Humans of all kinds, clutching travel bags and prepackaged food stretched the width of the transport station that Royce had escorted Fett to. Voices in Galactic Basic spoke over intercoms, announcing departures and arrivals to unknown cities that Fett would soon be passing through. On a wooden bench, Boba Fett sat, carrying his helmet and weapons in a soft cloth bag that Royce had dug out of the closet. If he hadn’t already lived such a solitary life, he might have felt alone, but this awkward moment in a strange transportation hub was just one small part of a job. And besides, loneliness never mattered much to a clone.

Royce approached him with a stack of paper tickets. He passed them into Fett’s hand and said, “Here are your tickets. With tax and everything, you owe me about $70, but I doubt I’m ever going to come chasing you for it.”

The irony was lost on Fett. “Thank you Royce,” he answered.

“When you get to Modesto, ask anyone you see where Skywalker Ranch is, that’ll get you to where George Lucas lives,” said Royce.

“Don’t worry, when I get close enough, my sensors will notify me and eventually guide me to the bounty,” Fett answered.

“Now you’ve got about four days on the bus before you actually get to California. Are you prepared for that?” asked Royce.

“I’m typically prepared for the worst,” Fett answered.

“Good, cause this is as close as you can get,” replied Royce.

Royce sat down next to Fett on the bench and waited in silence with the bounty hunter. “So do you have a plan then?”

“Follow my destiny,” answered Fett.

“Well, I really don’t want to involve myself with this business of killing the guy that created Star Wars anymore than I already have, so I’m gonna make myself scarce and get out of here,” said Royce.

“Don’t worry, no one will know a thing. He’s simply going to disappear,” said Fett.

“Well, I’m hurting for a drink anyways, this whole deal has sorta blown my mind,” answered Royce. “So I guess this is goodbye Boba Fett.”

“Indeed it is… Thank you Royce… It’s been… educational,” answered Fett.

“You can say that again. If you’re ever around these parts again, you know where I live. No more blowing up any pigeons, ok?”

“Affirmative,” answered Fett.

“Good, I’m going to the bar,” said Royce. He turned away and began walking through the hubris of humanity in the Greyhound Station. Before he turned the corner, he looked back at Fett. His aged face was devoid of emotion, unaware of the many humans that surrounded him. Royce put his iPod headphones into his ears and stepped out of the building.