't like. He took another swig of his ale, and felt a tap on his shoulder. Turning, he found a tall, tan-skinned man with dark curly hair. The stranger's nearly black eyes never left Andrew as he pointed to the other seat. "Mind if I join you?"
Andrew took a deep breath and moved his hand closer to his blaster. "I'm waiting for someone, er, B-" He stopped, finding the muzzle of the stranger's blaster inches away from his face.
"Please don't be difficult. I just want to sit down."
"Of course," Andrew conceded, folding his hands on the table where the stranger could see them, and attention back toward the stage. The other man sat down and put away his blaster. "But Boba Fett won't be happy with you if you sit in his seat," Andrew added, hoping the infamous name would be enough to shoo the stranger away.
"I'm sure he won't mind, and I'd appreciate it if you didn't throw my name around like that, Andrew."
"Boba?" Andrew gaped at the man in disbelief. He was so young! How could he be Boba Fett, a man of thirty-seven?
The other man nodded. "Do I look that different?"
Andrew looked more closely at his companion. "No...you look that much the same! It's been almost twenty years since I last saw you, but you haven't changed! You're an amazing guy, Boba, but you can't stop time."
Boba Fett turned to face Andrew across the small table. "It has to do with the whole cloning thing," Boba explained vaguely, "They had to genetically alter me so that I wouldn't age quickly. It's an unexpected side effect to the alteration: I don't grow old physically after a certain amount of time. I've been like this since I was twenty-three."
Andrew raised his eyebrows. "Almost makes a guy wish he was a clone. So what have you been up to for the past eighteen years? I don't suppose you've done the normal thing. Wife, kids, home, y'know?"
Boba didn't answer for a minute. "Sort of. Got a kid."
"No wife?" Andrew shook his head in mock disgust.
"Dead," said Boba shortly. Andrew could tell this was not a topic Fett was willing to delve into.
"I had a wife," Andrew began, "but she took the kids and left a few years ago. 'Probably for the better; I'm not a great father figure."
"So what're you doing now?"
"Taxi piloting. Take people where they want to go. Doesn't' pay much, but I take what I can get. I suppose it would be dumb to ask what you do?"
"Yeah. Who doesn't know, anyway?"
"Well, right now, without the whole Mandalorian deal, you don't cut a very bounty hunter-ish figure. Of course, you're still great with a blaster," Andrew added, remembering their short but tense meeting.
Fett's attention was drifting away from his old friend, and Andrew noticed it. "What's wrong?"
Boba looked calmly over Andrew's shoulder. "She's here."
"She?" Andrew started to look over his shoulder, but Boba Fett's gloved hand caught his shoulder before he had so much as turned his head.
"Never mind." He rose suddenly, cutting their visit short. "It was.good to see you again, Drew."
"And you, Boba." As the bounty hunter walked away, Andrew turned his attention back to the Corellian singer and her Twi'Lek friend. Boba Fett had always been an odd guy, he reasoned, and evidently the events of the past eighteen years had not been kind to his old friend. Remembering Boba's curtness when he mentioned his wife's death, Andrew shook his head and looked around the room at the many males of various species. They had probably all lost a loved one. Correction, he sighed, no "probably" about it.
Unlike its more sophisticated counterparts, the Last Chance was rather small and boring. On the first level there were docking and storage bays, on the second there were sleeping quarters, a motel, a rent-a-droid service, and a small holo-communications chamber. The third floor mostly consisted of a restaurant, two souvenir shops, and four neon-lit cantinas.
It was in one of these cantinas, known as the Lost Jawa, that Andrew Hyde now sat, contemplating his Dekenbrian Ale and Boba Fett's tardy arrival. The man from Tatooine hunched his shoulders deeper into his cloak. Space was cold, and the small space station did little to warm its occupants. He surveyed the room unsuccessfully for the familiar Mandalorian armor, and then turned his attention towards the small stage in one corner of the room. On it a young woman sang, microphone in hand, while a green-skinned Twi'Lek female coaxed noise out of a strange-looking instrument. The patrons, mostly humanoid, lounged at tables around the perimeter of the room, and several bartender droids manned the circular counter in the center.
Andrew regarded the singer absentmindedly. She couldn't be older than twenty-two or twenty-three, and her accent held a hint of Corellia. Andrew did not know many Corellians, but the ones he did know, he didn't like. He took another swig of his ale, and felt a tap on his shoulder. Turning, he found a tall, tan-skinned man with dark curly hair. The stranger's nearly black eyes never left Andrew as he pointed to the other seat. "Mind if I join you?"
Andrew took a deep breath and moved his hand closer to his blaster. "I'm waiting for someone, er, B-" He stopped, finding the muzzle of the stranger's blaster inches away from his face.
"Please don't be difficult. I just want to sit down."
"Of course," Andrew conceded, folding his hands on the table where the stranger could see them, and attention back toward the stage. The other man sat down and put away his blaster. "But Boba Fett won't be happy with you if you sit in his seat," Andrew added, hoping the infamous name would be enough to shoo the stranger away.
"I'm sure he won't mind, and I'd appreciate it if you didn't throw my name around like that, Andrew."
"Boba?" Andrew gaped at the man in disbelief. He was so young! How could he be Boba Fett, a man of thirty-seven?
The other man nodded. "Do I look that different?"
Andrew looked more closely at his companion. "No...you look that much the same! It's been almost twenty years since I last saw you, but you haven't changed! You're an amazing guy, Boba, but you can't stop time."
Boba Fett turned to face Andrew across the small table. "It has to do with the whole cloning thing," Boba explained vaguely, "They had to genetically alter me so that I wouldn't age quickly. It's an unexpected side effect to the alteration: I don't grow old physically after a certain amount of time. I've been like this since I was twenty-three."
Andrew raised his eyebrows. "Almost makes a guy wish he was a clone. So what have you been up to for the past eighteen years? I don't suppose you've done the normal thing. Wife, kids, home, y'know?"
Boba didn't answer for a minute. "Sort of. Got a kid."
"No wife?" Andrew shook his head in mock disgust.
"Dead," said Boba shortly. Andrew could tell this was not a topic Fett was willing to delve into.
"I had a wife," Andrew began, "but she took the kids and left a few years ago. 'Probably for the better; I'm not a great father figure."
"So what're you doing now?"
"Taxi piloting. Take people where they want to go. Doesn't' pay much, but I take what I can get. I suppose it would be dumb to ask what you do?"
"Yeah. Who doesn't know, anyway?"
"Well, right now, without the whole Mandalorian deal, you don't cut a very bounty hunter-ish figure. Of course, you're still great with a blaster," Andrew added, remembering their short but tense meeting.
Fett's attention was drifting away from his old friend, and Andrew noticed it. "What's wrong?"
Boba looked calmly over Andrew's shoulder. "She's here."
"She?" Andrew started to look over his shoulder, but Boba Fett's gloved hand caught his shoulder before he had so much as turned his head.
"Never mind." He rose suddenly, cutting their visit short. "It was.good to see you again, Drew."
"And you, Boba." As the bounty hunter walked away, Andrew turned his attention back to the Corellian singer and her Twi'Lek friend. Boba Fett had always been an odd guy, he reasoned, and evidently the events of the past eighteen years had not been kind to his old friend. Remembering Boba's curtness when he mentioned his wife's death, Andrew shook his head and looked around the room at the many males of various species. They had probably all lost a loved one. Correction, he sighed, no "probably" about it.