This is a short little story I wrote during flex at school yesterday when I was undergoing similar...difficulties. Fett doesn't belong to me, and neither do any other allusions within the story—they're all Lucas's—although I really wouldn't mind the armor...ahem. The "affliction" isn't mine either, and I hope that I never suffer from it again. Ever. All right, enjoy...
"A Bad Day for Boba Fett"
A litany of some of the worst curses Boba Fett had heard in his years on the job—and there was quite a variety to choose from—ran through his mind. They were interrupted by a short, sharp spasm of his diaphragm, which started him off on an even worse tangent. Outside the opaque black T-shaped visor of his battered helmet, of course, he gave away no sign of either his discomfort or his irritation. In fact, he held himself so rigidly within his armor that it was doubtful anyone without mechanically enhanced viewing would even see the slight jerk his body was engaging in. That did little to mollify the hunter, however; his durasteel-cold blood was still boiling with rage. The rage was directed at three things: first of all, there was himself. He had read all the files on the creature, he knew its penchants and its proclivities. Yet somehow, he had come in here brazen and foolishly enough to think that he would somehow be immune to its tricks, using only his helmet-filter's standard settings. His overconfidence infuriated him. That was what got people killed—shoddy work and stupidity. That he was enduring nothing more painful than what he was had nothing to do with his skills or precautions, and everything to do with luck. And Boba Fett did not like relying on luck.
He was, of course, also angry at the creature itself; if the stupid thing wasn't such a groveling, cowardly piece of slime, it wouldn't have had the chemicals and poisons set up in the first place. For that matter, it wouldn't have retreated here and be lying quivering on the ground in front of him right now if it had had the courage to fulfill its obligations in the first place, or the guts to simply face Fett and die. But no, it had to be not only a coward, it had to be stupid. And Fett had to be even stupider. Far more than he was angry at the merchandise, Fett was angry at himself. How he could have allowed himself to step into such a pathetic stratagem in the first place...?
Then, of course, Fett's anger was directed at the action that was causing the entire problem to begin with: his own reaction to the gas. There were many things in the galaxy that Boba Fett hated, but few came even close to his displeasure at loosing control. Loosing control of his own body, therefore, was quite possibly the worst thing that could happen. Fett waited, timing the spasms; no sense in letting the sniveling creature know that it had gotten to him. No sense in letting anyone know that he was not immortal; just skilled. No sense in dealing the painful blow to his reputation—one of the most fearsome weapons he carried—that this occurrence would if it ever got out. And so he waited, letting the merchandise sweat, and then spoke quickly, in a short burst, so that the spasm would not interrupt him:
"You. Come now." He clamped his jaws shut and swallowed the next short, sharp jerk, forcing it down. He waited another moment, to be sure that he had the timing right, then continued: "Move." He gestured with the blaster rifle held tightly in his right hand, and the creature crawled slowly to its wobbling feet.
"But I—I—I'm innocent! Fett, you must believe me—"
"Don't care," the bounty hunter replied coldly, carefully in between jerks of his rebellious body. "Been paid." He waited a moment, then finished: "You're coming—" he stopped just in time, letting the twitch of his diaphragm seem like nothing more than a pause for suspense. "Either way."
Fortunately, the creature was a coward. A cold, dangerous glare from his expressionless helmet, and it crumbled. Fett grabbed the gray collar of its sweat-stained garments and dragged it upright. He sent it moving with a shove, and followed its progress carefully with the barrel of his blaster. He couldn't wait to get this thing into the Slave and locked in a holding cage. Then he could retreat to hyperspace and fight off this horrendous poisoning. It was really a pity that his employers had specified that he take the Imperial alive; he would have sincerely loved to kill it for what it had done to him with its stupid gas. He was very tempted to just kill the creature. Slowly. And painfully. He wouldn't have minded loosing the credits. But once he accepted a job, he saw it through to its conclusion. Whatever his feelings about the merchandise. And his feelings for this particular merchandise were far from generous, after inhaling that gas, and dealing with his body's unexpected reaction to it. Another spasm jerked him as he slammed the doors of the holding cage shut, and he scowled.
Boba Fett absolutely hated the hiccoughs.