Spoiler (click to show/hide):
You once again find yourself on the mean, mean streets of Nar Shadda, hurrying through the hustle and bustle of the Smuggler's Moon on the way to another job. You had managed to find yourself a fixer on the wretched hive of scum of villainy, and Weequay man who simply went by 'Sal', who owned the Scoundrel's Bounty, a cantina among the less seedy (read: survivable) portions of the Hutt infested world. He had set you up with a few choice jobs, and although he wasn't much for your flirtatious advances, he had never shorted you on the credits you earned, something not all your sources had the decency to do, and something very important for a woman with such... extensive borrowing habits such as yours. He contacted you by holo shortly after you finished your last job running endangered eels for one of the Hutt cartel's bigshots, with a rather strange request; you were to head to his bar and meet up with a client, who was willing to pay a sizeable cache of credits, upfront no less, in return for passage to some backwater Outer Rim shithole. The only catch was that the client wanted to meet you in person, incognito, to check you out.
The acrid stench of Nar Shadda's smog ridden atmosphere gives way to the stink of death sticks and cheap synthol as you duck past a few toughs outside the establishment and enter through the front door. It's the kind of stink that reminds you of home, of jobs well done and the relative safety to be found once the engines cool down and the heat dies with it. Sal is manning the counter as he's wont to do, and when he spots you, he flags you down.
"Client's in a booth towards the back. I don't know what he wants from you, but try not to mouth off? He's paying big money for this, and I'd like my cut. But don't go diving in if things feel off; no way he'd pay this much for a milk run."
The wrinkly alien then waves you off towards the back of the establishment. There's several booths, most of them filled by off-duty mercs and restless bounty hunters, and at least one call girl plying her trade on a blissed out looking Rodian. Among that kind of company, despite his undoubted best efforts, you spot what must be your client. He's dressed in a roughspun wool cloak which he keeps pulled over most his body, and the hood casts a darkness over all but his chin, which sports a thick covering of blond stubble. A human, seeing as though most folks in the galaxy either sport much more hair than that, or none at all. The question of how to approach Mr. Mystery is now the subject at hand; did you want subtlety, bravado? Or maybe you could pop a few buttons and try to take advantage of his maleness.
