Author's Note:
Wanted to get the first chapter up in time for May the Fourth, managed it by "I am the Seventh," lol. If you enjoy this beginning, I've got several more chapters on their way soon.
Thanks for reading!
-Gatefanwho
Episode 1: The Twin Puzzle
Chapter 1
Episode 1: The Twin Puzzle
Chapter 1
Chalmun's Spaceport Cantina, or just 'The Cantina,' as it was usually called by the locals, was packed to the brim on Boonta Eve.
Twilight shone on the sandstone walls of the doorway and spilled into the cantina, illuminating over a hundred patrons crowded into the small space while droid bartenders whirred busily to serve all of them.
Humans, Bith, Twi'leks, Duros, and many more sentient species laughed, chatted, joked, and basked in the generally jovial atmosphere of the evening.
But like most situations where crowds and booze were involved, things could tip in a bad direction quickly.
The conversation near the doorway fell suddenly silent. The silence spread as other patrons glanced up from their drinks or their friends to see what was going on. Hundreds of eyes focused on the man who had just stepped inside.
He wore black dress pants and a maroon, velvet suit jacket over a white, frilly, zip-up shirt. His dark dress shoes shone with each of his deliberate steps.
His curly hair had turned white but still appeared full and healthy. His face was lined with the beginnings of age but also handsome, with a prominent nose and piercing eyes.
The man strode up to the bar, seemingly oblivious to the stares or the hushed crowd he had caused, and sat on the only empty stool.
He stared grumpily over his prominent nose at the droid bartenders and wrapped his fingers on the counter.
Patrons began turning back to their conversations, starting to lose interest in the man and his odd clothing choices.
"Excuse me?" the newcomer called to one of the bartenders. "I say, excuse me, how long does one have to wait to get service in here?"
The nearest droid rotated its elongated head.
"Customers are served on a first-come-first-service basis," it droned. "You are currently customer twenty-seven in the queue and will be served accordingly."
"Twenty-seven?" the smartly-dressed man guffawed. He rested his head on one fist and sighed. "This day keeps getting better."
A Weequay, who had been watching the man very closely this entire time from a shadowy corner of the room, stood up and wound his way to the bar. He tapped the short, balding human sitting next to the newcomer on the shoulder. The bald patron looked up at the Weequay, saw the expression on his face, then stood up and walked away without a word.
The Weequay sat down and turned toward the newcomer.
"Nice clothes you got there," the Weequay commented.
"Thank you," he told the Weequay simply.
"You don't often see clothes like that around these parts," the Weequay continued.
Nearby patrons seemed to spontaneously decide they wanted to sit somewhere else. They began standing and drifting away, leaving the seats around the newcomer and the Weequay empty.
"Is that so?" said the man, turning to face the Weequay fully. "You'll have to forgive me. I'm new around here. Only just arrived."
"A blind bantha could see that," the Weequay snorted. "It could also see that nicety-nice clothes like yours probably have nicety-nice credits in their pockets."
"' Nicety-nice?'" the newcomer repeated incredulously. "What are you on about?"
The Weequay leaned closer, grinning with rows of yellowed, crooked teeth.
"I got...released from my membership in the Pirate Nation a few rotations ago," the Weequay breathed. "Currently unemployed."
"Yes?" the man murmured. "Hard luck, old chap."
"An unemployed pirate like myself could use some monetary help, if you catch my meaning?"
He leaned even closer.
The man did not pull away. Instead, he patted the Weequay on the shoulder.
The Weequay eyed the pat with an expression of shock on his leathery face.
"I'm sorry you've come upon hard times, but I don't have any money that you could use," the man said. "In fact," he added quietly, "I intend to scramble the robot's brain with it comes time to pay. Just for a second. I don't make a habit of it, but it's been a long day."
He raised his voice back to a normal level. "Perhaps someone else in here could help you out."
The Weequay shoved the man's hand off him.
"Do you think I'm stupid?" the Weequay demanded. "You come in here dressed like that, and you tell me you've got no money?"
Now the man did pull away, leaning back casually on his stool.
"I said nothing about your IQ, my friend. But I'm telling you the truth."
"Let's try this again," said the ex-pirate.
He whipped a long-barreled blaster into view in the blink of an eye and aimed it at the man's chest.
Gasps resounded from nearby patrons, but none of them moved to intervene. The cantina crowd mostly went on about their business. Apparently, a human male dressed in a fancy, maroon suit was unexpected, but a drawn blaster was still quite common in this establishment.
"I tell you I need credits, you slip me some," the Weequay spat. "Go ahead."
The man folded his arms.
"My dear fellow, you have made a serious mistake, I'm afraid," he said.
"Oh I have, have I?" sneered the Weequay.
"Indeed. You have tried to rob a master of Venusian Karate!"
In a flash, the man's hand whipped out and knocked the blaster aside, while his other hand chopped down, straight onto the Weequay's neck.
The Weequay stared at the man's hand on his neck, then up a the man.
"I say..." the man mumbled, looking confused.
He chopped down again. Then a third time. The Weequay kept staring at him.
"Hmm, well, I always forget that Aikido is more of a lottery the further I get from Earth," the man said with a grimace.
He made a grab for the blaster, but the Weequay yanked it away and then jabbed it higher, aiming directly at the man's head.
"Credits," the Weequay ordered. "Now."
The man stared down the barrel of the blaster with a deep frown.
"Oh dear..." he mumbled.
"Is there a problem in here?"
The synthesized voice broadcast from across the room.
Standing in the doorway was a man in Mandalorian armor. He wore a blaster pistol in a holster on his hip. His green and red armor flashed in the light of the setting suns.
A whispered name spread across the cantina, repeated over and over again.
Boba Fett.
"No problem if you don't make one!" the Weequay called. "Move along, Fett. This isn't Mos Espa."
Boba wandered slowly into the cantina. A hush fell among the crowd again.
"I came for a drink," Boba said through his helmet. "And I intend to have one."
The Weequay did not lower his blaster. He glared at Boba as he approached.
The newcomer glanced back and forth between them thoughtfully, as if he'd forgotten he still had a weapon pointed at his head.
Boba came to a stop a few paces from the bar.
"Problem is, you're in my seat," said Boba.
The Weequay's gaze darted to the pistol at Boba's hip.
"Go ahead," Boba said. "Try it."
"I'll let my friends try first," said the Weequay.
Four patrons sprang from the chairs around the room.
Boba drew his blaster in a flash and gunned down the first of the four, a Rodian, before he fired his first shot.
A blaster bolt pinged off Boba's beskar cuirass. He whipped his pistol in the direction of the shooter and fired a single energy bolt through the human male's chest.
Now the Weequay fired at Boba, almost point-blank. Boba stepped aside, narrowly dodging the shot, which sizzled onto the wall near the exit.
Boba fired two rounds straight into the Weequay's skull. The ex-pirate slumped lifelessly onto the bar.
The remaining two attackers, both horned Devaronians, dropped their weapons and raised their hands over their horned heads.
Boba motioned at the entryway with his pistol.
"Out."
They scurried as fast as possible across the room and through the exit.
"Maintenance," one of the bartenders spoke. "Maintenance. Maintenance."
A couple of BLX labor droid droids emerged and dragged the bodies into the street.
Boba holstered his pistol and stepped up to the bar.
"Droid," he stated to the nearest bartender, "One Nova Blaster." He lifted a hand. "With Corellian brandy."
"Right away," replied the droid.
The man in the suit out his hands in frustration.
"Excuse me?" he huffed. "He only just got here."
"And just saved your life," Boba said to him as he sat down. "I think that deserves getting served first, don't you?"
The man glared grumpily at him.
"You just slaughtered three people."
Boba stared at him silently from behind his helmet for several seconds.
"They shot first," Boba replied.
"That's factually inaccurate."
"Maybe so, but they were going to. These aren't the Core Worlds."
"Core…?" the man began. "Never mind. I strongly disagree with your methods, but I will acknowledge that if you hadn't intervened, I...would have been in quite a bit of trouble."
"Very big of you to say so," Boba said sarcastically.
He reached up and removed his helmet, revealing a hairless face with dark skin, a strong jawline, and eyes as hard as the beskar he wore.
He set his helmet on the bar.
"I am Boba Fett," he said.
Even without broadcasting through his helmet, his voice carried an almost metallic edge.
The other man sighed. He extended his hand.
Boba looked at it for a few beats before grasping it in a handshake.
"Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr…Fett. I am the Doctor."
Boba raised an eyebrow.
"Doctor...who?" he prompted.
"Just 'The Doctor.'"
A droid's spindly arm placed Boba's drink on the counter.
"All right..." Boba said. "I passed a Gungan bard on the way here, so that's not the strangest thing I've heard today."
He lifted his glass and took a sip.
"So, where are you from exactly...Doctor?" he asked while his eyes scanned the room.
The Doctor, meanwhile, was watching Boba.
"Nowhere you'd know about, I assure you," the Doctor said with a tinge of bitterness in his voice. "I'm very far from home."
"And what brings you out here?"
"It's a long story. Let's just say I'm on a sort of...probation."
Boba glanced over at him.
"You broke the
law?"
"I like to think I keep the spirit of the law, just not always the letter."
Boba took another swig and watched the Doctor.
"Mmm," Boba murmured thoughtfully.
One of the droid bartenders rotated in front of the Doctor.
"What can I get you?" its synthetic voice croaked.
"Finally!" the Doctor breathed. "I'll have some sparkling Prosecco."
Both the droid and Boba stared at him.
"We do not carry that beverage," said the droid.
"What?" the Doctor exclaimed in obvious disdain.
Boba's lips twitched up in a microsecond of a smile.
"Doctor," he said quietly, "have you not taken a look at this place since you walked in here? Whatever that drink is, it sounds much too special for Tatooine."
The Doctor folded his arms and seemed to sulk.
"Do you have any recommendations?"
Boba sized him up again.
"Hmm. I think I do." He turned to the droid. "He'll have a Bespin Fizz. On me."
Without a word, the droid buzzed off to make the drink.
"I thank you, but I hope I don't regret asking," the Doctor said.
Boba took another gulp and said nothing.
"What about you? What is your profession?" asked the Doctor. "And why do you gallivant around in...all this?"
He gestured at Boba's armor.
"Gallivant? Says the man wearing a fancy suit on a desert planet." Boba took another drink. "My 'profession' used to be simple. Lately, it's gotten complicated. And the armor comes from my father. Old habits are hard to break."
"No argument there."
At that moment, a tall glass with steamy vapor wafting off the top and a sparkling red liquid inside plunked down in front of the Doctor.
"Will there be anything else?" asked the droid.
"No, this is fine, thank you," the Doctor replied.
He lifted the glass and studied it dubiously. The red liquid glittered in the dim light.
"Well Doctor, give it a try," Boba said. "Goes straight to your brain while dressed up so fancily it borders on ridiculous."
Boba took another swig of his drink and looked at the room.
"Perfect drink for you," he added in a mumble.
"Is that so?" the Doctor asked with hooded eyes.
The Doctor studied his drink one final time, shrugged, and took a sip.
"Hmm," he said, smacking his lips lightly, "I say, that's not half bad."
Boba chuckled into his drink.
As the evening wore on, Boba and the Doctor chatted.
Anyone watching from a distance would have thought the two of them were engaged in small talk.
Those sitting closer, however, knew that the stranger and Fett were locked in the most subtle form of verbal sparring they'd ever heard.
Each of them did his best to pry for information about the other, all while acting as casually about it as possible. However, they each matched the other in skill, so this hours-long conversation resulted in the Doctor learning a wealth of info about the minutia of Tatooine, and Boba gaining a cursory understanding of Earth history entirely out of context, but neither man gleaned any further meaningful info from the other.
As they talked, the drinks kept coming, courtesy of Boba. Without a word, the two seemed to mutually agree in trying to outdo the other in alcohol consumed. One drink after another, yet neither man seemed intoxicated.
Finally, in the early morning hours, with the cantina mostly empty, the droid bartenders refused to supply any more beverages.
"Even your considerable tab has reached its limit," the droid droned to Boba.
"What?" Boba demanded. "The Daimyo of Mos Espa's credit is no good here?"
"According to the holos, you are not a Daimyo any longer," the droid replied.
Boba took a final swig from his glass, slammed it on the counter, and stood.
"It's been a pleasurably unproductive evening picking your brain, Doctor," he said, "but if the drinks are no longer flowing, I see no reason to stay here."
The Doctor brushed his finger across the lip of his empty glass.
"I feel the same, more or less," the Doctor said.
He also stood up.
Boba eyed him up and down.
"Where are you staying?" Boba asked.
"Oh, I've got a small unit not far from here."
"Well, what do you say I walk you there? It would be unwise for someone in your...colorful attire to be walking the streets alone at night, especially on Boonta Eve."
The Doctor placed a hand to his mouth thoughtfully.
"Very well," he said. "Why risk it? I could do with some rest after the day I've had."
Boba nodded silently at him.
The two of them walked out of the cantina and into the cool Tatooine night.
"...and that's why it seems like such an impractical conveyance," the Doctor said as they rounded an empty street corner.
The only light came from Boba's helmet, its beam illuminating the dusty road and silent buildings.
"When you're in the middle of battle, a jet pack seems very practical," Boba countered.
"Yes, but how many of your people have you lost just to training accidents?" the Doctor pressed. "Even if they weren't killed, surely the recovery time for first-degree burns in that region of the-"
"They are a capable people, Doctor," Boba cut him off. "I may not consider myself a Mandalorian, but I learned their proud and fierce traditions from my father, and I have great respect for them."
The Doctor held his hands behind his back.
"I see. Fair enough."
"Now, lightsabers on the other hand," Boba said. "Those result in a lot less accidental maiming than they should..."
The Doctor had suddenly jogged forward. He skidded to a halt in the corner of the street and stared at an empty alcove.
"No, no, this can't be!" he moaned.
He raked his hands through his white hair.
"What is it?" Boba asked as he stepped up beside him.
"My...unit! I left it right here! Now it's gone!"
"Your unit...is gone?"
"Yes! Yes!"
Now the Doctor was darting left and right on the street, staring frantically into alcoves and alleys. He carried a spindly flashlight and swung its beam in all directions.
"Where could it have gotten to?" the Doctor moaned.
Boba watched him.
"Doctor...where did you get that flashlight?'
"In my pocket," the Doctor said with a dismissive wave of his hand.
Boba cocked his head slightly at that.
As the Doctor continued sweeping the street with his light, Boba walked about fifty meters to the end of the street, where the buildings melted abruptly into the desert. His own light drifted over the ground for a few seconds.
"I think I discovered your problem," he said.
"What?" the Doctor questioned as he hurried over to him.
Boba pointed at the tracks in the sand.
"Jawas, by the look of it," Boba said. "Anyone foolish enough to park a trinket this close to the outskirts of town shouldn't be surprised if Jawas wander off with it, especially during Boonta Eve."
"Now listen here," the Doctor said, wagging a finger at him, "I am anything but foolish. I didn't park my unit, those who exiled me here did!"
He sighed and seemed to deflate.
"I'm sorry," he added. "I shouldn't take things out on you."
Boba watched him silently from behind his helmet.
"Tell you what, Doctor," he began, "I have some relations with the Jawas. We're not exactly friends, but I know how to deal with them. If we leave now, we might be able to reach them in my ship before they dismantle your unit for parts."
The Doctor folded his arms.
"Ha, they won't be able to do that," he scoffed.
"You don't know Jawas," Boba replied. "Come on."
They strode quickly through the mostly-abandoned spaceport.
"I appreciate your help, good man," the Doctor said, "but can I ask why you're giving it?"
Boba looked over at him.
"Honestly? I'm bored, and I'd like to know what piece of equipment is big enough for you to live in and also light enough for those Jawas to cart off."
"I see," the Doctor said with a frown.
"Here we are," Boba said.
He walked over to a ship about twenty meters long, its engines facing the ground and its narrow body pointing slightly upward. The craft resembled a bird of prey on the verge of taking flight.
"Quite the impressive design," the Doctor said, slowing down to admire it. "What do you call it?"
"Slave One," Boba answered as he approached the ramp.
"I beg your pardon?" the Doctor asked in a shocked tone.
Boba stopped, leaned forward, and sighed wearily.
"I mean, Firespray Gunship," Boba murmured.
"Oh, well," the Doctor said, "in that case, quite a fitting name."
Boba shook his head.
"Come on, Doctor, let's get this trinket of yours back."