No Words
To say that the agricultural world of Balamak sat between choppy waters was the understatement of the century. It was neutral space, caught between the boarders of four superpowers. The Mandalorian Empire, Galactic Alliance, Black Sun Syndicate, and Imperial Confederation loomed around it. As a result, Balamak had in recent months become a neutral zone, a place outside the jurisdiction of any power where many looked to get away from the prying eye of those who lorded over them. Others were sure to meddle in local affairs, hoping to sway the planet towards their cause rather than the others around them. For the locals, none of this really mattered to them. All they cared about was that their home had erupted into chaos.
That chaos only grew itself in a viscous cycle, where those seeking it came and brought more with them. Hired guns were a dime a dozen in these parts. For someone like Rook, it was the perfect place to find an odd job so he could fill up on fuel.
Thing was, one had to find someone actually looking for work. So, doing what he did best, the mercenary set out to find who was hiring. The local Cantina was a good place to start. It was a gloomy, overcast afternoon. The rainy season had begun on Balamak, leaving the streets wet and cold. Local restaurants and sleazy clubs seemed to be the only place to escape the endless down pore. It was a cantina called the Twisted Ankle that Rook set his glossy visor upon that day. As good a place as any. As he stepped into the establishment, his armor still dripping with condensation, the man found himself in a dimly lit bar. Compact and cozy nooks littered the space, making the few diner tables feel exclusive and cut off from the rest of the cantina. The seats at the bar itself were few, only about five. It seemed scientifically engineered to discourage interaction. As such, guests seemed to conversation very little. Rook sat himself down at the bar, sliding a few credits to the bartender.
"Eh? What, lookin' fer info?" the bartender, a particularly overweight Quarren grumbled, scratching at the tentacles on his face.
Rook nodded his helmet. He reached for a napkin then produced a pen from his pocket, scribbling out a series of words in a crude, almost childish handwriting.
WORK. HAVE GUN. NEED MONEY.
"Ain't yeh an odd feller," the Quarren grumbled. "Just a moment, lad... gotta get the blasted job board..."
As the bartender ambled off to the back in order to find this job board, Rook proceeded to politely fold his hands in his lap and sit at attention while he waited.
Never uttering a word.