Chapter Text
"Hold onto this." Boba's voice is loose and easy with the phrase, but the way he holds the datachip in his outstretched hand is... tentative, at best. It's clearly an item of some importance or value.
Fennec simply stares at him.
"For...?"
"For me. Or for Din, technically."
"I meant for how long, dumbass."
"Oh. I'm not sure exactly. We haven't... figured that out yet."
"Vague, but I'll bite. What is it?" She plucks the datachip from his fingers, rolling it over and inspecting it, despite its outward appearance being fundamentally identical to every other datachip produced.
Boba seems to hesitate for a moment before answering, visibly tamping down the instinct to look over his shoulder first. Fennec narrows her eyes at him.
Valuable indeed.
His tone is noticeably quieter when he continues. "It's related to Din's tribe, his covert. He knows I’m protecting it, so keep it safe," Boba says. "I won't want to keep it on me while we're out hunting."
Fennec nods. She can understand that. If this information included anything regarding such a sought-after group of people, then Boba meeting an unfortunate end in a field surrounded by would-be hunters could be catastrophic.
"Thank you."
She nods again, eyes still roving over the datachip. Boba turns to leave, but stops, and turns back.
"And don't fuck with it."
She's absolutely going to fuck with it.
The heavy layer of encryption on the datachip isn't a surprise.
What is a surprise, however, is that the encryption itself seems to have distinctly different layers, and some more recent than others. The newest one has all the signature marks of Boba's particular encryption style.
Everything below that, all of the older encryption, is entirely different, bearing the hallmarks of work done by an entirely different skill set and on a different array of technology. The implication that Boba had gone back and added his own level of security to data that wasn't even his in the first place is... oddly endearing, and maybe only a little surprising.
Though, the data is for Din after all, so perhaps maybe not that surprising. They've been practically dancing around each other for months now, providing her with a good source of entertainment for how far Boba could be cajoled into action by anything regarding the other man.
But regardless of the oblivious flirting, there's clearly some level of genuine care between the two. The fact that he'd previously offered a ship worth more than its weight in credits to the Mandalorian without batting an eye, simply to see the man be able to freely come and go, had been evidence enough. Hells, she's pretty sure the other Mandalorian has a code to the Slave I now, and if that isn't already practically marriage by Fett's standards she doesn't know what is.
A mild beeping from the console brings her out of her thoughts for the moment, and she turns back to the display. The last layer of encryption falls, safely tucked away to be re-engaged as soon as she's done glancing over the files.
She's expecting data, information, possibly coordinates. All she wants to know is what information is being protected, to know what she's possibly sticking her neck out for here. Nothing malicious or intrusive.
What she isn't expecting is a live holocall.
Oops.
The holo station next to the computer immediately lights up, illuminating the visage of a Mandalorian. While the holo itself doesn't display any color other than a muted blue tone, she can see a shiny glint through the array of pixels, implying something more like Din's reflective armor than Boba's more matte, painted style. Her helmet bears spikes not too dissimilar to that of a Zabrak, and the pose at which the Mandalorian holds herself in the holo is one of careful authority.
But it's not her appearance that catches Fennec off guard.
"Who is this?"
It's her voice. It resonates with a royal lilt and carefully guarded cadence that has Fennec fighting the urge to straighten up in her chair.
"One of Fett's associates," Fennec responds evenly. Hopefully she hasn't upset anyone at Din's covert with this, but she hadn't exactly been expecting a call, of all things. She glances over at her helmet, sitting on a nearby chair. Slipping it back on now might come off as a slight to the other woman, but it feels a bit unbalanced to be barefaced while the other has the full protection of her helmet. Not that she's unfamiliar with the art of schooling her expression as needed.
"Ah." There's a short pause before the Mandalorian speaks again, seeming to consider the response. "I take it you're the one who has broken into the encryption for this chip? Impressive." Despite the complimentary word, the woman's tone remains just as flat and guarded.
Still, she tries not to preen at the not-quite praise of her handiwork, she really does. But she can tell it bleeds into her tone slightly, raising it just the same as the upturned corner of her mouth. "Both yours and his."
"His encryption?" she repeats back. "Fett's?"
Fennec nods.
There's a thoughtful hum from the Mandalorian as she takes in this information. "I seem to have made the right call entrusting it to him, then."
The Mandalorian must clearly know something about Din and Boba's partnership, if Boba obtaining her contact information is anything to go by. The thought of Boba, ever the calm and collected one, most likely sputtering and flailing upon meeting Din's closest equivalent to a family is an extremely entertaining one. She wonders if Din is even aware Boba has been in contract with his covert or not.
Again the Mandalorian seems to pause to consider something for a moment. "And yet... I distinctly do not recall entrusting this datachip to you."
Okay, rude.
But fair.
Fennec crosses her arms, leaning back into the station's chair. The more she hears the Mandalorian talk, the more she wants nothing more than to break that cold, professional exterior and get a glance at what she's truly working with here.
"Fett left it to me for safekeeping while he's out hunting. Didn't want it falling into the wrong hands," she responds idly.
"I see. And you'd consider your hands to be the correct ones? The safest ones?" There's an air of... something to the words, something not quite as regal and uptight, but just slightly. A test, maybe, depending how she responds.
"Of course. I'd like to think I'm fairly skilled with them."
There's another short pause, and she finds herself briefly worried she may have overstepped a little with the quip. Okay, maybe sort-of-kind-of flirting with an unknown member of Din's kind-of-sort-of family was a little off base, all things considered.
However, the Mandalorian continues with no outward indicator that she's caused any effect. A shame.
"Very well." Another brief pause. "Do not contact this line again."
Fennec can't help but raise an eyebrow at that. "You called me."
"Forgive me then, for expecting someone else." There's just an ever so slight edge to the words, enough to make Fennec feel maybe a little guilty for breaking into the datachip in the first place. Maybe.
The Mandalorian seems to take her lack of a reply as response enough, and inclines her head slightly. "Farewell, 'Associate of Fett.'" Again the gentler tone to her voice has returned, at speaking the ridiculous title in place of a name. Perhaps not so uptight and regal, then, after all. " Ret'urcye mhi."
She has no idea what the Mando'a means, but has heard it enough times from Boba to know it indicates at least a well-meaning goodbye. Fennec simply inclines her head in response, and the holo terminal darkens a moment later.
Well.
That was... something.
She turns back to the computer, intent on closing down the chip and re-enabling all of the carefully stored encryption. She hadn't finished perusing the files, or really taken a look at them at all, but she's fairly confident she knows what's at stake here now, and the level of care she'll need to put into defending this information, if needed.
Before that can happen, though, the holo terminal pings. Again. This time with a request for a call, though, instead of being thrust into a live one with no warning. A good sign of forward progress with the mysterious Mandalorian, perhaps, but still baffling.
Fennec taps the button to receive the incoming call, and the visage of the Mandalorian woman illuminates once more on the same terminal that held it just moments ago.
"Still me," Fennec answers immediately. Might as well get it out of the way now, in case the Mandalorian had meant this call for someone else.
"I presumed."
Oh?
"Oh so I'm the intended recipient this time? How's that 'don't contact me' arrangement going for you?"
"Splendidly, so far." Her tone is definitely a lot lighter this time around, less strict and a little looser, but still bearing the same regal lilt. There's another short pause. "I realized I might have use of your... position."
Fennec's eyebrow shoots upwards again at that. There's... no way that was intentional.
The Mandalorian seems to take that as a sufficient indicator to continue, "If you'll have me."
Her other eyebrow shoots up to reach the first in an apparent show of solidarity, surprise evident on her face. Okay, maybe intentional. Again, the Mandalorian continues.
"I have a proposition that I assure you could be mutually beneficial." The smug note in her royal voice is what finally breaks the cracks in Fennec's resolve, causing her to sputter.
Definitely intentional.
"What did you have in mind?" Fennec manages to respond. She should get an award purely for the ability to school her voice back into something resembling a normal tone so quickly.
"Simply a trading of secrets. Information for information." The words are spoken lightly, but Fennec still immediately tenses at them. If this is anything regarding their attempts to manage the small independent chunk of Hutt space that they've hollowed out for themselves, it might be a problem.
Still, she's interested to at least know what cards the Mandalorian is laying on the sabacc table. "Such as?"
"I'll tell you what I know of the more hidden trade routes in your area, and any whisperings I hear that may regard your station. We've had a close eye on the Hutt enterprises for some time, as they routinely had dealings with beskar obtained under unsavory circumstances. I can assume your sector is safe for us, but we still hear many things from the other heads of the Hutt family. This information may prove itself useful in fending off any attempts by them to reclaim this sector."
Fennec blinks, stunned for a moment. That information would be extremely invaluable to both her and Boba, insofar as to make any attempts by the Hutts to reclaim the palace almost moot. Not that they've made any, so far, but the hovering threat that they might has been the source of a vague sense of unease for months now, causing them to simply brace for the when. Having a heads-up would make things much, much easier.
"In return for...?" She asks hesitantly. Surely the price for such information would be high.
Surprisingly, the Mandalorian almost deflates, sighing. Resigning herself to some sort of decision, clearly. "A status update, of sorts." On the palace? It made sense, but Boba probably wouldn't-
"On your Mandalorian associate."
Before Fennec can do much more than inhale to respond, the Mandalorian continues, “Not Fett.” And, after a moment of further hesitation. “Djarin.”
Ah.
"I know it may be some time before he contacts us again, if ever. But I... worry about him." The Mandalorian's voice has gone quiet, her lilting timbre replaced with a more somber note. "The rumors have not been kind, and if I know him as well as I remember, I fear he has been even less so on himself."
Fennec sighs, contemplating her next words. The Mandalorian isn't exactly wrong, but it's been better. It's getting better. Boba's been steadily helping him with whatever problems had plagued Din after giving up his kid, but she truly has no idea where he stands now, or how he's doing. It's not exactly information that he readily shares.
She also didn’t realize that he’s been avoiding talking to his covert, as the request for a status update implies.
She has a vague understanding of what happened, as explained to her by a weary and not-quote-sober Din some time ago, but she isn’t sure how much this Mandalorian knows of it. It'd feel like a betrayal to tell this woman anything that Din wasn't already prepared to tell her himself.
"How much do you know?" she opts to pry instead. It's a delicate game, this.
"I know his creed was broken," the woman responds.
Fennec hisses in a breath between her teeth. She knows very little of Mandalorian culture, but she knows that the man she saw after the imperial cruiser had been utterly broken, grieving both his child and his creed in almost equal measure. Clearly his kid came first, that much was obvious, but the creed must have mattered a pretty damn big amount to come even close to matching that.
"And I know it wasn't the first time."
That gives her pause. Even she wasn't aware of that. Din had broken his creed before? When? Now isn't the time to dig into it, though. This entire deal hinges on her ability to provide insight on Din, and she won't jeopardize it by outing what she doesn't know.
"What else?" Fennec prompts.
"I know he possesses the Darksaber. And that he reunited his foundling with the Jedi. And that he too is now known as one of Fett’s ‘associates,’" she says somewhat dryly, using Fennec’s own description.
"That's all?"
"That's all," the Mandalorian responds.
The grand sum of the Mandalorian's information on Din is simultaneously everything and nothing at once. She seems to know the largest events, the ones Din would be concerned about the most, but none of the gritty details.
Fennec drums her fingers on the table for a moment, out of the holo's view. It's an odd bind she's found herself in. The Mandalorian's request clearly comes from a place of worry and care, but how much does she truly know that? The entire culture is firmly out of her realm of knowledge, only going so far as the scattered information Boba and Din have chosen to share. This could easily damn her friend, or it could help him. Or it could do absolutely nothing at all.
“I’m not worthy of the armor anymore, technically.” Din had told her, in a moment of weakness. “I shouldn’t have even put the helmet back on.”
Was this simply a ploy to regain Din's now-illegitimate armor? A prodding of information and cataloging of weaknesses? They may fend off an army of Hutts with the information provided in their deal only to find a battalion of Mandalorians on their doorstep the very next day.
"I can see you overthinking this," comes the Mandalorian's voice eventually, drawing Fennec out of her thoughts.
"What information would you need from me, specifically?"
"Whatever you would be comfortable sharing. I don't need to know of his recent exploits or plans, if that is what concerns you. I simply wish to know that he is okay."
Fennec begins to say something and then stops, only to continue after a moment anyways. Rudeness isn't much of a qualifier when it comes to making such unorthodox deals, anyways. "Why?"
The Mandalorian is silent for long enough that Fennec thinks to check the connection of the call, but it's confirmed anyways as the woman shifts her weight slightly.
"I feel responsible for him, in a way. For where he found himself." She doesn't elaborate further on what that particularly means, and Fennec doesn't ask.
The rest of the call is succinct, curt, with the tone and professionalism always reserved for business deals. Though it wasn't unkindly so, there was still a soft edge to the way the woman spoke, just barely there.
The exchange was simple, once laid out. The Mandalorian would call as often as she had information, be that a couple weeks or a couple months, and in return she would receive an update on Din. No minimum amount of information was to be expected, to Fennec's surprise. It felt too easy, to simply give nothing more than a curt 'He's fine' and receive potentially life-saving information in return.
The only catch seemed to be that the Mandalorian didn’t want Din knowing she was keeping tabs on his welfare. Interesting.
These types of things always tended to have a hidden turn, an angle to benefit one side at the severe cost of the other, but nothing she could see clearly as of yet. And maybe it truly was that simple, just one Mandalorian's concern for another. All Fennec had to do was take advantage of the boon laid before her, and wait to see where it led.
"I have no information for you on the Hutts currently, it'll take some time to compile what we know as of yet," the Mandalorian says. "But I will contact you again when I have anything of substance."
"I believe we have a deal, then," Fennec says. The Mandalorian bends slightly at that, in the barest indication of a bow. "What should I call you? Seems a bit excessive calling you Mando when we'll already be talking about one."
"I'm an armorer in our covert. The Armorer, to many," comes the woman's -- The Armorer's -- response. Fennec stamps down the urge to be crestfallen over the lack of an actual name, but she hadn't exactly been expecting it. After all, Din still hadn't directly shared his name even to this day, she was only aware of it by proxy.
"And you?" the Armorer prompts.
Well, maybe two can play that game. She leans back in her chair, twiddling the pen she hadn't even realized she'd picked up.
"A sniper of many talents. The sniper, possibly."
In response she gets-- not quite a sigh, a huff? A laugh, maybe? But it's enough to bring a small smile to her face.
"Ret'urcye mhi," the Armorer says again. Fennec, again, simply inclines her head in farewell, not even gracing the Mando'a with a probably awful attempt at pronunciation.
The holo flickers out, and Fennec continues to stare at the now empty terminal for a moment before turning back to the computer. Re-enabling the chip's protections only takes a few seconds, but she finds herself resisting the urge to look for another incoming call.
Pulling the chip out of its socket seems to give finality to the moment, though, and she slips it into her jacket and departs the room.
She'd have time to think about whatever just happened later.
The next call rings in a little over a week later.
She hears the terminal ping faintly from her personal quarters, only a room away. Her insistence on claiming the guard tower as her personal chunk of the palace seems to have gained another benefit, now, beyond having the palace's almost entire array of security & defense functions at her nearby disposal. Boba's quarters has its own litany of protections of course, but Fennec holds the ones that span the entire building.
It's a fairly short call, given that neither of them have much information to give. Fennec doesn't drop any heavy details as per their agreement, but it's difficult to say how someone like Din, with no face to see, is doing without explaining what he's doing. The Armorer seems content with her simple answers, though, and the knowledge that Din is alive and well.
The Armorer provides her own information, which appears to be that the Hutts are doing absolutely nothing. She's hesitant to believe that they're not mobilizing in some fashion or another, but she's without any other resources at the moment to confirm the claim.
Her instincts still tell her that there's every chance this could simply be an attempt to feed them false information, leaving them with their defenses down, but only time would tell.
The call ends much the same way, with another "Ret'urcye mhi," and a darkening terminal. She rolls the words around in her mind, picking apart the beats and patterns of the language.
Boba and Din arrive back from their latest hunting foray a short few days later. Thankfully, they’re in one piece, though she doesn't miss the way Din seems to favor his left leg as they stroll into the throne room.
Fennec glances up from her datapad, sprawled sideways on the throne in an attempt to make the rough stone more comfortable. If Boba has ever felt any sort of way about her taking the glorified chair for herself, he's never mentioned it.
"Anything interesting happen?" Boba asks.
"Not particularly." A flat out lie. Still, "The Pikes sent another scathing letter of condemnation, if you want some light reading."
Boba snorts at that, not looking up from the act of disconnecting his jetpack from its place on his back. "The Pikes couldn't back up their threats against me any more than they could throw me. They're just upset they don't have Fortuna to bully anymore."
Regardless, he still comes over to Fennec's side to glance at the datapad in her hand. "What's this?"
"Last week's movement from the Hutts. Looks like they've been upping their deals in the Molavar system to make up for the deficit here."
"Where's this coming from?" he asks.
"I have my sources."
He doesn't press any further, but she can practically hear the gears turning in his head, underneath the beskar.
Two more calls take place over the course of three more weeks.
It's not until the third call that the Armorer brings -- as she called it -- information of substance.
"They're sending an emissary to your location," she says almost the moment the holo flickers to life. Fennec simply blinks.
"The Hutts have emissaries?"
"Evidently," the Armorer responds, as if perhaps even she didn't know. The concept of any Hutt being diplomatic is certainly an odd one.
Fennec considers the information, drumming her black-painted fingernails on the terminal. Emissary could simply be the Hutt council's brilliant attempt at calling an assassin anything but. Or it could be a genuine attempt to bridge a gap between Fett's budding grasp on the sector and their own, which Boba himself would likely have no interest in accepting.
Or there could be no emissary at all.
"I'll keep an eye out, thank you." Fennec finally responds. The information she has to give on Din in return feels meager, another simple confirmation that he seems to be doing well, but again the Armorer does not complain.
Before disconnecting, the Armorer brings up the possibility of connecting the commlink information to their vambraces. Fennec's more compact hardware doesn't have the tech necessary for holo, but it'll work for just voice calls.
It only takes a moment to set up, but it feels like a step past the odd safety the terminal room has brought, beyond whatever unspoken boundaries they set in this room.
Again, the call ends the same way.
"Ret'urcye mhi."
She mulls over the syllables of it in her mind again, considers rolling them over her tongue. In the end, she thinks better of it and simply nods, before the holo fades.
Ret'urcye mhi.
Some day she’ll ask exactly what it means.
The emissary arrives. It's only a day past the estimate given by the Armorer, and the Twi'lek before her bears the unmistakable crest of the Hutt Council on his clean, pressed tunic.
He also bears the equally unmistakable shape of a blaster tucked along the inner belt of it, hidden carefully by the fabric. That in and of itself isn't particularly worrisome -- even senators and politicians are known for keeping protection on them.
What's worrisome, and perhaps even a little fascinating, is the way with which he glances over his shoulder frequently, as if expecting his shadow itself to sneak up and gut him at any moment. He's not a small Twi'lek by any standard, he's sturdily built and littered in scars from a life well fought that even his almost senatorial garb can't fully cover.
An assassin. Or at the very least a spy, surely.
Regardless, he's clearly not helpless, and not easily startled. Only something sufficiently terrifying would have a man like this on edge. He's currently in the middle of some sort of political spiel, unleashing a truly useless torrent of information about how the Hutt syndicate would improve the sector under a direct partnership, to bring back the prosperity it held before Fortuna grabbed a hold of it.
Fennec scoots to the edge of the throne, resting her elbows on the gaudy armrests as she leans forward. "He's not here, you know."
That at least stops the man's speech in its tracks. "Where is he?" The fact that he doesn't even seek to clarify who they're talking about is answer enough. Boba isn’t here, though. Not right now.
She takes her time before responding, watching the Twi'lek fidget nervously. Sprawling back into the embrace of the throne in even, measured movements is as much of a show of power as it is an attempt to get genuinely comfortable on the unpadded stone, but the emissary doesn't need to know that. "Not here," she confirms simply.
The emissary seems to consider this for a moment, except- no, not considering. Listening. Eyes unfocused, head tilted forward ever so slightly, eyebrows drawing in. It's not as subtle as he appears to think it is.
He's dead before he can do much more than twitch in the direction of his poorly hidden blaster. A quick rundown of his corpse provides the commlink earpiece she suspected, though the line is long-dead even before she crushes the device.
The blaster is a particularly nice model, and she pockets it. She sits on her haunches next to the now former emissary, thinking. He'd reacted to an order of some sort, given through the earpiece, but based on what? He hadn't said anything damning enough to warrant the execution order, unless the Hutt on the other line had simply grown impatient, which was definitely possible.
The Twi'lek would have had no moment to stealthily confirm Fennec's identity to them beforehand, unless...
She rifles through the seams of his cleanly pressed tunic again, avoiding the blastermark she'd scorched directly through the center of the man, and- there. With only a barely noticeable hole for visibility, sewn flush to the collar of the shirt, is a small camera.
They'd seen her.
She crushes that device as well.