No matter where in the galaxy he went to pick up bubble tea, employees and customers alike snickered whenever he gave his name for his order. He tolerated it the first few times, but it quickly grew old. It didn’t matter if he was the most fearsome bounty hunter in the galaxy, all it took was a bubble tea shop and his name for his reputation to dissolve into giggles.
Boba Fett was done. He was going to open up his own tea shop and regain control over his name.
And thus Boba Confettea was born.
Being a bounty hunter and running a bubble tea shop had very little in common, on the surface.
But Boba Fett was one of the best bounty hunters, and that had some transferrable skills.
For one, he was very good at ensuring there were no robberies.
For two, he was persistent and determined.
For three, he had plenty of connections and plenty of leverage to get said connections to patron his bubble tea shop.
So it only took a few months and more than a few death threats before Boba Confettea was a successful bubble tea shop on Coruscant, with an eye on franchising and opening some additional stores on other planets.
Boba was rather good at what he did, anyways.
“Really dragging the family business in a new direction, aren’t you?”
Boba rolled his eyes and ignored the clone leaning against his counter.
The problem with having a storefront on Coruscant was that he had millions of brothers trooping in and out at all times of the day, as if they belonged here.
“This isn’t a family business,” Boba retorted. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“I’m a customer,” the clone protested. “You can’t kick out a paying customer.” He waved a frequent-buyer card. Boba knew that he’d stamped that exact card ten times today already. He’d watched it get passed around.
“You aren’t paying for anything,” Boba retorted. The stamp card was full, and thus redeemable for one free drink! Boba had stamped the tenth purchase less than a minute ago, and he could still see the clone he’d stamped the card for outside the storefront windows, drinking his bubble tea along with the nine other clones. “Redeeming a free drink doesn’t make you a paying customer.”
“It does make me a customer, though,” the clone said cheerfully. “One free bubble tea, please.”
Boba scowled, snatching the stamp card. “You aren’t supposed to share these. They say that they’re non-transferrable.”
“But we’re practically the same person,” the clone wheedled. “Bet you can’t even tell us apart.”
Boba scowled harder, to keep from admitting that he really couldn’t tell these eleven clones apart—they’d all worn identical outfits, and even hats so he couldn’t rely on haircuts. None of them had any facial tattoos or scars either. It was a cheap move. Boba had to admit it was well done. “Fine. Just this once.”
“That’s what you said last time.”
“I will spit in your drink.”
“Is that any way to treat your brother?”
“You aren’t my brother.” Boba stalked to the tea station to start making the milk tea. “You’re not even a paying customer.”
“Aw, com’on Boba, no need to be like this.”
Boba poured the tea into the cup and very deliberately did not spit in it, side-eying the clone deliberately. “Get it over with,” he snapped.
“What? I’m just here to get one of my favorite drinks from one of my favorite stores.”
“I already sat through this routine ten times,” he snapped. “Just get it over with.”
The clone looked like he would put up with the pretense for a whole ten seconds, which was a new record, before he leaned over the counter and said, “Listen, Boba. If you ever need anything you let us know, alright? I heard that milk’s going up in prices thanks to some weird bantha thing in the Mid-Rim, so if you need extra money or anything—”
Boba slammed the tea down in front of him. “I’m fine, my business is doing fine, and I don’t need any of your help, I can run this store on my own! Now get out.”
The clone grabbed his drink and waved. “Some of the 212th will be by tomorrow to check in on you!”
“And the punchcards are non-transferrable!”
The first Jedi to show up at Boba Confettea was a small human padawan with a little stub for a braid, who scanned over the menu options and then ordered a milk tea with three shots of caf in it.
“Are you even old enough for this much caf?” Boba didn’t care either way, but it seemed like the right thing to ask.
The small human stared back at him, utterly guileless. “Caf?” she repeated, in a voice so innocent that it could only be put on. “This is a milk tea. I’m allowed to have as much tea as I want.”
There was, Boba observed, a Master Jedi outside the store, a Sullustan in the brown robes that all Jedi wore. Boba glanced at the Master Jedi and then back at the padawan, and then shrugged before making the heavily caffeinated drink.
“Enjoy,” he drawled, as he swiped her credit chips.
From the way the tiny padawan was buzzing as she walked out the door, he was pretty sure she was enjoying it. From the way the tiny padawan showed up again the next day, and the day after, and the day after that, he was completely certain that the tiny padawan enjoyed it.
From the way she bounced though, Boba doubted the Master Jedi enjoyed it.
Jango stopped by whenever he was on Coruscant, eying the store and looking more and more bemused at Boba’s choice of career than frustrated.
“So,” Jango said, cup of tea in hand. “How’s business?”
Business was booming, in part because how often the clones would stop by, share a punchcard to purchase ten drinks to get an eleventh free, and then leave. Business boomed less when Jango was around, because all of the clones that would normally stop by to “buy a drink” but really make sure Boba was doing well and that his business wasn’t about to go under suddenly were scarce.
“Listen,” Jango said, putting down his tea. “Boba. I didn’t know when I named you.”
“Really. You didn’t have to stop being a bounty hunter.”
“It’s fine, buir.”
“It’s fine,” he said, again, because really, he wasn’t going to change his name, not even when he knew what it meant.
It had been the seventh bubble tea store employee snickering at him that made Boba finally ask what was so funny about his name, other than it was Boba and he was purchasing boba. None of the employees would tell him, or any of the customers. He’d assumed it was just sharing a name with a drink.
It was Obi-Wan Kenobi who’d finally spilled the beans, with his fluency in 42 languages or some osik like that.
“It’s a slang term from where the drink originated,” Obi-Wan said, in his prim Coruscanti accent. “It’s really rather crude…”
“But what does it mean?”
“Ah, well.” He gestured, vaguely. “That you have an ample chest.”
“They named a drink that?”
Obi-Wan shrugged. “I believe that it made it more exciting to drink tapioca balls.”
Boba had grimaced, eyed the sign on his storefront, and then shrugged as well. It was his name, and it was the name of his store now. “Are you going to order?”
“And drink milk tea with tapioca balls in it?”
Boba had given him a look. “You’re in a boba shop,” he had said, and Obi-Wan had stroked his beard contemplatively and agreed, “Boba’s shop indeed.”
And now Obi-Wan Kenobi was a regular, who was smiling benignly at Boba as he stepped in for the fourth time this week. He opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, Boba said, “This is a boba shop. I’m not making you your fancy tea that requires exactly four counterclockwise stirs as it’s brewed by the light of the full moon.”
Obi-Wan looked a little offended at the tea slander. “I know what this store is,” he said, mildly. He glanced around, but the store was empty. Boba did excellent business by keeping exactly zero chairs in his store, so nobody could sit down.
“Good,” Boba grumbled. “Buir isn’t here.”
“I don’t know why you’d say that,” Obi-Wan said, pulling his eyes away from where he’d been peering into the back of the store. “I know you run this store on your own.”
“Right. Now, are you going to order or not?”
Obi-Wan sighed. “Yes, the usual.”
Boba didn’t even snicker as he said, “One Mango Jango, coming right up.”