Parental Duties
By Rey
Chapter summary: Fennec's relationship with heavy rain is unforgettable and ever-changing.
Chapter notes: I am not wholely okay with this chapter. But Fennec wanted a turn, and… well, her POV turned out like this. I hope you – especially Fennec's fans – will like it. her characterisation is very hard to grasp. And her past is very heavily inspired from In the Palace by the Dune Sea by sithness. This chapter would never be here without this inspiration!
12. Fennec: The Rain
Fenya Shanali was born on a small but wealthy Mid-Rim world that exported many, many things, from mined products – never the raw ore, however – to fluffy down from the ubiquitous native birds there. She was born during a rainstorm, in the first-aid room of the building her mother was partying in, as socially active wife of a very successful exporter of various goods. She was not unwelcome, however, and she knew no hardship for nearly eight years but for her parents' requirement for her to study hard.
She was blessed with parents who showered her with positive attention, too, not only wealth. Her mother called her Fen-Fen and brushed her hair every morning, and her father played with her whenever he was home.
But little Fenya never suspected that her father had many, many, many enemies. They ranged from individuals offended with him figuratively stomping on their feet when trying to win a tender to people envious of the little family's wealth.
Not to mention, the so-called Clone War broke out, then, and the Separatists sought to acquire her homeworld for themselves.
Assassins killed her father, tried to kill her mother, tried to kill her, tried to kill their household staff, tried to loot their wealth. Her mother was fierce and clever, however, and their household staff were dismissed with rich rewards to disperse, to avoid being collateral damage. She provided little Fenya the ways and tricks to liquify and hide and protect assets, although she knew little of how to hide themselves.
And, in the end, it is what killed her, when their luxury yacht was struck during descent from orbit, and neither knew how to pilot a crashing little ship through a fierce rainstorm. Most of the escape pods had been demolished when the concussive missile hit, and the rest but for one had been lost during the descent. Little Fenya was stuffed into that last escape pod, and the pod was jettisoned before the yacht struck earth.
She never found the wreck, afterwards.
A flashflood brought her pod far, far away, and her "rescuer" turned out to be a Black Sun goon who thought he could profit from selling a little, pretty girl to the highest bidder.
It was all a fight for survival and freedom, after that, and "Fenya Shanali" the sole heir to a wealthy business empire was gradually but irrevocably replaced with "Fennec Shand" the skillful, mysterious assassin.
Ironically enough, her current life – hitched to Boba fett the famous bounty hunter in repayment of a life debt he never asked for – is not all fight for survival. Or at least not yet, because they are here, having retrieved his armour and ended up keeping company with the Mandalorian they were hunting, instead of taking Jabba's old palace and operations as theirs as planned.
Well, keeping up with the Mandalorian's many, many, many little tagalongs can perhaps be counted as a fight for survival. But they are relatively tame at present, anyway, and nobody bothers her, and nobody even seeks to get close to her, so it's fine, it's just fine.
…Despite the fact that it is now raining, hard, like the scans and scant information on Boba's database predicted for this part of this Inner Core world, and half of the huge changes in her life began with a heavy rain.
Huh. What might prevent it from changing now? What will happen? Will it be good or bad?
`Can I prevent it? Will I?`
She forces herself to settle calmly down by the entrance to their little, hastily erected, hurriedly secured base made of "humanely hewn" logs from surrounding trees, woven fronds from the undergrowth, tarps and ropes and durasteel supports from the ships, stones from the base of the cliff that makes up one side of this large, glorified lean-to, and quick-tanned leather from the game they hunted so recently. The "entrance" is in actuality just a small section of wall that is ordinarily open, not tied to the wooden floor and stilts, but it calms her nonetheless, however slightly, to position herself beside this egress point.
She can get out quickly if need be, at least. She might even be able to bring a few of the kids with her. Boba can survive by himself. he doesn't need her. Not in this. After all, he had been surviving by himself before he met her – by help of the tuskens, perhaps, but still. He might even be able to bring a few more of the kids if they have to vacate this little spot as soon as possible.
Come to think of it again, four or five of the kids seem old enough, mature enough, competent enough, resourceful enough to be trusted with getaway plans, and they might be able to bring the rest with them.
It is unexpectedly… comforting. Especially when the wind picks up, flinging fat raindrops endlessly against the tarp walls and roof of their shelter, and various other noises join in the fray from outside, and the shelter begins to shudder and sway continuously.
`Fierfek!`
What happened to little Fenya Shanali in the end must not happen to any of these kids.
And, with that thought in mind, she stirs and sits up and looks round, gauging the attention of the kids and what they might be doing, hoping to call them to heed her, hoping to… well, she does not know what she will do next, but at least something.
And she finds that, surprisingly, they do not seem overly bothered about this downpour. Discomfited, yes, probably with all the loud noises and the constant swaying, but otherwise… not.
The trio of young Mandalorians in full armour huddled together nearest her, back to back, are even totally still, leaning against each other, probably asleep.
She feels… awkward. And self-conscious. And insulted. By herself.
`Am I weaker than they are? Am I overly superstitious?`
She catches the eyes of the little kid seated on the Mandalorian's lap across the shelter alongside two others.
The clone.
Like Boba.
Like the Republic soldiers from the war during her childhood – the Clone War, they said.
And he looks back at her with understanding warm in his eyes. Unjudging. Inviting. As if he would say, `I'm used to this, but I don't like this. Let's dislike this together.`
It is… nice. Surprisingly. And encouraging. Albeit still rather humiliating to her.
Sad, too, in a way.
`If Boba is like this, and this kid is like this, were their genetic brothers like this, too? Why did they go to war for the Republic, then? Were they like me, forced to fight?`
It only pushes her to know more, to know these kids, to arrange something better for them, to bring them away from this aweful planet, this aweful rain.
She is beginning to see what could have made Boba decide to stay with this ragtag bunch, in fact. Aside from his damned honour to repay the return of the armour, that is. And that little girl he contemplated to apprentice, too.
`Well, I could begin with my sniper, maybe?`
She drags her gaze away from the kid, nodding in farewell, and lets it drift to where she noticed her quarry last: near the crates of rations at the far end of the shelter, huddled with two other boys.
And he comes to her, weaving carefully but quickly past the small huddles that have formed on the floor of the shelter, when he catches her eyes, leaving the huddle after exchanging soft words with the other two.
`So perceptive. So obedient. A runaway born slave? Child of very strict parents? Raised in military settings and looking to me as a superior?`
She knows how to deal with runaway born slaves in various capacities. She knows how to deal with military brats. She knows how to deal with dogmatic, cold, narrow-minded sleemos who seem to have been raised by overly strict guardians. But this….
It is different, somehow. He is different.
`Is it how the Mandos pick up the right kids to be theirs? Am I ready to be a mother? Am I even willing? I am not mother material, besides!`
She has no clue what to say or do, consequently, when the boy settles right across from her, not too close but not too far either.
And he waits. He waits for her to say or do anything. All calm and curious and attentive and patient.
Not the action of a boy, that. A teenage boy, no less.
`Freaky. But am I not freaky in my own way? Aren't we all?`
This bit of realisation, of equality, of kinship is what makes her talk, in the end. And what she says – asks him – is, "You think this is a good time for us to learn bits about each other? Wanna introduce yourself to this bunch, kid?"
The thing is awkward as all hells, as stupid, as possibly meaningless. But it will hopefully distract her, and will – just as hopefully – help bridge the conversation to preparing them all for just-in-cases.
And, for those two, she will do a lot, suffer a lot.
And, blessed be all the gods in the universe that she has no faith on, the kid obliges.