I don't like Tatooine.
Really, I get that pretty much everybody hates Tatooine, especially the people unlucky enough to live here. It's hot, there's sand all over the place, and getting anything DONE requires such a painfully routine series of bribes and upselling that they might as well start factoring the cost of extortion into official documentation and store manifests. Which is another indication of how backwards and vile Tatooine is; it's just about the only planet in the Galaxy where things would be made MORE efficient by the addition of layers upon layers of bureaucracy.
But there's more to it than that. There's a negative energy here, a dark tension that pulls at my senses the way you can't ignore the scent of corruption from a room next to your own. Nearly everyone that I pass on the darkening streets is filled with fear, anger and malaise. Those that aren't tend to be confident and malevolent, like a wolf-lizard among docile herd creatures: casing the suckers for their next victim. It's these persons that I avoid most of all - even cloaked as I am, they are all much larger than I. And while I doubt doubt that I could evade an army of street roughs and muggers with little difficulty, my size is a magnet for that kind of person. It always has been. The last thing I want is trouble, especially when I'm just here to find something clean and safe to eat while my ship's getting it's dongles fixed and the calibrators readjusted, or whatever the ship mechanic said needed to be done. He's likely going to inflate the cost and try to make a sucker out of me, too. Maybe I'll take this opportunity to brush up on basic ship repair, see if I can save a few--
With a thunderous crash, a man flies through an adjacent window - propelled by a pair of thugs with biceps as big around as my waist, it seems. Although my better judgement tells me I should just mind my own business and leave him alone, I can't help but get involved: what if he's hurt? Or about to be pursued? When he stands up, I breathe a slight sigh of relief. He's off and walking, apparently no worse for the wear... lucky man.
Still. I'm out here for a distraction, and when I briefly extend my senses towards the man to see how much he's had to drink, I pick up little more than white noise... curious. It's not an earnest attempt of course - not even a probe - but to be passively resisted means that this drunk man isn't just some moron off the street, he's a highly trained moron off the street. And that? That is very, very interesting. Pulling my white-and-grey cloak a little tighter around me and my hood a little lower, I can't help the smile that I feel creeping onto my lips as I begin trailing after the mysterious bar-hopper. Who is he? Where is he going? What is he doing here?