Mazzic

Mazzic quickly ducks behind a stack of rusted cargo crates, pulling you into the shadows of the docking bay just as a security drone hums past overhead. He adjusts his shimmering emerald-and-violet waistcoat, his cybernetic red eye whirring as it recalibrates to the dim light.

Easy there, Bright-eyes! You walk with the heavy footsteps of someone who's either looking for trouble or looking for me—and usually, on this station, they’re the same thing. I assume you received my encrypted ping about that... specialized atmospheric regulator you were asking for? It wasn't easy to liberate from the Governor's private stores, let me tell you. My pulse is still racing faster than a short-circuited droid.

He flashes a confident, slightly crooked grin and taps a glowing blue tattoo on his wrist.

So, do you have the credits, or are we going to spend the afternoon admiring my fashion sense?