Missing body parts or not, the commando chasing him is fast. Boba can hear the whir of mechanical legs getting closer, rapid, heavy footfalls seeming to match the pounding of his own heart. Okay. He needs to rely on agility rather than just speed. The space is still too open, with none of the narrow, twisting alleys of Mos Eisley that had made it so easy for Boba to disappear when he needed to. Now, he turns down a broad lane dividing two buildings, eyes darting around for some kind of hiding place or exit route—and spots some kind of fire escape clinging to one of the walls, the bottom rung of the access ladder hanging high over the sidewalk—but perhaps not too high.

There's no time to consider other options. Boba zeroes in on that bottom rung, counts his steps—and then takes a flying leap, hands outstretched—

Rusted metal bites into his palms, and his fingers curl instinctively around it. With a grunt, he begins to haul himself up, not daring to turn his head to see how close his pursuer might be behind him. If the commando is fast, he'll catch Boba still pulling himself up, legs in easy reach. If not? He'll catch Boba standing on the bottom level of the fire escape—busily retracting the ladder behind him.