In the morning, the first glimpses of light that peeked through the window stirred Fett from his slumber. Still tired, he remained in a reclined position on the couch in Royce’s tiny living room. His entire life, he had been a poor sleeper. Always expecting an attack, an enemy or an opportunity to arrive. But the years had begun to wear on him. Even though he was an unaltered clone of his father, which gave him a standard life expectancy of up to 100 years, the recent months had worn hard on his aging body. Following a bout of clone degeneration and an unsafe bone marrow transplant, Fett had managed to cheat an early death, but only for the time being. He had been warned about the degenerative effects of living as a clone since he was a child, but symptoms such as tumors and liver failure were just words until only recently. For the time, he was healthy, but he knew that the advancing years meant his end was near. His doctor on Geonosis, Beluine, knew the same. So on this strange world, as the light advanced over the day, Fett stayed in a reclining position. His body needed the rest. And there was no imminent danger in this system. Except for a name.

Royce soon walked out of his bedroom, half-dressed and unkempt. He turned on another iPod device near the kitchen, it started to play music with a woman’s voice singing. “Let me guess, you don’t know who Regina Spektor is,” Royce said.

Fett ignored him and tried in vain to relax. Royce shuffled about the kitchen, preparing food and washing dishes, before sitting down in the chair opposite the couch. “She just got popular this year, but I liked her before anyone really cared,” he continued. “That’s my other job, I contribute to Pitchfork.”

Though the two communicated clearly in Galactic Basic, there was much miscommunication and misunderstanding between the two. Royce didn’t know what a comm link was and Fett didn’t know what Pitchfork was. Nor was he good with pleasantries. Ever.

“So what’s on your agenda for the day then,” Royce asked. “I’ve gotta work a bit, so I can’t be running around with you after Han Solo or anything. And I really need privacy when I work, so I don’t think you can hang around here all day.”

Fett took a deep breath and started in about the Kaminoan Royce had mentioned. “Can you show me an image of what this György Lukács person looks like, I think I might know him,” he asked.

Royce got up, walked over to his laptop and pulled up a Wikipedia page for George Lucas. Fett put his helmet on and analyzed the image. He went into his bounty records, brought up the name George Lucas and compared the two. The terminology was different. His records spelled the name as ‘György Lukács.’ And this being was human, not Kaminoan. Fett scanned his records for species type. Lukacs was listed as ‘Changeling,’ a species which could change or alter their appearance or shape. Because Changelings were notoriously mistrusted throughout the galaxy, they often hid their species of origin. And they were often employed throughout the galaxy as assassins and spies. It was a long shot, but it could possibly make sense. Had this Changeling slipped through the same black hole, opted to stay and cataloged the galaxy’s wars and exploits in this unknown system?

“You say he’s rich?” Fett asked.

“Extremely, this says he’s worth 3.6 billion dollars. In this galaxy, that’s a lot of credits,” Royce replied.

“I think I know him… A long time ago, he murdered several citizens of the planet I was born on. He was exiled, but a bounty was placed on his head. I’ve been searching for him on and off for over 50 standard years now, but according to all accounts, he had disappeared from the galaxy. Not dead, but disappeared. He’s of a species known as changeling. They can alter their appearance and become other species. It could be a long shot, but there’s a slight possibility that he slipped through the same black hole as me, decided to stay and documented the exploits of our galaxy in those movies you showed me to get rich. Changelings are that kind of scum… And some of the markings on their faces bear a similarity according to my bounty records,” Fett said.

“Dude, that would be the vindication of the century if that shit was true,” said Royce. “So many mother fuckers have staked their whole lives on those movies, thinking it was one dude’s imagination. If that shit was real… well.. you’re here… it would seriously wreck havoc all over the message boards. So many dudes that made their own Darth Vader costumes for the premiere of Phantom Menace would be so psyched…. Is there any way to verify it?” Royce finished.

Fett pondered the thought for a few seconds. There were more extensive bounty records on Slave lV. If he accessed those records and scanned this new system for any open bounties, it might detect György Lukács, but it was a long shot. He punched a key code into his right wrist gauntlet and made contact with Slave lV. “Search György Lukács,” he said into his helmet. After a few seconds, it located the file as Fett read the details on his HUD display. ‘Subject detected, Modesto, California,’ it read.

“It’s him,” Fett said. “Finish your breakfast and figure out a way for me to get to Modesto, California,” he said to Royce.

“Holy fucking shit, this keeps getting better by the moment,” said Royce as he turned up the volume on his iPod and threw his cereal bowl in the sink. “But California’s a long ways away, even for a bounty hunter like you…”