Gretel Solo stood before the full-length mirror, giving herself a critical appraisal. Now that she had reached her late thirties, she couldn't continue to pass herself off as a nubile young thing, which she had done mainly to distract guards and charm her way into the inner circles of the wanted beings who were her prey. In a way, this was a relief. Now Gretel could move on to more mature roles.
She turned her gaze to the helmet in her hands and remembered the day her mentor had told her its secret. "I am not the dread bounty hunter Boba Fett," he had revealed. "It's the name and the appearance that are important, not the man—or woman—inside the armor. The man I inherited this mask from was not the dread bounty hunter Boba Fett either. The original Boba Fett is retired and living in luxury on Ord Mantell. And someday, when you're ready, I will retire, and you will take over from me."
Gretel closed her eyes for a moment in sad remembrance. Tatooine, the Sarlacc Pit... The whole "thousand years of torment" story was a pile of crap. The Sarlacc was in fact a very efficient carnivore. By the time she had reached the deep desert, there was little left to rescue. And I have you to thank for that, little brother, Gretel thought bitterly.
The armor—recovered, repaired, reinforced, and reshaped a bit on the inside—now covered her body, hiding any trace of identity or gender. At last, she lifted the helmet and pulled it over her head. It fit perfectly.
This is who I was meant to be. I am Boba Fett.
END
(6/19/01)