Title: Pusher

Author: pronker

Era: Sometime before 9 ABY, but not by much.

Summary: Is there any special reason Fennec Shand strongly suggests that Boba Fett allow the spice trade on Tatooine to continue?

A/N: from The Book of Boba Fett TV series, a raw speculation on motives. From a Kessel Run challenge on theforceDAHTNET to construct an OC.

IOIOIOIOIO

All good pushers know not to get hooked on the spice themselves. Also, keep your street name one word or even better, one syllable, because users demonstrate memory loss after a while of consuming uncut product. Of course, your product is always uncut. I, Snub, say this to myself all the time with no irony whatsoever.

Today, the bar in Garsa's Sanctuary offers untapped territory because an enigma a full head shorter than I am comes up on my blind side to whisper, "Something was bound to go right sometime today."

She's weaponless, lacking the long barreled rifle I've seen her toting as she accompanies Fett's patrols. She's trying to hide it, but she's stiff around her middle. Except for the Shelled People, normal beings bend naturally, fluid like shifting sands, and she moves like she's wearing a corset and not in a fun way. Once she removes that weird helmet, I spot pain lines on her face. She's human like me, somewhere around my age and sternly pretty, well, more stern than pretty. What does her comment mean?

"I can see you are in need." Oh ho, Snub, this can be taken any number of ways. I lay into her with a heavy-lidded, meaningful look with my lone eye. I must be cautious because she appears, well, not The Law, yet not too far off. She radiates authority.

Her snort demolishes the scenarios my libido conjures. So, it's business only and I swing into business mode.

I lean close so she can smell my aftershave. She tilts her head to mine, giving a show as if she's considering a hookup. She is, but not the notion the bartender leers at as he polishes a snifter before drifting to the far end of the bar. He's paid not to see or hear too much.

Now I'm closer, I discern that she's ... nervous? Her? I'll reel her into a comfort zone for both our sakes.

"No cost, sweetness. My family insists on it to welcome you."

"I'll just bet they do." Another snort, followed by a sniff and then a wince. Ahah, her core is sore. I can soothe those all-important warrior muscles, for a time, anyway.

"I'll get the goodies from my speeder. Give me ten minutes before meeting me in the alley to the east." That alley has seen much action; it's my favorite in all Mos Espa. In contemplating picking up a five-wupiupi bag of sansanna in a scruffy alley from a ruggedly handsome, one-eyed blond wearing last year's fashions, greater beings than I might quail before doing the deed. I'm surprised when she does, too. She's agonizing over this choice and that means I'm ... her first?

"Wox ho uffdon comda!" she snarls as a few heads turn our way. Bocce? She speaks Bocce? I hear rage at herself, at me, at the galaxy. I'm good at reading others so when she tells me to go shut myself down, I bow, count to three, and straighten to look her in the eye. She's in pain and when you're in pain, it's all you can think of.

I know.

"Zanki," I say politely, because I've set the hook, she's going to complete the deal in ten minutes and my family continues to do business.

Her face falls as she mumbles, "Joka."

It's no joke that she'll need ten minutes to compose herself, convince herself that she is not weak, she needs help to do her job and only I can give it to her. I don't think the sansanna will stain her face and hands too much this first time so Fett will know she uses. I hope not, anyway, because I want her to return to me.

It's good for business.