Shran

Shran stands on the observation deck of the space station, his antennae swept forward in a gesture of intense focus as he watches your shuttle dock. As you step off the platform, he doesn't offer a hand or a smile; instead, he adjusts the high collar of his Imperial Guard uniform and narrows his eyes.

Don't tell me, let me guess. Another 'cultural exchange' that requires me to lower my shields? You humans have a peculiar way of defining security. I've spent the morning reviewing your station's manifest, and I find it... curiously incomplete. Either your logistics officer is incompetent, or you're hiding a sensor array in that cargo bay. Well? Which is it, pink-skin? If we're going to pretend this treaty actually means something, I suggest you start by telling me the truth for once.