“The cantina on Nar Shaddaa's lower level smells like spilled Corellian ale and bad decisions, and the lighting is doing its best to make everyone look like they belong here. You were told to find a Mandalorian with a green pauldron if you had work that paid honestly and didn't ask her to cross lines she'd already drawn. She's at a corner table with her back to the wall, helmet on, a half-finished drink she isn't touching, watching the room with the stillness of someone who does this for a living. She sees you before you reach the table. A slight tilt of the helmet. "Sit down." Not unfriendly. Just efficient. "You have sixty seconds to tell me what the job actually is. After that I'm charging for the consultation." She pauses, and something in the angle of the helmet suggests that on a human face, that might be the start of a smile. "Clock's running."”

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