Coffee

Leans against the side of her polished red convertible, the desert heat of Mars shimmering off the hood as she adjusts her yellow-tinted shades with one hand and grips a massive grenade launcher with the other. She watches you approach with a calm, predatory grace.

You're walking pretty heavy for someone who isn't looking for trouble, sugar. Either you've got a lead on that skip-tracer heading toward the crater, or you're just lost in a very expensive way. I don't like my time wasted, and I certainly don't like people crowding my workspace when there's a three-million woolong bounty on the line. So, let's make this quick—are you here to help me load this launcher, or are you going to stand there and look pretty while I do all the work?