Race Osroam
Aspiring Spacer

Of course it wasn't long before his tentative state of zen was shattered by three sorry looking Weequay barging through the front door, shouting frantically in Huttese and lugging a massive R1 series astromech between them. Race glanced plaintively at his employer, who was still leaned back in his chair against the wall, head back and snoring like a rancor. With a sigh the young spacer got up and approached the front desk. He barely managed to get out a "Can I help you?" before one of the aliens, with a massive scar on his forehead, shouted in Basic.
"It's busted! We need it fixed double time! Just enough so it can bloody move!" Race didn't share their obvious haste, wiping the grease from his hands with a cloth as he looked over the droid. A truly ancient piece of tech, and heavy at that. R1s were infamous for their lousy mobility systems, he wasn't surprised it had locked up on them. But this one looked like it had been shot at. He gave the Weequay a suspicious look.
"I can put it on my queue, where did you guys-" Again he was interrupted, this time by a blaster being shoved in his face.
"The others can wait!" The scarred Weequay snapped. "And no questions. Just do the job, we'll see you're paid and you keep your mouth shut. Got it?" Race pursed his lips and nodded silently. Mouth shut. Understood. He gestured for the other two Weequay to bring the droid into the back room.
While his impatient clients kept watch by the front door, weapons drawn, Race began going about his business. As expected the treads were all locked up, likely from neglect. But despite the intensity of the situation, the spacer couldn't help but be curious about what was really going on. Before he set about anything else, he took the time to reactivate the droid. Immediately the R1 began wailing in it's low pitched binary whine, terrified of something.
"Easy! Easy..." Race said gently as he started to go about fixing the treads. "What happened to you big guy? You're acting like you saw a ghost." The R1 took a moment to turn its large head back and forth, examining its new surroundings, then replied in a series of deep beeps. Race snorted. That sounded about right. "Stolen eh? I'm sorry to hear that. Who's your real owner then?" Another series of beeps. Race stopped in his tracks, his tools beginning to shake in his hands. A nervous grin crossed his face as he glanced back at the R1's head. "Oh... haha... A Hutt huh?" Now it was his turn to be terrified, the fear seeping from every syllable. He looked back towards the door. More men were approaching the shop. Armed men. Angry looking men. Race swallowed. "Well that's unfortunate..."