A Job Gone Wrong (7ABY)

Note: This story is set in 7ABY, part way between the fall of the Galactic Empire and Fennec’s first appearance on the Mandalorian.

“Sorry ma’am, there’s no vegetarian option tonight.” The blue-skinned Wroonian server shifted awkwardly in response to her customer’s scowl.

Normally Fennec Shand maintained a stony facade, but tonight she was having another in what had been a line of rough days. As the New Republic replaced the Empire, world by world, it was quashing the assassinations and in-fighting that fueled Fennec’s livelihood. It had been weeks and the only work she could get was a simple, low paying brush-plant, lifting a communicator off some obese, Bothan restaurateur at a party and replacing it with one his competitor had bugged. By the time she paid fuel and docking fees, she was barely turning a profit. It was espionage against an eatery and it was rookie work. A master assassin and elite mercenary like herself would have been insulted by the job, if she didn’t need the money so badly. Plus, after weeks of living on ship rations and combing Outer Rim dives for work, the idea of getting out of her sweaty armor and into some fine dining did have a certain appeal.

The client wasn't happy when she’d told him he’d need to cover the cost of not just the meal but also a dress so she could blend in at the party. After considerable arguing and grumbling he relented and agreed to have "something" waiting at the starport along with the hacked communicator. Fennec was adamant about no short skirts; other clients had tried things like that before and she wasn’t spending an evening worrying about flashing her underwear while trying to work. When she saw herself in the mirror wearing what the client had left for her, Fennec realized she should have been far more specific.

The skirt reached nearly to her ankles, as promised, if you didn't consider the long slits that made it little more than a glorified loincloth. Above the legs, it was worse. The backless halter-top was really two glorified straps over her boobs, connected behind her neck by a particularly obstinate snap. Fennec's eyes drifted over the exposed skin of her chest, down abs toned by hours of hard conditioning to her exposed bellybutton. Forget hiding weapons, she couldn't even wear a bra with this. Plus, the low-cut back dipped nearly to her tailbone, ruling out all but her skimpiest panties. She shivered in the cool cabin air. The way her hardened nipples shown through the cheap, white fabric made it obvious. The client was showing his displeasure at having to pay for a dress by sticking her with the cheapest and sleaziest thing he could find.

Fennec would have tossed this trash and found a suitable replacement then and there if she had the time, or the credits. But she didn’t have either. For a moment she considered ducking out on the job entirely, but she couldn’t. The mercenary business was all built on reputation. She wasn’t about to destroy an unblemished record pouting over a tacky dress like a spoiled child. Besides, she needed the money. So, Fennec strapped on the impractical slingbacks that came with her slutty clothes, went to that restaurant, flirted with that furry butterball, pawing at his long, brocade jacket like a cheap Coruscanti whore the whole time she was making the switch, and she completed her job, because Fennec Shand was a professional, dammit!

Afterwards, Fennec felt a little tired and more than a little tawdry, both for what she’d done and all the times she'd felt men's, and a few women's, eyes trace the barely covered curves of her body. All she wanted was to relax to the pleasant buzz of the wonderful wine she was sipping and enjoy a nice plate of spicy stuffed Rodian-peppers. And now there were no vegetarian options tonight?!

Fennec paused to take a long drink from her glass of blossom wine before she responded and instantly felt more amiable. This really was some great wine. She even tried to smile at the waitress.

“I’m sure I saw you serve that same dish earlier.”

“Yes. Well… instead...” The waitress’s normally dark blue skin had gone pale periwinkle. “The owner made this for you… special.” She set a small covered plate down in front of Fennec and immediately scampered away.

That was suspicious. A quick check showed that the other servers were quietly encouraging guests to move to the far side of the dinning room as well. That was a bad sign. Very bad.

With another swig of blossom wine to steel her nerves, Fennec lifted the cover.

“Oh, scrag!”

There, on the plate, was the communicator she’d slipped into the old Bothan’s pocket.