Bad Puns and Awful Smells

[Darven]

(OOC: If you want in, contact me first)


There were times when wearing a sophisticated helmet with a filtering system that could distinguish between lethal and dangerous substances, and harmless ones, was an advantage; designed to keep its wearer from any harm, it let only such smells and substances in that were natural, and was unerring and unchangeable in this matter.

Which was an unfortunate downside to it. In a place like an undercity market, with thousands of creatures of all kinds of species pressing by, being able to set the HUD's filters' danger levels to something more bearable would have been useful.

The stench was horrible.

Nar Shaddaa in itself was bad enough, its streets so filthy that the hawkbats they had once introduced to it in a desperate bid to rid it of the infestation of armored rats the lower levels were suffering from had all died shortly after arriving, poisoned by something in the brackish water at the bottom of the filth down there. Or maybe they'd just got a lungful of the noxious fumes erupting every now and then in bubbles from collapsing structures far beneath the livable areas, where ancient fuel-processing factories had long been overbuilt by newer buildings. The pollution in the air - so some claimed - had started when the Hutts arrived 25 millenia ago, and remained along with them.

In this place, it all mixed and mingled with the body excretions of a thousand different species, however. And his HUD painstakingly only filtered out the lethal gases, and left the rest to permeate the interior of his helmet so that after a while he could even taste it on his lips when he wet them with his tongue.

For a moment the bountyhunter felt a strong urge to return to his ship.

Then he pushed the compulsion aside and moved forward, setting one foot after another against the throng of shoppers. His goal was on the other side of the crowd, unfortunately, and had no other access; the place was a dead end, and it was just his luck that someone had picked it to host this day's black market venue.

On the other end of the otherwise grimy and badly visited plaza a slanted, neon pink sign strobed irregularly over a cavernous door: "Progga's Hut - Bar & Eatery". When Darven had finally squeezed through the crowd - taking note of the fact that no one seemed intimidated by the sight of a Mandalorian in full armour here - he saw that someone had etched a comment into the stone underneath the sign: "eatery my ass!", and under that was scribbled in black: "never trust the food in a place that has a bad pun over its door".

Darven smiled. It was good to be home.

[Agen Riko]

It was one of those days - the sort of day when you wondered why the hell am I here? In the immediate instance, he knew exactly why. This wretched, stinking, disgusting patch of planet was - apparently - home to a bar where he stood a reasonable chance of finding decent work.

Moon, his father's voice corrected in his mind. Disusting patch of moon.

That in itself was annoying - his subconscious always corrected him in the voice of his overbearing father. Of course, further annoyance was drawn from the fact that the voice was correct, as his father had normally been. It was one thing to be pestered by the voice he'd run away from; another thing when that voice made a good point. That was the broader answer to the 'why am I here?' question - the reason why he was looking around the wretched underbelly of Nar Shaddaa instead of doing something constructive back home on Ruhe. Funny how you didn't appreciate the good things about home life until you found yourself in an even deeper shithole.

A hand rose to his face, and clamped down to shield the air filter that his armour (http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Image:AT-RT_Driver.jpg) - an antique from the Clone Wars - provided. That actually made the smell worse, if that was even possible; the smell was probably soaking into the fabric of his gloves. Fantastic. Cursing under his breath, he shoulder-barged his way past the last of the crowd, and stepped into the bar that the GPS in his helmet informed him was his destination.

The bar itself was - if possible - worse than outside. Granted, air filtration kept the worse of the outside smell at bay, but the atmosphere inside - so thick with stimsmoke that it loitered like a fog - was hardly much of an improvement. And somehow, even with the presence of artificial lighting, the interior managed to be darker than the city depths, surrounded by the epic towers of Vertical City, had been.

Agen unleashed a sigh that was thankfully consumed by the ambient noise and his helmet, before tugging the latter off to reveal his face. A barman appeared, looming from the stim-fog and dimness. "A pint of something cheap and alcoholic," Agen requested, tossing a credit chit across the sticky, beer-sodden bar.

[Darven]

His gloved hand gripped the old-fashioned, dull metal handlebar on the grimy door which gave off a screeching noise of sand getting caught in between, and it jammed midway, so that he had to push it open the rest of the way.

Convenient way to announce new guests, he thought, once inside, as he noticed the heads that had turned at his entrance.

The interior of the bar was a long and narrow corridor, with a number of more private alcoves at one side. It was painted in a unappealing mix of brown, dark red and black that always reminded him of a particularly disgusting training exercise on Kamino where they'd had to crawl through a trench filled with steaming, stinking nerf guts. Sometimes the smells from the kitchen caused him the same kind of nausea than back then.

That wasn't why this was what he considered home, however.

No - it was that scribbled comment over the back door which made it home: a sign of sanctuary, of welcome, of support. And of comradeship. A sign that this establishment was still in the hands of the network some of his brothers ran to give aid and support to any ex-GAR Mando. They'd used the credits well to set up a chain of similar bars in a dozen locations over the galaxy, which would offer free board and services to anyone of them passing through. Outwardly, these bars seemed nothing but the usual, just a bar with a Hutt owner and a pun over the door. But as long as that inscription was written over the back door, it was a safe haven for him. Even if this haven happened to be run by a disgusting green worm who could not cook. The Hutts who ran these bars were all either under some obligation to his brothers or were being paid enormous sums to keep them content.

Still - Hutt would be Hutt, and there was no guarantee that this one wasn't going to sell his great slimy soul to someone else if there was more profit to be made. So it was better to check the place out properly before taking a seat.

The front entrance went out to a better part of the plaza. Darven slowly walked down towards it, noting that the stimsmoke got thicker the closer he came to the front. There was a bigger crowd than usual, probably due to the presence of the market outside. Of Progga there was no sight. A couple of male Twi'leks were handing out drinks, and a grubby-looking female of the same race was walking around trying to look like a competent server.

For a moment the bountyhunter just stood there, watching the crowd, scanning it for any known faces, but he didn't recognise anyone. A man in an old set of trooper armor sat at the bar, but he hadn't seen it before, and the head sticking out of it looked young from the back. The armor seemed a little too big for its wearer. Some young wannabe, probably.

With a sigh that no one could hear apart from him, he turned and walked back the way he had come until he reached the door to the kitchen. There he stopped, and considered the risks of going further for a moment or two, before shrugging finally and pushing the door open a few inches and calling: "Progga?"

A foul-smelling cloud of brown smoke was all he got in reply.

[Progga Nokko Thesla]

"No no no! The gold protocol droid's vocabulator did its best to sound flustered. "Master Progga wanted the dricklefruit on the cracknel, not the elba grain!"

A Trandoshan growled something back at the droid, its long claws looking almost ridiculous as it shook them at the droid.

"I know, it's traditional to put the dricklefruit on the cracknel. But Master Progga wants to try something different! The customers won't know the difference...or...so he tells me.

Another growl mixed with a hiss and the Trandoshan cook shook his head and started on the recipe again, ignoring the green smoke which started coming from the oven.

"Ah Master Darven you've returned! If the droid had lips, Darven was sure he would have smiled. "Master Progga is in the back kitchen, trying out his new...recipe. Parwan nutricake with a brazen fatty acid sauce. He'll be delighted to see you...if he doesn't poison himself that is.

The Trandoshan hissed as flames suddenly sprang up from the oven and the smoke changed from green to orange to yellow to black. "Dear oh dear. This way please."

Progga Nokko Thesla's brown tail flopped as he worked in front of his kitchen set. A member of the Nokko (http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Nokko) kajidic, Progga had little care for the rest of his clan, prefering his pots and pans and 'recipes'. The creds had been fronted by both the GAR organisation and the Hutts, but only the GAR knew that. As far as they were concerned, as long as Progga never bothered to sell them out, he could 'cook' as much as he liked. His brown head turned towards the door.

"H'chu apenkee, Darven. Kee chai chai cun kuta?"

The droid translated, either necessary or unnecessary he didn't know. It wasn't his job to. "The great Progga Nokko Thesla greets you Darven. And asks what you are doing here?"

[Darven]

One whiff and the sight of the ugly colorless slosh bubbling in the pot the Hutt was holding in the crook of his arm was enough to make him regret following the droid into that part of the kitchen. He should have thought better of it once he'd seen the color-changing smoke emitting from the oven. The fact that the substance in the pot was bubbling inspite of there being no heat source alarmed him more than the horrible stench and sucking noises coming from it.

"Ahhh.... I'll talk to you out there. If you don't mind."

It wasn't an order, but Progga knew better than to leave him waiting. Darven backed out of the back kitchen, and hastily made his way through the front part and back into the bar proper.

Once there, he sat down at the bar itself - now deserted completely, at least in this part of it - and waited.

[Progga Nokko Thesla]

Progga slithered out ten minutes later, two bowls of 'something' in his chubby hands. Darven was about to respectfully decline the food, until he noticed one of them was full of fruit. The other had to be that detestable concoction the Hutt had been working on earlier.

Outside of his distate for being a true crime lord, Progga also escewed from the use of a hoversled or power chair. He was completely fine with using his stomach muscles to 'walk' across the bar's floor. Which made him even stranger to his clan.

He rumbled another Huttese greeting, which Darven returned with a nod. "Murishani. Kee chai chai cun kuta?"

The droid translated again. "The Great Progga Nokko Thesla is honored to have you in his presence and asks why you are here?"

[Darven]

"Slana'pir!" he told the droid after a few seconds had passed. There was no need for a translator in this conversation - Progga spoke Basic quite well for a Hutt, but the worm liked to play pretend.

A small rumble from Progga and the droid did as he'd been told, and retreated back into the kitchen.

"The Great Progga Nokko Thesla will remember who his lorda is, and that any murishani with this face will get board and fare. I'll take both, and some information from you."

He took off his helmet to show his face.

[Progga Nokko Thesla]

"Hee hee hee hee hee. Ho ho ho ho ho." Even Progga couldn't laugh like a normal Hutt. He raised his bowl up to his mouth and took a sip. A string of coughs suddenly came from his mouth as the concotion rolled down his throat. It was obvious whatever Progga was planning, hadn't turned out as well as he'd hoped.

Another round of coughs followed, then Progga turned his attention back towards the Mandalorian bounty hunter. "I would...never." His Basic was semi-halting yet almost smooth-like. "For-get...who funds...my...cooking skills...Darven What...do you...need?"

[Darven]

With some amusement he watched the Hutt down the vile stuff. Either Progga wanted to save face in front of him or this was a common enough occurrence. Hutt stomachs were said to be extremely resilient. This close and without a helmet, the fumes from the brew were making his own eyes water.

But he wisely held off on any comments about Progga's cooking skills.

"Are there any others on the planet?" He meant the other clones, and Progga knew it, too.

The Mandalorian was hoping to find someone from the network in the vicinity at least, so his request for information on the DeVille bounty could be passed along faster.

[Progga Nokko Thesla]

The protocol droid suddenly turned as if it was going to say something, but a flick of the Hutt's eyes caused it to not speak.

Progga took another drink from his awful concoction and didn't choke this time. When he opened his mouth, Darven saw smoke coming out of it. "No, Darven. No one is here at all."

[Darven]

Darven nodded, in acceptance of the fact. It would have been extremely lucky if he had - there weren't all that many of them left. It was one of the downsides of the network; and the next generation was slow in taking up their fathers' tools.

His eyebrows rose and fell as the only outer sign of the displeasure he felt at having to go through the Hutt himself. But it was a necessary evil; and one the Hutt was paid handsomely for, after all.

He took a step forward, being careful not to get too close to the escaped puffs of toxic smoke erupting from the Hutt's mouth.

"Pass this along then: I need any information they have regarding a woman both the Imperials and Black Sun are looking for."

It went without saying that this meant that the bounty was his to hunt for, and along with her name Progga would pass on his claim to his brothers - some of which were bountyhunters like himself.

"Her name is Lilaena De'Ville," he said to the Hutt, being careful to pronounce the name correctly and distinctly.

[Progga Nokko Thesla]

"Haven't heard of her." Progga responded, his eyes again keeping the droid from speaking first. "One of the other Hutts...Gorgja perhaps, may have, but I haven't."

[Darven]

Bemused, Darven watched the odd exchange between the droid and the Hutt as he listened to Progga's reply. The poor thing seemed to feel a powerful need to speak for its master, inspite of having been ordered to shut up.

But he hadn't expected the name to ring any bells with Progga, so there wasn't any point in keeping the Hutt from his work. "I'll be in town for a while - when you've received word from Gorgja let me know."

It wasn't a request. This was what the Hutt was getting paid for, after all.

"What room?"

He was going to take a quick nap and a shower, before going out again to look for some replacements for the Sarang's systems. And still he hoped that if he stayed a few days, he might bump into a brother; it had been a long time without news of Kyrimorut.

[Progga Nokko Thesla]

"Room 224." Progga took only a moment to decide where he wanted Darven to stay. He knew Mandalorians didn't care too much about lavishness or comfort or he would have offered the master suite. But, as Darven said, he only needed a quick nap and a shower. "The droid will take you there." Progga took another drink from his cup. "Hmm...needs more spices...Gahlash! Prepare my pots and pans!"

"I'm terribly sorry Master Darven." The droid and the bounty hunter started walking towards the suite. "But Master Progga isn't normally this...distracted with things. You see, several days ago he received a message from Jaarhu the Hutt about possibly cooking for a banquet in his honor.

"And you know how Master Progga feels about his cooking and having hutts from other clans coming here." It the droid could have smiled, Darven believed he would have.

"But Jaarhu seemed quite insistent on coming here. I believe he may be trying to convince Master Progga to stop being so legitimate."

[Darven]

He wasn't truly paying any attention to the droid's prattling, until that very last sentence made him refocus sharply.

"And would he?" the bountyhunter asked the droid with a hint of a smile playing around his tired eyes.

Not that Hutts ever were legitimate. That was part of the advantage of using Hutts to run these establishments - their various criminal activities and contacts was a valuable source of information and material. Hutts literally drew the scum of the galaxy to them. Skirata had once called them "practically a living, breathing scum-wanted ad".

Idly Darven wondered what this Jaarhu's claim on Progga was. Hutts seldom bothered to meddle in the affairs of other clans - and other Hutts. He'd never heard of one called Jaarhu.

"Where does Jaarhu live?"

It would probably not be a good idea to meddle in Progga's affairs, but the thought of someone trying to "convince" Progga of anything made Darven a slight bit apprehensive. Maybe it would be good to prolong his stay.

[Progga Nokko Thesla]

"Master Progga hasn't bothered to tell me where Master Jaarhu lives, Master Darven, but I believe he operates off of Klatooine." The protocol droid's answer seemed to ring true. "I do know Master Progga has been very agitated about Master Jaarhu's visit. I believe he wants to make sure Master Jaarhu would be uninterested in doing more business with him.

"Without killing him with his cooking of course."

[Darven]

His visits to that planet had been rare and brief, so perhaps it was no wonder he'd never heard of Jaarhu.

The droid's last statement brought out the grin properly. With something of a dry laugh the bountyhunter said: "It's a good thing Jaarhu's a Hutt, then."

He was going to make sure not to be around when Progga was doing the cooking - the Hutt's concoctions were bad enough when he wasn't trying to drive away his customers; if the noxious fumes from that brew were any indication of what lay in store for Jaarhu, the bar wasn't going to be safe to set foot in for anything other than Hutts.

Yet the entire matter was intriguing him to the point of deciding that he'd stay for the outcome. The CNSF wouldn't like it at all if one of their "agents" got a bit too independent, especially not in a place as busy and important as Nar Shaddaa. Perhaps his presence might make some difference in keeping Progga set on the right path; if not - then at least there would be someone to handle damage control. He hoped he'd get word about his merchandise before then.

-------------

At the door to room 224 he had the droid stand back after swiping the access pad once with a card; swiping it once more with his own card, he tapped a new access code into it which allowed him sole access to the room beyond the door. It shouldn't have been necessary due to his status, but he'd always gone with the old addage of better being safe than sorry. And Hutts - even ones more at home swinging a cooking spoon than a crimelord's whip - should never be trusted.

He sent the droid downstairs again after checking that the old card didn't grant access anymore, and only then let himself into his room. It was as spartanic as he was used to; indeed, this was more or less his room whenever he stayed here. Therefore he made sure to scan it for observation devices first thing, but found none; one of the Hutt's underlings must have been by in the time since his arrival and taken them, because he knew that the Hutt's eyes were usually everywhere. No one stayed here unsupervised.

To the naked eye the best feature of the scarcely furnished room - nothing but a bed, a chair and a table to it - was the door to the balcony on its far end; this balcony was just large enough to dock an airspeeder to it, as indeed there was one parked there right now, courtesy of another helpful employee of the Hutt's. To Darven, the room itself held a few more attractions: behind hidden panels in the wall that he doubted even Progga knew existed lay caches of weapons, replacement parts, and other useful things. There were a number of identical rooms to this in Progga's hotel, and access was only possible by a DNA probe along with the altered code at the door; once inside, all it took was a simple verbal command to open one of the panels. Darven didn't know how Progga assigned these rooms, but number 224 had all but once been his, so he'd begun to think of it as a kind of "home".

The former soldier didn't bother with the panels now, however; he carefully removed his weapons and armour plates, then peeled off the bodysuit and his underthings. After a short time in the tiny 'fresher's sonic shower, he washed his clothes - a habit trained onto him at Kamino - and hung them out to dry over the chair. Then he took the bitter-tasting pills that helped him fight the daily battle against the onset of old-age, lay down onto the narrow bed and closed his eyes. Sleep came upon him quickly, these days, and within minutes he was fitfully dozing off.

----------

Five standard hours he was back downstairs in the bar, enjoying a meal that wasn't of the Hutt's cooking, and engrossed in the data on his pad. He'd slept for three hours, then taken the speeder back to the Sarang's docking berth. It had taken an hour to track down the dealer able to do what he wanted to have done, and another half an hour to close the deal. He'd come back to the hotel to eat something and get some of the replacement parts from the room's stock before heading back to the ship and supervising the modifications done to the Sarang.

[Agen Riko]

Five hours. Five wretched, stinking, tedious hours in this Force-forsaken place. Sure, he wanted work. He needed work, badly. There were only so many credits that one could scrape in with the menial thug work that he'd been doing lately, and while they paid the bills when he stayed put, they barely kept his ship fuelled and running, let alone let him out and about. Half the reason he was out here was to see what the galaxy was like beyond the trees and farmland of his boring childhood home, and he'd been stuck on Nar Shaddaa for three months now.

The only thing of any remote interest had been the other patrons. He'd been studying them closely, trying to determine their standing - both genuine and percieved - within the society of scum and villainy that existed down here. For example, the Trandoshan in the corner had barely moved the entire time, relying instead on the over-excited Rodian beside him to do his talking for him. Most of the people around here kept a wide bearth from the Trandoshan; whether it was respect or fear, Agen couldn't be sure. What he did know however was that the Trandoshan commanded respect that the Rodian didn't: every time the Rodian strayed from the Trandoshan's table that aura of space shrank; only the occasional grunt from the Trando prevented the Rodian from being lynched by the mob of patrons.

The Rodian exploited his protection to the extreme; Agen had already considered blasting the arrogant bastard a few times when the Rodian had become tetchy when Agen was a little slow moving out of his way. He'd probably be fast enough to take the Trandoshan down before he could react as well; it was the indeterminate alligence of the other thugs that gave him pause. If they stayed clear out of fear, their reaction would likely be minimal. If however it was respect, he wasn't entirely sure that he could take out enough of them fast enough to secure his escape.

One of the patrons was an enigma, however. Riko barely saw the Mandalorian - after arriving he'd passed through the bar on the way to the exit, and had recently returned. Masked figures intregued him, and with the Mandalorian unmasked while he enjoyed his meal, his intregue only grew.

Agen's father had been a Clone Trooper, copied from Mandalorian stock. Though interpred with one of the Humans on Ruhe, he still thought of himself as all Mandalorian, as many of the Clones had also done. He'd only met a few of his Clone relatives - usually fugatives from the Empire that his father occasionally helped to harbour - and never a true Mandalorian. Curiosity became too strong: he had to know which one this man was.

Drawing close to the bar, recognition swept across his consciousness. Though environmental variation made the appearence of the Clones deviate as they matured, the features of Jango Fett still showed a little on the Mandalorian's face. It went beyond that though; the scar, the scowl; Riko knew that he had met this man - this Clone - before, even if he couldn't put a name to the face.

"I know you," he said, drawing close behind the Mandalorian. He waited for any indication that the man was even aware he was being addressed. "My father is a brother of yours; his name is Riko."

[Darven]

His fork in mid-air, a piece of sausage speared on it, the bounty hunter stopped chewing and set his hand down.

This had to be the kid in the trooper armor he'd seen earlier.

A look in the reflecting glass at the back of the drink dispensers opposite him confirmed it. Which wasn't to say that he was what he claimed to be - the last time he'd seen his brother's offspring they were still young enough to be in diapers.

"Is that so..." he said, after he had chewed and swallowed his bit of sausage. His free hand had remained on the table - the only sign that he was inclined to listen rather than cut the kid off and send him packing.

"Your father here, too?"

If he was, then Progga had lied to him. And there would have to be consequences to that.

[Agen Riko]

Agen loosed a bitter fraction of a laugh. Since he'd arrived on the planet, the clone Riko had never left. At first he'd been unable to, what with Separatists controlling the skies, and then he'd been unwilling. He used his family as an excuse, although Agen never understood why they were any kind of restraint. Besides, it was hardly like they had much of a life out there; wouldn't have taken much to drag the lot of them out of that pit and set them up somewhere that wasn't so damned boring.

He wondered what the Mandalorian would think of his father now: wasting away in his cabin, training his children as soldiers and yet never leaving the isolated safety of his exile. It was the perfect irony - the man bred for war who hid away from it; the father with nothing to teach his children but the skills he had elected never to use again. It was beyond mere irony though; it was pathetic.

Pride, compassion, or something else tempered his words; twisted them into a more delicate form than the venom his tongue desired to spit forth. "My father is retired," he said simply, though he couldn't keep his hand from becoming a fist. He longed to say more - to boast about his own exploits, brag to the man who was practically an uncle that he still respected their purpose, still held on to their ideals and lifestyle. The same force of susinctness curbed his words there as well. "I am not."

[Darven]

"Is that so," he said again, and turned around slowly, pushing his half-emptied plate away.

For a long moment he looked at the kid in front of him - he couldn't be more than 20. There was no doubt in Darven's mind that this was indeed one of Riko's sons: for one, he knew his brother had retired, and secondly... the face in front of him wasn't quite the mirror image of his own, 30 years ago, but it was close enough for the old clone to feel uncomfortable for a moment.

Looking into this kid's face was giving him a strange sense of deja vu, and yet ... it also was so alien. It wasn't quite the same as the face which stared back at him every time he would look into a mirror - the face he had once shared with three million and more - and that small bit made all the difference that went under his skin and stirred up misgivings of a kind he couldn't quite interpret. Was it the idea of whether this was what his own kid would've looked like, if he'd ever had one? The last time he'd seen Riko's sons, they'd not truly registered to him as living, breathing beings who would one day grow up to become a new generation of Jango's genes, and continue their line. How strange, now, to see this kid grown up, looking so much and yet so little, like he and his brothers had done.

He blinked. Once. Twice.

What was the kid seeing? Just another copy of his father? Did it affect him?

He blinked again. The moment was over.

"Your father's a wise man if he stayed retired," he offered the kid, doubting it was what the youngster wanted to hear. Defiance literally seemed to ooze out of the boy's every pore - at least to someone as used to reading body language as the clones had been. "What's your name, son?"

It came naturally, unbidden. He certainly didn't see himself as a fatherly figure, but it seemed to have been something in their genes, too.

[Agen Riko]

Agen fought the urge to shudder; there was something about the choice of words and the tone of voice that was far too reminiscent of his father for his liking. He supposed it was to be expected, given how the two were practically twins - in terms of training and conditioning as well as genetics - but he hadn't quite been prepared for it. The faces were different enough for him to ignore the parallels and classify them as different in his mind; but the voice and mannerisms threatened to blast that distinction apart.

He fought the knee-jerk emotional response aside, and forced himself to focus on something else - focus on the differences, rather than the similarities. The pattern of scars; the fingerprint of grey in the hair; the look in the eyes that reflected a different set of experiences. The eyes themselves captivated his attention - he saw in them far more pain and anguish than he might have expected. He had always assumed that his father's eyes were as they were because of the sights he had seen in the war, but by comparison Riko's were practically at peace. Something had happened - or several somethings, perhaps - that had left their toll on Darven's soul. Curiosity pleaded for him to find out what, but better judgement forced him to stay silent.

"Agen," he stated, finally responding to the Mandalorian's query. "The second son and middle child, if you're keeping score."

[Darven]

The old soldier nodded, more out of habit than of his remembering the kid's name. Agen would have had to have been about five years old when he'd last seen him. His brother's offspring had been little more than an annoying source of noise for him back then. He'd not wasted a thought about them since.

It was a good thing the accelerated aging wasn't inheritable, at the rate some of his brothers had spread themselves around. Still - he guessed there was little else to do if you were stuck on a backwater planet like Ruhe, that hadn't seen action since the CIS left it. Especially if you were perfectly happy to "retire".

In spite of what he'd said to the kid, Darven didn't think much of his brother's choice of a life-style. Sure - Riko hadn't had a choice after they'd left him there for dead, but afterwards...? It wasn't that he'd not tried to convince him to come to Manda'yaim with him once he'd found him, but the stubborn oaf had refused to leave!

"I suppose he's still on Ruhe... ?"

It was a pointless question.

"... so what did you run away from? The quiet life?"

He had a hunch about this one.

[Agen Riko]

Agen snorted a laugh. 'Life' wasn't quite how he would have described it. It was certainly quiet, though - farm labour was hardly exciting work, and while the training that their father put them through certainly made for a welcome change of pace, he seemed determined to ensure that the vibroblades they learned to fight with were used for nothing but cutting down corn. He told his children that they were the guardians of Ruhe, standing ready to protect it next time the world needed defending, and that it was important that their bloodline keep those skills alive. It was all pretentious crap, as far as Agen was concerned.

"Lets just say that my father and I don't quite see eye to eye over his early retirement."

Agen fought a frown from his brow, fighting to read his way through the scarred and aged features of Darven's face, to pick out some hint of what was going on inside his mind. Would he approve at Agen's choice - the life of action; honouring his genetics; living up to his heritage? Or would he see it as a betrayal: dishonouring the common blood that pumped through their veins? The few stories their father had shared about the Clone Wars - usually after incessant pleas from his sons - always feaured the strong bond between a Clone and his brothers. Would Darven think he'd deserted his father; left a man behind?

You can't go with them. The voice of his mother, haunting him from his memories. The words weren't meant for him, however; secret words, covertly overheard. She and he should have known better; after all the training they'd put their children through, they should have known to take more care in concealing their conversations. They left you here; left you for dead. You owe them nothing.

They were following orders. Father's words; pained, yet pleading. Agen had always hated the memory; hated how weak his father had sounded. They are my family.

We are your family. Mother was angry. That never happened. We can't leave; it won't be safe for them.

It was an old memory from fifteen years ago; maybe longer. He'd dismissed it: buried it deep. His father always wore armour, emotional even if not physical, except for that night. He'd seen it as a witness of weakness, but right now he couldn't be sure.

Agen let the pending frown finally flourish on his brow. "You served with my father, right; part of his Squad?" He kept his tone light, concealing his probing behind an air of casual interest. "He doesn't talk about the old days much. Never told us much about you, except in passing." He felt his heart catch, not sure if he would be able to force the question out through his lips. You won't know if you don't ask. His brow twitched while he collected his resolve. "What happened? I mean, with my father. I know he left the war early, and wound up on Ruhe, but he never told us how, or what happened to the rest of you."

[Darven]

Ahh. So that's where the wind was blowing from.

Those were some unpleasant memories. A part of himself knew this wasn't the way to go about it - telling this story was Riko's problem, not his; but that other part of him understood why Riko's son needed to know. And he knew his brother - knew he would, and could not tell it.

He tried to avert having to take a side, by stating the obvious, "You should go home and make your father tell you."

[Agen Riko]

Agen laughed. He couldn't hold it in, though he'd tried. The sound turned bittersweet in his ears however, and his features contorted into a scowl. "I couldn't make my father wet with a high-pressure hose if he didn't want to be," the youth retorted, digging his tongue down behind his lower lip as he mulled over Darven's answer. Not unexpected, he supposed, but far from the answer he wanted.

He thought for a moment what answer it was he did want. Did he want to hear something that would vindicate his father - that he'd been too injured; that he'd been abandoned; that remaining was some noble saccrifice? Or did he want an answer that would vindicate himself - justify the animosity between them, and his self-exodus from home.

Self-exodus. He shook his head. "I can't go home," he stated, his voice not sure if it should be mournful, angry, or simply matter-of-fact. "I can never go home."

Resolve sparked in whatever corner of his body his emotions originated. He felt himself straighten; felt his jaw set. "My father taught me a great deal, but there was much that he withheld. I would like -" He stopped himself, eyes conflicted. His voice changed too; less pretentious, more respectful. "I would be honoured to have the opportunity to learn from a true Mandalorian, such as yourself."

[Darven]

For a long moment, he simply stared at the young man in front of him. He wouldn't allow the sensation of incredulity to vent itself onto his face, so he simply sat there and digested this new turn of events.

... Learn from him? ... From him?!?

What was even worse - had Riko not even told his sons that all of them had been simple clones? True Mandalorian---- could it be this boy had no idea what was behind it?

It was that which finally made him break the silence.

"I'm no Mandalorian, son. Surely you know that."

But that was not enough, and he knew it. The boy was waiting for something more. What should he tell him?

"I would not have more to show you than your father has. We all had the same training. Different instructors, but we all shared the same knowledge."

That wasn't strictly true, and his time since deserting the GAR had taught him a great deal more, but he simply did not feel capable of taking such a burden upon himself.

He did not need to give Riko another reason to hate him.

[Agen Riko]

Agen narrowed his eyes. He hadn't said that his father lacked any knowledge; just that he'd lacked the willingness to divulge it. Besides, Darven had spent decades living in the galaxy at large, whereas his father had avoided such things with as much effort as he could bring to bear. Agen may not have known what all the blaster burns and battle scars that decorated Darven's armour represented, but there had to be something that the man could teach, beyond the pittance of skills that their father had passed on.

Darven was evading. Again. Agen wasn't quite sure what he'd expected from meeting another of his father's myriad siblings, but whatever it was this Darven seemed a long way short. He felt anger beginning to boil up inside him.

"Your genes, and that armour you wrap yourself up in begs to differ," he shot back, giving up on his efforts to hold his tongue. "You're descended from them; its Mandalorian blood that pumps through your veins, just like it pumps through my father's veins, and every one of the myriad brothers of yours born in those tanks on Kamino."

His features twitched, a snarl forming on his expression. "To say otherwise is an afront to your heritage, an afront to your training. If that is what you truely believe, then the image you portray - no, your very existance - is a dishonour and disrespect to my ancestors -" He unholstered a blaster from his hip. "- and I will not allow it to continue."

[Darven]

"Don't even think of it, boy," he said quietly but precisely, remaining utterly calm even if his voice had taken on a menacing undertone the boy could not miss. "One false move now, and you're going to return to your father after all: in a coffin."

To emphasize this, Agen suddenly found himself staring down the blade of a wicked vibrodagger the bountyhunter had ejected from his glove.

Darven slowly got up from his seat and took a step closer to the boy, who leaned his head backwards to avoid meeting the tip of the blade. When he spoke, it was a low hiss totally unlike what Agen had hitherto experienced: "Listen to me now, burcya, and listen well, for it might well be the last thing you'll ever hear from any of us: Fett's shabla genes don't make a Mando, you'd think Riko had told you at least that much. Anyone can be a Mando, if he has the right stuff. But we were trained to be soldiers first, inspite of all the Mando culture they threw at us. We can try all we want, it's the training which surfaces first, not the genes. Have you even come across a Mandalorian yet? A real mandalorian? They're a different set of creature alltogether. Compared to them, we clones are the mere cannonfodder we were bred for. Smarter, maybe; but flawed. Even our own sergeants, even the most staunch Mando, were aware that they could only give us a glimpse - to save our souls, they might have said - but that we could not ever reach the level of a true Mandalorian, because of what we had been bred to be."

[Agen Riko]

Darven may have had him by the throat, but Agen wasn't totally defenseless; nor was he stupid, as he proved by slowly increasing the pressure of his blaster muzzle into Darven's side. Given the angle, it probably wouldn't kill the guy, but it'd tear his innards up nice and good; and good luck trying to find bacta on a dump like this.

A slight, sarcastic smile quirked at the corner of his mouth. "Lucky for me," he muttered, with a goading twitch of his eyebrows, "I wasn't bred to be anything."

Slowly but firmly gripping Darven's wrist, he held the bladed gauntlet in place as he took a careful step back, blaster still trained on the Mando- no, clone, in case he tried anything. He released the arm eventually, stood far enough clear now that his odds of dodging instant death were ever so slightly above zero. Despite the tense air that surrounded them both, Agen couldn't help the rush of adrenaline through his system, and the euphoria that followed. This was exciting, wasn't it?

Agen's expression finally changed, the smile subsiding into a furrowed brow. He cocked his head to one side as he pondered Darven. "For someone who denies any associations with the Mandalorians," he mused, "You certainly made an odd choice of tailor."

[Darven]

If he was bothered by the blaster in his side, he didn't show it. The kid was foolhardy and stupid to try a stunt like this, in this place of all places. But he wasn't going to let anything happen to one of Riko's kids, so he played along.

The tension in the air could be cut with a knife. He would have prefered to have this scene with less outsiders in it, but that couldn't be helped now.

Finally he gave the boy a genuine smile.

"You're mandokarla, boy, you certainly are. But next time, make sure you know who's watching your back if you try a stunt like that."

And with that, Darven pointed behind Agen, where Progga's barkeep was standing with his blaster trained on the kid.

"I do not deny association with the Mandalorians. I have earned the right to call myself one - and I do so, many times. But that does not automatically mean that I feel I can live up to it. Perhaps it would be easier for you to feel like one - it certainly isn't to me, despite having made a home with them."

He warned the barkeep off with a brief nod, then turned his attention back onto the boy.

"You've earned my attention, adika; if you still want to know more, I will tell you. But not in this public a place."

[Agen Riko]

Adika, huh?

That sounded like it was one of those irritating nicknames that people used to reference someone they thought of as younger, inferior, and less experience. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Agen riled at its use, but good sense clamped down on that. Besides, it was a Mando'a word; even if he wasn't completely sure what it meant, its very origins were enough to redeem it. And Mandokarla, too. Maybe it was the adrenaline, or the endorphins; whatever it was, he felt giddy.

Not in a public place. Agen hadn't exactly thought of a seedy bar in the depths of Vertical City as 'public'; from the look of them, half the patrons probably couldn't even speak Basic, while the other half seemed to have brains too addled with drink to interpret anything they heard. But that didn't really matter. If Darven said they needed to be somewhere else, then that's where they'd go.

He cocked his head to one side, and holstered the blaster. "Where did you have in mind?"

[Darven]

The kid was little more than a loose cannon - a very, very foolish one. Seconds ago he'd been willing to kill him over his Mandalorian blood, and now there he was, as trusting and docile and happy as a young pup thrown a bone. For a few moments Darven actually considered trussing him up and returning him home to his father.

But that wouldn't do anyone any good. Ruhe was too remote, too quiet a place for this kid to learn something about the galaxy he was in. Leave it to Riko to instill his kids with a false sense of identity - the man hadn't even ever seen Manda'yaim! Maybe that's where he should send the kid eventually, to get a proper education ... if he proved willing enough.

It left him wondering at his brother. Riko had never been one to put any stock in his Mando heritage, so to teach his kids this skewed view of it - either he had changed his mind after his last visit, or something else was going on. Whatever it was - it wasn't a good sign that this kid had run off.

Picking up his helmet, he indicated his intentions with a discrete gesture to the barkeep, who promptly got its meaning and pressed a button on the wall behind the ale taps.

"Come along, there's a booth in the back where we can talk privately," he said to the kid, and walked ahead without looking back to see if he was following. That was unnecessary - he knew he would.

"Gar taldin ni jaonyc; gar sa buir, ori'wadaas'la....," he muttered as he walked, not caring if Agen could hear it or not. Bloodline wasn't important - what was important was what kind of a father you were. Clearly Riko hadn't understood that one - or had never been told. It might be the hardest lesson for the kid - to realise that his father's view of life was wrong; but then again, it might not, if the boy had run off for the right reasons instead of simple boredom.

[Agen Riko]

Beneath his seeming casual exterior, Agen seethed at himself. He had allowed himself to become fixated on his target, and had as a result lost his awareness of his surroundings. Had this been a hunting trip back on Ruhe, the barkeep would likely have been a wild creature poised to do him harm; elsewhere, it could be something much more dangerous. It was a rookie mistake, and one that his father would have chastised him for greatly. He took solace in that; anything that would have annoyed or frustrated his father qualified as a victory, of a sort.

Anything that would get him killed wouldn't however, he admitted to himself reluctantly. He had left himself exposed, and it had been all he could do to quell his aggression and holster his weapon; instantly remove himself as a percieved thread, in the interests of self-preservation. In truth, he still wanted to blast a little plasma into Darven's smug aura.

Granted, being a Mandalorian was something you were supposed to earn rather than be born into; Agen wasn't naive, and he knew that, though that was about all he'd managed to piece together from the vague stories reluctantly passed along by his father, and his own efforts at research in the time since. But the potential to become that had been written into the very genes of each and every one of Jango Fett's "children". They were born of warrior stock; each one a replica of one of Mandalore's finest. While mere association alone was hardly enough, the potential to inherit that legacy was as integral to what made them as their bones.

That inheritance of destiny had been passed to Agen, and in his mind it had not been diluted one iota in the generation since. The responsibility to live up to it had been too, when his father had abandoned that path in favour of the humble life of a farmer. Mace Riko was a coward; Agen was determined to ensure that his attitude didn't speak for all of his kin.

He followed dutifully then; not hapless, but not unaware of the potential gains this encounter promised either. He had left Ruhe to escape from his father's shadow; to separate himself from his father's fearful denial of what he truely was. Riko was afraid of what he was destined to become, and he dishonoured the legacy of his genetic ancestors. His son would not allow his bloodline to continue perpetrating such a crime.

[Darven]

"Your father told you much about the Mandalorians then?"

Once they were in the secluded booth in the back of the bar, that was the first question he had for the boy. It had taken a bit to be asked. He'd let it sit there for a bit, mulling it over - the implications, the possibilities the answer could bring with it. The importance of it.

Because it seemed more that just a little uncharacteristic for Riko.

They'd not had the same training sergeants; Riko and Zero had trained with Amaros Koine, while Darven and Trey had been in Kal Skirata's group. Both of those men had been Mandalorian, but that's where the similarities ended. Where Sergeant Kal had been gentle but persistent in his approach, letting his boys discover and develop the love for their inheritance in their own time, Koine's approach to it didn't sit well with his batch of clones. Next to the other Cuy'val Dar, it seemed, Amaros Koine was nothing but a watered down version of what a Mando should be like. The soldiers he trained didn't buy into that whole romanticised version of Mandalorians that he was feeding them. Sure - Riko and the other ones in his batch hadn't been worse Mando'a speakers than anyone else by the time of Geonosis, and would have been able to hold a 2-hour speech on the intricacies of Mando culture if hard pressed for it - but there was neither love nor pride for it in their hearts. They endured it because they were loyal to Koine, the soldier, but there was little else.

When Riko and Zero had joined Trey and him and escaped the iron hand of their training sergeant, they'd quickly abandoned all pretense of liking it. It had been a matter of some discontent within the newly formed squad, for a while. Then it just didn't matter much anymore, because the war kept them too busy for internal squabbling over personal beliefs. Still.... they all knew what the other was thinking, and sometimes that still galled him, Darven, whenever he thought of it. Even now.

Hence it seemed almost inconceivable that Riko of all people would impress their Mandalorian inheritance onto his sons. It was impossible, really. Unless something momentous had changed his brother's view about the matter.

Yet he'd hesitated before asking the question. Why? It was as good a beginning as any. But he had no right to pry into his brother's affairs. Was that reason enough? Not really. The kid had asked him. It wasn't his - Darven's - choice. And since talking of the past was clearly something Riko had no interest in, and the kid was interested, ...

It was easier to start by asking his own questions - finding out what the kid knew, and from where.

[Agen Riko]

“No,” he answered, almost instantly and although there was more desperate to tumble off his tongue, Agen exerted some restraint. His true feelings were plain to see in his expression, in the slight twist of his lips as if he were swallowing a mouthful of something particularly sour.

Asking his father about their heritage had been like talking to a brick wall. No – more infuriating than that. A brick wall could not answer but Mace Riko did, and every word that came out of his mouth reeked of apathy and failure. He knew a great deal about the culture of their people – his people – and yet every question was met with a muttered dismissal or the wave of a hand, brow furrowing into a well-worn and seldom-absent frown.

As a boy, he'd hoped his fathers reluctance would fade with time. As he grew, however, it did too. Ruhe was his world. It's people were his people. What did the people of Ruhe need to known of Kad Ha'rangir and the Akaanati'kar'oya; what call did they have to take up hammer and tongs and strike hallowed iron into armor? The prod, the plough, the scythe and the sickle: these were the things they treasured. Just as circumstance and duty had obligated his father into knowing the Mandalorian way, so Agen had grasped the life of Ruhe, neither of them truly embracing it in their hearts.

Shifting about some in the booth, finding himself vaguely uncomfortable under Darven's gaze, Agen shook his head. His bitterness hadn't exactly subsided, but a small – very small – rational part of him knew that he wouldn't be settling his grievances with his father here and now. Better to focus on what the moment did have to offer: potential.

“He wasn't much for sharing.. not for any lack of trying on my part.”

[Darven]

So it seemed Riko had stayed true to his character, after all.

In a way, Darven felt relieved about that, no matter what the kid here might think. Imagining his brother having changed so much had started to give him a seriously bad feeling in his gut, with every second he'd pondered the possibility.

It would have been an excellent base to start from, had it really have been true - if he'd wanted to convince Riko to jump on board with the Guild; but he hadn't entertained any thoughts on that before he'd run into Agen, so the matter was little more than pointless.

It was pointless. Riko still sounded like the same man, from what his son here said. The old clone certainly could commiserate.

"Believe me - he never was. And Ruhe made it worse."

Stubborn - haar'chak! had that planet made the man more stubborn. Hanging on to what it had given him, instead of grasping the life line they'd tried to throw him. Very little it had given him then - a couple of sons, a new home - but it seemed all he wanted. Unimaginable for his brothers, who only had each other.

How would I have felt in his position?

No matter, it's gone differently for me. Had to live with the choices you made. And I had Mandalore, and Nya - maybe not much difference, there.

With an effort, he pushed the thought aside, took a sip from his glass; he let the strong liquid run down his throat, feeling the burning sensation it left there. Ru'hettir cinyc - burnt clean. Only when the last tingling had left his stomach, did he continue the conversation.

"Then where did you learn?"

[Agen Riko]

The truth of it was, he hadn't. Not to any great extent, at least.

The less his father had shared with them, the more Agen had wanted to know, but for Mace it had always been as if the boy inquiring after a loved one whose passing was still fresh in heart and mind. All the answers he gave were vague, meant only to silence Agen's curiosity but not one of them had been successful in that regard. Instead, they had driven a wedge between father and son which stood firm in its place even to this day.

“I travelled,” he began, finally, after spending a moment peering for the answer in lined palms of his hands. “Heard a lot of second and third hand accounts.”

A lot of bantha-shit too, he thought to himself, but then anything had seemed better than nothing.

[Darven]

It seemed the boy had a genuine need to find out more. The old soldier could understand that well enough - it had been the same for him and his brothers back then, on Kamino. They'd sucked up anything, any small detail, any morsel that Skirata had been able to give them. It had almost become a need, and some of it had driven him on to make some of the choices he had.

"What is it you think you do know?"

He was genuinely curious to see what knowledge the boy had accumulated in his way.

[Agen Riko]

It didn't seem like much use, to recycle what he'd heard. Not now that he'd found a living, breathing example of what had been for so long out of reach. Yet, it seemed that Darven wasn't willing to give anything up without first establishing what Agen's pre-conceptions were.

“We're warriors at heart.. bound by respect for one another, and for our creed.”

We. Was it arrogant to use that word already? It didn't feel like it. Though it was a mysterious thing to him still, his heritage was something that Agen felt at the core of his being. His father hadn't embraced it, but that didn't mean it wasn't a part of him. It was like blood, and there was no changing it.

[Darven]

To his own surprise he found himself amused at the boy's earnestness. There was something endearing in the way Agen saw himself a part of it already.

"And what is that creed?"

[Agen Riko]

When Agen looked up to answer, there was a twinkling of humour in the old man's eyes. What did he find so amusing? Was it that Agen had struggled to learn about their shared heritage, even when his father had been ready to let it fall by the wayside? Was the hunter laughing at how little he knew, in contrast to how much he wanted to know?

“The law,” he answered quickly, biting his words off - and though his pronunciation wasn't perfect, he added with a note of pride and satisfaction: “The Resol'Nare.”

[Darven]

Well, now, wasn't that interesting...? There weren't a lot of creatures in the galaxy familiar with Mando terms. He hadn't expected the boy to know the Mando'a word; finding out about the creed might be easy enough, due to the amount of Mandos roaming the galaxy and not all of them as taciturn as they should be, but it wasn't often someone let slip the Mando'a term for it.

He was going to have to ask Agen about his sources, at some point. Not now; it would only make the lad suspicious.

"And they are?"

[Agen Riko]

How many more questions was the old man going to ask? Wasn't he supposed to be the one doing the asking, the learning? At least he had seen a flicker of curiosity, or perhaps it was surprise, in Darven's eyes when he had spoken the true-name of the Mandalorian people's creed.

“Wear the armor, speak the language, defend yourself and family,” he began counting each one of with a quickness that belied that weight each tenet carried. “Raise your children as Mandalorians,” he continued, his eyes meeting Darven's with a hard stare. “When called, take up arms and rally to Mandalore's cause.”

[Darven]

"Ba'jur, beskar'gam,
Ara'nov, aliit,
Mando'a bal Mand'alor—
An vencuyan mhi."

The lines came unbidden, etched into his mind through life-long repetition. It was food for the soul, as Skirata had told them many a time. The rhyme was well-known, taught to Mando children from the cradle upwards.

"You want to become a true Mando'ad, you learn to say that in your sleep."

He fixed the young man with a hard stare.

"You want to be become a true Mando'ad, 'lek, ad'ika?"

It would be good to have someone along again; he knew he could teach his brother's son a lot - had he not taught Nya?

Yes, and see where that got you...

He drowned out the thought. Nya had done well enough - he hadn't pressed it upon her, she'd been interested in sharing his own training, and found access to the Mando way through it. She could have been worse off if it hadn't been for that. The other thing ... was his own fault, and had nothing to do with what he had had to teach her.

His lips a thin line of the old pain, he turned around to hide the unbidden grimace from the boy, and picked up the bottle of ti'haal the barkeep had brought along with another glass. This, and his own, he now set between Agen and himself, pulled the cork from the bottle with an audible plop - and shoved his bitterness back to the dark murk at the back of his mind where it had come from. With his hand supported by his arm resting on the table, he poured the golden liquid into the two glasses until they were a bare milimetre from the rim; he congratulated himself that his hand never shook once.

Slowly, he pushed one glass across the table to Agen. Then he picked up his own with his free hand, the other still holding the bottle.

"Ke pirur!"