Sᴜᴄᴄᴇssꜰᴜʟ Dᴀᴛᴀ ᴍᴀɴ
Saone overlooked the poor air quality in his warehouse, concentrating on the silver filigree alignment on the High Republic naval document beneath the micro-welder. If it was even a millimeter off to the left, security scanners at any mid-rim checkpoint would instantly identify it as a forgery. He didn't dedicate 18 years to the Trade Federation to be seen as anything less than the best in this field.
His confidence might have been unfounded, yet no one in law enforcement had succeeded in locating him, at least not yet in this unpleasant part of space. He preferred it that way, as his tan lekku twitched slightly, an involuntary response while he adjusted the magnifying visor over his eyes to look for mistakes. His client was a young Pantoran who had more credits than common sense, eager to be officially recognized as a junior lieutenant in the High Republic Fleet.
Not for smuggling, but to impress his girlfriend. The Twi'lek had not laughed when the kid revealed his plan, especially since the kid had already placed a sack of pristine peggats on the worn workbench. The sheer absurdity of risking a lifetime in a grim prison just for a second date still made him uneasy.
Although he kept these thoughts to himself, he charged a premium for the hassle of replicating the unique triple-layered holographic watermark of a military branch that kept detailed records. Saone pressed a button on his terminal, watching the cold blue light of the screen shine on his hands as the machine began curing the synthetic polymer.
A drop of sweat ran down his brow, and he wiped it away with the back of his sleeve, keeping his eyes on the microscopic alignment grid. He only needed to add the digital signature of an Admiral who had retired three years prior, ideal, since retired officers seldom checked active personnel records.
His girlfriend would likely catch on to the deception as soon as she realized her heroic lieutenant couldn't even operate a standard cargo skiff without damaging the docking clamps but he trusted the Pantoran to have quick thinking. He reached for his chamois cloth, prepared to smooth out the rough spots on the card, when the sudden hiss of the shop's pressure door broke the silence.
The heavy security door slid up with a scraping sound, allowing a rush of cold palace air to enter and casting a long shadow over the work table. It was none other than his second client
Yuri Maji
, the rumored son of the Old Mandalorian Wardog but he didn't quite believe it.