"Apologies, Shadowdancer," said the voice through the intercom with virtually no sincerity. "It'll be just a moment while we run your credentials. The Imperial Magistrate's been breathing down our necks lately..."
Cray tapped a few keys on his control panel, initiating a credit transfer to the dock operator's "special" account. He knew this sort of code well; it was the same in shadier ports all over the galaxy. "Breathing down our necks" meant the operator was looking for a bribe, while "looking over our shoulders" meant the Magistrate actually was watching them and the ship would be better off finding another port.
Sure enough, the voice came on again a moment later. "Bannered Mare, you are clear to land on pad eight-fifteen." Another common trait of these ports was a list of registered craft that the dock operator could assign to ships that didn't want to be identified on record.
"Eight-fifteen; thank you," said Cray before ending the connection. As he brought his ship, the Shadowdancer, in to lightly touch down on the assigned landing pad, he wondered again just how he'd gotten himself into his current predicament. Sure, the money was good... very good... but there was more to it. Maybe he felt a little sorry for Calrissian; that had to be part of it. Busting Solo out of the palace of any Hutt was no easy trick, and Jabba was a nasty one by even those slugs' standards. Still, he couldn't shake the feeling that there was something else, something he couldn't quite put his hoof on... "No sense worrying about it now," he muttered to himself, activating the hoofprint-identity lock on his boarding ramp as he stepped off of it.
The dive of a bar where Calrissian said his passenger would meet him wasn't far from the landing platform, which he liked. Unfortunately, it also wasn't far from the local Imperial Magistrate's office, which he didn't. Upon entering, he relaxed slightly. The patrons, what few there were, appeared to mostly be "disreputable" sorts, not unlike himself. There was one (off-duty, he hoped) Magistrate officer off in one corner, slowly and thoroughly marinating himself; beyond him, it was the usual collection of smugglers, rogues, and ne'er-do-wells that Cray felt right at home with. He took a seat at the bar, ordered a drink, and waited.
Two hours and one very nursed drink later, Cray was about to order a second when he heard a feminine voice next to him do likewise. It was a low alto, soft but firm, speaking in a somewhat hushed tone that gave it a husky quality... a quality that immediately perked Cray's ear. Glancing over, he saw a cloaked and hooded figure, an orange mare's face and a few strands of red and yellow mane poking out of the hood. Her aqua eyes took in everything around her, not furtive and nervous but with a practiced calm.
"My tab," Cray said to the bartender, nodding to the female's drink and tapping his own glass with a hoof, "and I'll take another."
"You don't have to do that," she said, turning to the smuggler and eyeing him a little warily.
Cray shrugged. "I know... and I don't expect more than a 'thank you' out of it; call it my good deed for the day."
"Thanks," she said with a soft chuckle, a grin starting to play at her muzzle. "Guess I'm a little paranoid."
"Can't say I blame you," Cray smirked. "Mare like you must have every sort of scoundrel hitting on her all the time."
"Hardly," the chuckle turned into a genuine laugh, one that reached her eyes... those eyes that Cray could easily get lost in if he wasn't careful. "I... don't get out much, and when I do, those I associate with rarely have romance in mind."
"Kind of a shame, you ask me," the Corellian told her, sipping his drink. Sure, he was here on business... as his brain kept screaming at him... but no reason he couldn't take the opportunity to gain a new acquaintance.
Before he could introduce himself, her head jerked up, glancing toward the door. "Do yourself a favor: make yourself scarce for the next few minutes."
"Was it something I said?" he asked jokingly; his humor fell when his eyes went to the door as well... and the squadron of stormtroopers walking in.
"I know we just met, but trust me," she said in a whisper. "Please..."
Cray nodded, collected his drink, and went off to a corner, within view of the mare and the bar, but back enough to avoid drawing attention. The troopers' attention, he noted, had fallen on his new friend, and they approached her purposefully.
"Ma'am, you need to come with us," the lead trooper announced.
"Excuse me, soldier?" her voice took on an authoritative tone as she turned, her hood falling back... no, pushed back; the horn it had concealed was glowing faintly. Her eyes narrowed at the lead trooper. "Do you have any idea who I am?"
He simply nodded. "Sunset Shimmer, personal assistant to Lord Vader, wanted for questioning by the Imperial Magistrate on suspicion of espionage, sedition, and treason," he recited as several of his troops readied blaster rifles. "I won't ask for your voluntary cooperation again, ma'am."