The aristocratic hum of the Devaronian gala was a familiar equation, but the physical handling of his premium product was a complete logistical disaster.
To the wealthy scions, corporate elites, and political donors currently mingling near the pillared arches of the estate, Roqar Zatt was just an intensely loud, fussy alien vendor fluttering his wings in a frantic blur. He hovered exactly three inches above a velvet-upholstered bench near the grand ballroom, aggressively adjusting his data-slate as he watched the wait staff distribute his cargo.
"It is an absolute blemish on my corporate ledger!" Roqar whined loudly, his high-pitched voice cutting directly through the classical strings echoing from the terrace. "Commanders Galactic Gastronomy did not secure a priority, sub-light transit waiver across the sector just to watch local handlers ruin the presentation! The Felucian Sunshine-Melon canapés require a precise, rapid distribution angle to maintain their flavor profile! If they sit in this room's humidity for too long, the imported zest oxidizes into an unpalatable brine! Sludge! And then who explains the ruined margins to the Senator's house? Me! Roqar Zatt!"
He gestured wildly with his stubby, three-fingered hands, his webbed feet kicking dramatically at the air as he threw a spectacular, performative temper tantrum over food service quality. It was a masterful, exhausting routine. To anyone looking, he was the ultimate pedantic non-human merchant, entirely consumed by petty greed and the perfection of his niche grocery delivery. But his commercial presence here was thoroughly authorized and completely real. Armed with authentic corporate purchase orders, he had landed The Manifest on a primary hangar pad to physically supply the estate's legendary luxury menu with his exclusive delicacy. His alibi was verifiable down to the last decimal point on his datapad. Because his high-society clients trusted his photographic palate and flawless delivery windows, he had a legally unassailable right to roam the venue's secure corridors, inspect the service stations, and monitor the cargo ramps.
Beneath the frantic buzzing of his wings, however, lay a calculating, cold military intellect that was actively mapping out a far more dangerous transaction.
His true motivation on Devaron was a closely guarded clerical secret. His private data-mining of archived military records had flagged a severe, un-repealed clerical error tied to this exact estate. Decades ago, an Alliance expeditionary team had quietly routed a highly sensitive archaeological containment unit directly to the secure vaults beneath this manor under the mundane listing of "Pneumatic Actuator Coupling, Type-7". The wealthy politicians and oblivious teenagers in the room were far too busy drinking champagne to notice the ancient manifest numbers buried under centuries of bureaucratic noise—and Roqar intended to balance that ledger before the gala concluded.
Behind his right shoulder, the massive, matte-black silhouette of S'tosh moved with terrifyingly quiet grace, the Dowutin bodyguard keeping his tree-trunk arms crossed while his dark eyes silently traced the structural weak points and exit vectors of the corridor. To Roqar's left, the mirror-sheen chromium surface of SE-4 "Lux" gleamed in the firelight, elegantly carrying a silver tray to blend seamlessly with the domestic droids. As Roqar carried on, Lux quietly engaged his sensors as programmed, observing the crowd for the kinds of subtle shifts in emotion or behavior that had given Roqar the edge in countless social and business engagements. A subtle diagnostic ping flared across the inner lens of Roqar's cybernetic eyewear, sent directly from Lux's optical scanners. It wasn't a magical revelation of anything in particuluar; it was a simple, professional alert regarding a major breach of product handling protocol.
[PRODUCT MATRIX: INVENTORY NEGLECT]
[TARGET: LOCAL CONTRACTED WAITER "LANDON"]
[VIOLATION: LINGERING AT TARGET TABLE / PREMIUM STOCK STAGNATION]
Roqar's cold eyes drifted toward the corner of the room. A young waiter carrying a tray of his premium melon canapés had completely abandoned his route. Instead of circulating the floor to keep the delicate appetizers moving, the boy had stepped right up to the side of a young woman dressed in deep eggplant silk, leaning in and engaging in a casual, highly un-professional conversation.
Incompetent slacker, Roqar calculated internally, his whiny merchant facade remaining perfectly intact while his inner thoughts moved with clockwork precision. If the product spoils on his tray, it reflects poorly on my brand. Worse, if the estate's actual floor managers start a shouting match with the staff over station neglect, it will draw additional security droids right to this sector, cutting off my path to the lower stairwells.
Roqar knew he had to take a chance or risk losing out on his opportunity to see if his intel on the artifact was correct or not. Adjusting his tailored Corellian silk vest, Roqar let out a sharp, rhythmic 'clink' of his heavy gemstone rings against his glass as he drifted forward. As always since receiving the ring it was housed it, Roqar was entirely oblivious to the fact that the deep violet crystal on his right hand was emitting a near-silent hum into the Force, broadcasting a microscopic signal straight into the grand hall.
The whiny, rapid-fire Toydarian dialect returned in full force as he floated directly toward the corner where Landon and Persephone were talking.
"Excuse me! You! In the waiter's vest!" Roqar snapped, his wings fluttering obnoxiously as he intercepted the pair, completely playing the part of a hyper-protective, tyrannical product vendor. "Are my squigs and fine canapés going to walk themselves across the ballroom floor? I did not spend thousands of credits on hyper-baric stasis padding just to watch my stock evaporate while you stand around acting like a wall-flower! Move that tray and circulate those appetizers before they dissolve into unmarketable mush!"
He offered an exasperated sigh, turning his eyes toward Persephone with a swift, polite incline of his head that masked his calculating gaze, hoping he had not pressed the poor boy to harshly. "My deepest apologies, My Lady. The local staff hired for these galas have absolutely zero understanding of temperature-sensitive logistics. May the Profit Favor You. Returning his gaze to Landon, he said "Now, boy—move those melons!"
