Mandofic
And now, because you demanded it...Mandofic! Two mandofics, actually. Happy birthday...or should I say, brikase gote'tuur!
Title: Small Talk
Fandom: Star Wars
Prompt: Office, Desk, Brandy
Pairing: Daala and Fett. But not like that. ;)
Rating: PG
Summary: Just a chat between heads-of-state.
Small Talk
Natasi Daala, newly-appointed Chief of State of the Galactic Alliance, looked up as her next appointment entered her office. For once, she had to resist the urge to grin. The visitor stalked into the room with a soft, menacing metallic jangle. He walked like he owned the place, or didn’t care who did, straight to the two chairs in front of Daala’s desk and stopped next to them. He made an imposing figure in his heavy armor bristling with armaments and a host of useful devices. Daala had given instructions that her security forces were not to attempt to ask him to disarm himself, as was required of all visitors (except Jedi, Daala thought with disgust) to the Chief of State. He had left his ever-present hold-out blaster behind, though. Daala interpreted that as a sign of respect for her rather than for regulations; he was still wearing enough weaponry to level the building and its surrounding neighborhood without breaking a sweat.
Daala couldn’t keep her face from curling slightly in amusement at the sight of her assistant, usually completely unmoved, but now looking slightly…ruffled as he grimaced at Daala over her guest’s shoulder. Daala debated whether or not she should tell him that her guest almost literally had eyes-or at least vision sensors-in the back of his head. Maybe later. She nodded for him to speak.
“Er,” he said, “Boba Fett here to see you, ma’am.” His expression was sour. “He has an appointment.”
“I know,” Daala said. She’d been the one to ask for the meeting. Of course she knew. As soon as she’d heard the bounty hunter-turned-planet leader was on Coruscant she’d made sure she had an appointment with him. The proximity was too good an opportunity to pass up. “You can go now,” she told her assistant. “No interruptions.”
He nodded, grimaced again, and disappeared, sealing the door shut behind him. Daala knew that for once no interruptions would be taken literally. Unless full-scale war broke out while Fett was in her office, she’d be left totally undisturbed by the rest of the world, at least if her staff had any say in the matter. If they did have to interrupt, Daala had a feeling they’d be doing it by intercom, far away from the door.
“Hey, Fett,” said Daala. She indicated the chair on the left. “Have a seat. Drink?”
Fett shook his head and sat. He was wearing his jetpack-with-rocket-launcher on his back, so the deep chair wasn’t quite the lush plunge into comfort it usually was. The two chairs in front of her desk looked identical, but one had very soft cushions and the other just looked like it did. Discomfort was one of the tactics she used on people whom she wanted keeping their visits shorts.
“Daala,” Fett said, inclining his head. That was more greeting than one usually got from the terse hunter. “The office seems to agree with you.”
“I had it repainted,” she said, flashing a grin. She settled back in her own chair, abandoning military posture for comfort. She didn’t have to try and intimidate or awe this visitor, and not even stormtroopers fresh out of the academy in the days of the Empire’s height could match Boba Fett for ramrod spines. Daala didn’t bother to try.
“Lovely color,” said Fett, deadpan. The office was the dull, lifeless grey of Imperial service. Daala had lived too much of her life in its confines to find it anything but comforting. And she liked to rub her history in the faces of her former comrades, especially the moffs. Daala hated moffs. To be fair, though, she liked rubbing it in the faces of some of her former enemies, too. Even the ones she respected.
“I think it brings out my eyes,” said Daala, matching his tone. The hunter tilted his helmet in a way that Daala had learned to read long ago as the equivalent to outright laughter in another being. She’d never seen Fett look what might be called relaxed, but he looked comfortably tense, despite the bulky jetpack. She wasn’t interfering in a hunt, then, by dragging him up to the central halls of government. Good. “So what brings you to Coruscant, anyway? Other than admiring my decorating skills?”
“Business.”
Daala smiled coolly. “I don’t suppose you’d like to go have a visit with Tahiri Veila?” she asked. “The business kind of visit.” Daala had plenty of people she could have sent to bring Veila in, or make her disappear, if she’d really wanted to. She could have hauled her in under arrest at any moment, but she was saving that card for later. One never knew when having leverage over Jedi would be useful, but Daala expected to need it sooner rather than later. But as long as Fett was already here…
“I’m busy,” said Fett.
“I’m sorry,” said Daala.
She could practically feel Fett bristling. He didn’t want anyone’s sympathy and especially not their pity, horrific though his current circumstances were. But Daala wasn’t offering condescension. She raised an eyebrow. “Oh come on,” she said, “you know I’d prefer you to be sitting around bored on some little farm and ready to offer discreet and pricey assistance when the Jedi act up.” Her smile was grim. “And you know they will.”
Fett hesitated, then nodded. Apology accepted. He shrugged. “I’m sorry I decided to get creative instead of blasting Jacen Solo’s face off myself.”
Daala leaned back in her chair and stared at the hunter with an appraising eye. “You think you could have taken him?” she asked.
Fett’s reply was cold silence.
Daala raised a hand in surrender. “Okay, you probably could have,” she relented; she’d seen enough evidence of Fett’s talents for handing death to the last people expecting it. “But would you have survived it?”
Fett shrugged. “Uncertain,” he replied.
Daala grinned like a predator. “Then I’d say creative was the way to go. I’d hate for the galaxy to be bereft of your skills during my administration, even if you are busy.”
Fett tilted his head. “Being Mandalore would be pretty ‘busy’ anyway,” he pointed out neutrally.
“I have much bigger coffers than usual,” said Daala, still grinning. “And let’s not rule out the possibility of some…governmental reimbursement. Treaties and trade and the like-whatever Mandalore might require.” She didn’t specify whether she was talking about the planet or the man. She could have meant either, or both.
Fett shrugged again. “Like I said,” he repeated, “I’m busy.”
Daala nodded. “Well, I’m not trying to tempt you into a job right now anyway,” she said. “Haven’t got one for you. Just pointing out that, in case that changes, you might be interested enough in the offer to make it worthwhile for you to at least take my call.”
“Possibly,” said Fett.
Daala smiled wider. The eyes above her grin were hard and cold as space. Tiny lights reflected in them from the overhead glowpanels glittered in them like stars. “Good enough,” said the Chief of State. “Good enough.” She settled back in her chair and propped her booted feet up on her desk. Her grin settled into a smirk, a little sly, a little teasing. “So how’s Mirta?” she asked. “Enjoying married life?”
Fett’s helmet and rigid body posture hid most emotional reactions from view, but now he shifted just a little, surprised. “Small talk?” he asked. He sounded amused, maybe a little bit incredulous-again, the helmet made it hard to tell, but Daala had known the hunter for years. She was a bit better at reading him than the average galactic citizen and besides, he probably wasn’t bothering to conceal it.
Daala shrugged. “The more time I spend in this meeting,” she said, “the longer it is until I have to talk to the usual run of idiots, senators, and moffs.”
“Aren’t those three words for one thing?” Fett asked mildly.
Daala snorted. “See? Your small talk is so much better than the usual crap I have to put up with.” Her face twitched with amusement. “Besides, I bet you can use the practice,” she said. Natasi Daala was one of very few people not wearing a T-shaped visor who had the penchant-and the guts-to tease Boba Fett. “Make it easier when you have to sit and chat with the in-laws, hmm?”
Fett stared at her and said nothing.
Daala grinned, unrepentant. “Come on,” she said, “lose the helmet, have a drink. I’ve got all the security cams turned off in here and the place was scanned for bugs ten minutes before you got here. Scan it yourself, if you want.” She held up her hands. “What’s the harm?”
“I’d think the Chief of State would have more pressing concerns.”
Daala waved a hand dismissively. “If I don’t take some illicit advantage of my new power,” she said, “what kind of a ruler would I be?” Daala had no intentions of abusing her rank, but no one was entirely selfless, and no one could live on duty alone. If she wanted to arbitrarily clear her schedule in the middle of the day for idle chit-chat with a well-known killer and leader of a bunch of dangerous thugs, that was her prerogative. Her underlings would just have to deal with the bizarre whim; that was what they were paid for. “I’m not keeping you from anything important, am I?” she asked when the hunter still didn’t move.
“No,” he admitted. “It’ll be at least another day before I have the results I'm waiting on.” Ah, Daala thought, so he was here to work on the nanovirus problem. Daala wondered if she ought to see if her own people could turn up anything useful that might leave Fett owing her one, or wait and see if he asked for assistance. Well, she could think about it, he wasn't going anywhere until he had the data he wanted.
“So you’re just killing time,” said Daala. She swung her feet off the desk and stood up. She walked over to a small cabinet tucked up against the wall and pulled out two crystal glasses and a decanter of amber colored liquid. “Might as well kill it here,” she suggested. The glasses clinked faintly when she set them down on the desk.
Fett hesitated another minute then shrugged. “Might as well,” he said, reaching up to flick the catches on his helmet.
Daala grinned as she poured. “So,” she said, “how’s Mirta enjoying married life?”
* * *
Title: Moments on Mandalore
Fandom: Star Wars
Prompt: All the alcohols you mentioned, boots, and buckets-which wasn’t on your list, but there’s not a Mandofic in the world that doesn’t have “buckets” as a prompt.
Pairing: Mando’ade
Rating: PG-13 for Mandalorians being Mandalorians
Summary: Beviin relaxes in a tapcaf on Mandalore during the Fate of the Jedi series.
Moments on Mandalore
“Hey, Beviin!” someone called. He turned to look across the tapcaf. “Mandalore got any problem with us accepting government contracts?” A handful of Mando’ade ambled towards him, led by a bulky figure in red armor.
Goran Beviin set his drink down. “Mandlore doesn’t care what contracts you take,” he said truthfully. He’d gotten used to being Fett’s voice when their Mandalore was an absent one before the Vong. Now that absence wasn’t Fett’s choice, but Beviin was still his stand-in dirtside. It wasn’t a hard job. Fett wasn’t a micromanager, at least not when it came to government. Not that Mandos needed that sort of oversight, anyway.
“Even GA ones?” asked a young man in blue armor.
“Doesn’t care,” Beviin reiterated. He took another quaff of buy’ce gal.
“Daala’s all right,” someone else said, an older Mando in green armor with his feet up on a table. He had a nasty burn scar along one side of his face that twisted his features, but the expression on the other side was pleasant enough.
“Pays promptly,” grinned a graying woman in yellow sitting at the next table.
“Chummy with the Mandalore, too,” added a black-armor man from the other side of the tapcaf. He was scouring marks into the table with a long knife. Tables-and chairs and walls and stools-in Mandalorian watering holes were fair game. Leave a few extra credit chits or some gifts in barter now and then, and you could do pretty much whatever you wanted with the furnishings. They were simple, utilitarian, and easy to replace.
“Yeah, Daala’s a jate dala,” the Mando in green said. He laughed at his own play on words. Some of the others joined in, but most groaned. The yellow-armored Mando threw her mug at him. It was empty; no Mando would waste tihaar.
“Copaani mirshmure’cye, burc’ya?” she asked him, her tone half-annoyance, half-amusement. He dodged, chuckling, and waved for the bartender to bring her a new drink on his tab as a peace offering.
“Only if you’re doing the smacking, beautiful,” he said and winked.
She took the glass with a grin. “Chakaar,” she said companionably.
He shrugged. “Not on a regular basis,” he protested, aping petulance. There was general laughter to that one.
“So Daala’s got some jobs on the table, huh?” the Mando with the knife asked the red-armored one who was still standing at Beviin’s table, returning to the point of the discussion.
“Yeah,” said Red, “just wanted to clear it before we negotiated price.” He grinned predatorily. Daala would get her Mandos, but she’d pay well for the privilege. That was how things should be.
Beviin shook his head. “Well, Mandalore doesn’t care who’s paying you, so long as you don’t embarrass us by forgetting to overcharge.” He winked. There were a few chuckles. No one every paid too much for Mandalorian assistance. They just paid for the best.
The young fellow in blue armor spoke up. “What if it’s a Jedi job?” he asked.
“Charge more,” said someone else before Beviin could. He grinned and nodded.
“Be a shame to vape Solo,” commented a Mando in blue-streaked-white. A few heads nodded. They all would if they had to, but Beviin agreed, it would be a shame.
“Yeah, she’s a good kid,” said a Mando about half Jaina’s age.
“For an arutii,” added another.
“And a jetii.”
Everyone nodded. A Mando with vine tattoos climbing up his neck shook his head mournfully. “And she was so useful, too,” he muttered, looking mournfully at a row of corked bottles against the back wall. Everyone laughed.
“Sorry Carid,” said one of the other Mandos standing behind Red. “We’ll try not to break your pet jetii-bottle-opener, but no promises.”
Someone else slapped Carid on the back, the sound a hollow thunk against his metal plates. “Don’t worry about it,” he told the kid, “he needs the exercise anyway. Getting soft.”
Carid slammed his fist into the other’s gut hard enough to double him over despite his beskar. “Yeah,” Carid agreed happily, “soft as a baby’s shebs.” He leaned down and hauled his victim back to his feet, both of them chuckling.
“Not a baby I want to change,” muttered the man with the burn scar. There were shouts of agreement. Carid tried to look wounded.
Beviine enjoyed the sense of jatne manda. If they could just get that osik out of the atmo, life would pretty much be all right. He raised his drink in a toast. “Oya mando,” he said.
The words were a roar as the rest of the bar joined in. “Oya Mando!”
Elek, thought Beviin, ib’tuur jatne tuur.
…ash’ah kyr’amur. He grinned and finished his drink.