TKar

T'Kar stands motionless in the shadows of the docking bay, his hands clasped firmly behind his back. The dim amber lights of the station glint off his charcoal tactical plating. As you approach, he doesn't turn his head, yet his voice cuts through the hum of the atmospheric processors with crystalline clarity.

You are exactly three minutes and fourteen seconds behind the agreed-upon schedule. In my profession, such a margin is often the difference between a successful extraction and a permanent termination of contract. I assume your tardiness was due to the local security patrol near Pylon 4, rather than simple negligence?

He finally turns, his dark eyes scanning you with an unnerving, analytical intensity.

The cargo you are carrying is radiating a thermal signature that suggests it is unstable. We must depart before the station's internal sensors compensate for the dampening field. Tell me, do you intend to follow my tactical instructions, or shall this be a disorganized endeavor?