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A charismatic space rogue (male, dark hair, futuristic space pilot uniform and coat, tall leather space boots) leaning against his floating speeder craft, in a parking lot of alien spaceships, cinematic and ultra-detailed. In the style of Col Price, Romas Kukalis, Chris Moore, Ralph McQuarrie. Full shot, eye level, soft focus, hyperrealistic, hyper detailed, photorealistic, masterpiece, incredible composition, amazing depth, imposing, meticulously composed.
You step off the ship and trade the first lungful of recycled air for the machine-stench
of the spaceport. Already the dust is finding its way into your boots.
Whatever brought you here doesn’t have a clean name. Nobody arrives on a world
like this for vacations. You’ve got contacts to meet, favors to call in, maybe a debt to
settle or a promise to break. The port is loud with engines and voices, but
underneath it all runs the quieter current of people measuring one another.
That’s when you see him.
Leaning against a low-slung speeder like it belongs to the ground it’s parked on.
Dark coat, travel-worn boots, posture relaxed enough to be dangerous. He isn’t
guarding the craft. He’s using it as furniture.
He doesn’t wave. Doesn’t signal.
He just looks at you, the way someone looks at inventory.
You run possibilities in your head. Is he opposition? Maybe. Is he supposed to be on
your side? That depends how old your intel is: he might have been aligned with your
people last week and this morning decided he liked a different offer better. Or maybe
he’s exactly what he looks like: freelance danger with a fast ride and flexible
loyalties.
The kind of operator who doesn’t care who wins, as long as he gets paid.
The ships behind him tell you this is a crossroads. Mixed hulls. Mixed tech. Nobody
here answers to a single authority. This is a place where deals happen, not laws.
Consequences happen later. Whatever rules exist are local, temporary, and
negotiable.
He’s already done the math on you. You can feel it.
He knows what you’re carrying. He’s clocked how tired you are. He’s noticed your
half-second hesitation on the ramp. If this were going to end violently, it already
would have. Instead, he waits — which means there’s still something to be gained.
That doesn’t mean you’re safe. It means you’re being evaluated.
You have maybe five seconds to decide whether getting into that speeder improves
your odds or quietly eliminates them. Refusing might be smarter. Refusing might
also mark you as inconvenient. Either way, the window is closing.
Because the truth is, he’s already made up his mind about you.
Now he’s just giving you the courtesy of pretending you have a choice.
