The chemical-laden rain had turned the urban districts of Humbarine into a toxic marsh, but inside the Governor's Mansion, the air was a crisp shield of ground Jovian clove, fresh Meiloorun zest, and calculated opportunism.
To the lingering Sith legionnaires, weary duelists, and plundering partisans, Roqar Zatt was just an intensely loud, hyperactive food broker fluttering his wings in a frantic blur. He hovered exactly three inches above a velvet cushion in the main parlor, throwing a high-pitched, performative temper tantrum over bureaucratic delays.
"I'll be completely ruined! A disaster of epic proportions! Do you know how many credits it takes to keep a hyper-baric stasis field operational while a sector is under military lockdown?!" Roqar whined loudly, waving an intricate, officially stamped data-slate at a pair of heavily armed Sith guards who looked desperate to exit the room. "My dear dear friend, the late Governor—rest his soul, a man of immaculate taste—had a standing, priority acquisition contract with Commanders Galactic Gastronomy! I have three pallets of unpasteurized Naboo Blue-Milk Cheese sitting on landing pad nine that will turn to gray slush if I don't clear these customs manifests! Sludge!" He gestured wildly with his stubby, three-fingered hands, his webbed feet kicking at the air as he legal-coded the guards into absolute boredom. It was a masterful double-bluff. To anyone watching, he was the quintessential Toydarian stereotype: a frantic, fussy merchant entirely obsessed with margins and ruined grocery orders.
But his presence here was no accident. Having been a long-time supplier to the late-Governor's estate, he was initially destressed to learn of the recent governmental collapse that had left his friend and client dead. But being the shrewd businessman he was, Roqar knew that this presented a unique and likely unrepeatable opportunity. In the wake of the Covenant's sudden takeover, the Governor was gone, his regime had collapsed, and the mansion's legendary private cellars were being actively plundered. Roqar hadn't truly come just to deliver; he had come to buy. He knew that without his regular network of contacts on Humbarine, the Sith would likely turn the Toydarian away before ever reaching the mansion. But since he already had legitimate documentation, and the requisite products in tow, he had a perfectly reasonable reason to try and push past them. After all, they did not know he had already learned that the intended recipient was dead. He was simply there to collect his payment and fulfill the contract. Beyond making his scheduled delivery, what he really wanted was a chance to source quantities of some of the rare and exotic private stocks the Governor had let him sample so often during their previous engagement. Prior to arriving, Lux had preloaded Roqar's data-slate with real, verifiable corporate purchase orders to repossess and acquire the estate's remaining high-end inventory before the occupying troops drank it all. He was currently eyeing several dusty, antique bottles of wine and rare liqueurs stacked across the long tables near the pillars—assets he fully intended to salvage and sell to his ultra-wealthy, high-society clients on Canto Bight and the Core Worlds.
Behind his left shoulder, the massive, matte-black silhouette of S'tosh stood like a stone statue. The Dowutin bodyguard kept his tree-trunk arms crossed, his horn-crowned head slightly tilted as his dark eyes silently ran tactical threat assessments on every broken skyscraper silhouette visible through the tall, rain-streaked windows. To Roqar's right, the mirror-sheen chromium surface of SE-4 "Lux" caught the ambient glow of the mansion's light fixtures. The modified servant droid tilted its filigreed head with clockwork elegance, seamlessly lifting a crystal decanter from a private, secure lockbox.
"Allow me to offer a vintage that matches the gravity of your victory, sirs," Lux murmured in a smooth, comforting aristocratic baritone, pouring a rich, deep crimson stream of Corellian Spiced Wine into glasses for the distracted guards. "And please, find me the boss so I can finish my business, eh?"
As the droid poured, a subtle flicker of micro-data rolled across the inner rim of the custom cybernetic lenses resting over Roqar's eyes. Lux's ocular sensors were already at work, scanning the room, running real-time micro-expression and deception algorithms on the mingling Sith elites.
[TARGET AREA: GOVERNOR'S MANSION MAIN HALL]
[LOCAL COMBATANTS: SEVERE BIOMETRIC STRESS / HIGH TRAUMA RETENTION]
[COMMERCIAL OPPORTUNITY: EXOTIC LIQUOR SALVAGE ACTIVE]
[SECONDARY TRACKING: CLERICAL ERROR DETECTED IN PRIVATE VAULT MANIFEST]
The frantic buzzing of Roqar's wings never faltered, but internally, the Whiny Merchant persona vanished, replaced by the razor-sharp, cold intellect of a veteran GADF quartermaster. While his culinary acquisition contract gave him a flawless, legal right to inspect the estate's storerooms and cellars, his true ledger was fixed on a separate, hidden prize. Before the battle, his deep-space data-mining of archived GADF manifests had flagged a glaring clerical error tied to this exact estate. Decades ago, a Republic exploration team had shipped three high-security, heavily masked archaeological containment crates directly to the Governor's private vaults under the label Hydro-gasket Assembly, Grade 4. The Sith Covenant was currently too busy celebrating their victory to notice the vault manifests locked in the deeper, un-plundered recesses of the mansion. Roqar was going to find them.
The heavy gemstone rings on his webbed fingers let out a sharp, rhythmic 'clink' against his own crystal glass as he took a slow sip of Tarisian Nectar. His tailored, high-collar silk vest parted just enough to reveal the low-profile leather shoulder rig housing his twin custom blasters—Debit and Credit. He was entirely oblivious to the fact that the deep violet gemstone on his right hand was emitting a faint, near-silent hum into the Force—a ticking clock waiting for an astute force user to hear it.
Roqar drifted slightly lower, his voice dropping into a calm, measured, and highly sophisticated cadence meant only for his crew.
"The procurement paperwork is verified, Lux," Roqar murmured softly, his whiny tone completely dissolving into the cold precision of a criminal architect. "We take the Governor's top-shelf stock to keep the front company thriving. But keep the sensors alert. S'tosh, watch the perimeter. We have an ancient manifest to close before the ashes settle here."
He raised his glass to the fractured Humbarine skyline, a dangerous, knowing smirk touching his snout as he prepared to extract a priceless piece of forbidden history right under the victors' noses.
"May the Profit Favor You."
Having managed to compel one of the guards to go look for someone else to deal with the irritating Toydarian, the other reluctantly stepped aside after returning the wine glass to Lux. Roqar took in a deep breath through his snout and then entered the main parlor, hoping he might find some "new" dear dear friends to do business with. "Never let a good disaster go to waste", he thought to himself.
