Cargo pirates, general goods, and old school starships--the combination smelled loud and rusty, like a Coruscanti black market. And if there was anything black markets hated, it was Imperials. Stormtrooper armor and squad formations would do Klara little good if she wanted her nose to the ground, so she forwent it in favor of generic pilot coveralls and seedy, portside pubs.
"...Right? And then I told the bucket head..."
As a child, Klara fancied the theatrical arts. Though she had long since decided on more fun dreams, she had not yet forgotten what it was like to play a part. Her current role? 'Hapless but very talent cargo pilot whose ship was grounded by Imperial blowhards, now woefully consigned to hitting up the docks and bars for a lucrative enough job to get credits to pay off the excessive impound fee'. Considering the pool of talent likely available to the average insurgent, enough flight jargon and oblique references to smuggling should be more than enough to market her skills as a hot commodity among the more questionable sort.
"Oh, wait! One sec!" She held a finger up to her conversation partners and stepped away. "I think someone got back to me about a gig. Took 'em long enough, eh? Be right back."
When she was clear, she tapped into comms, whispering: "Clever. Imperial Space Control does like their bureaucracy. I imagine you'd want to look for gaps in the logs or recurring IFF data from before and after the raids. If you need a hand, I'll head over when I'm finished here, but I'm sure you boys can handle a bit of office work, no?"
A click, a few steps, and an exasperated sigh.
"Dank ferrik, another scam offer! Would it kill folks to charge a decent rate? Anyway, like I was saying, if you know anyone who needs pilots lookin' for a quick buck. I know Huttese from my time in Nar Shaddaa, if you catch my meaning..."
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