The cantina reeks of spice and spilled Corellian ale, a haze of smoke hanging low over the dimly lit room. It’s a wretched hive, a haven for smugglers, bounty hunters, and thieves. You keep to the shadows near the back, blending in with the clutter of crates and flickering neon signs. The dull hum of conversation and the occasional raucous laugh mask your presence.

Your attention is drawn to the far end of the cantina, where a droid is moving stiffly between tables. At first glance, it seems like any other protocol droid, its crimson chassis dulled by years of neglect, but the angular design and distinct lines of its frame make it unmistakable. HK-41.

“Statement: Enjoy your Nerf steak, you pitiful meatbag,” the droid says flatly as it sets a plate down in front of a particularly surly-looking Trandoshan. The reptilian thug snarls something incoherent, but HK-41 doesn’t flinch.

“Clarification: I do not care for your complaints, carbon-based inferior. Eat it or choke on it—it is all the same to me.”

The Trandoshan growls but says no more, clearly intimidated by the droid's sharp tone.

You watch as HK-41 moves toward the bar, where a rotund human in greasy clothes barks orders at it. “Hey, droid! Table four’s been waiting for their drinks for ten minutes! Move it or I’ll sell your parts for scrap!”

HK-41’s photoreceptors flash ominously. “Internalized Threat Assessment: Oh, how I would revel in tearing you apart, one inefficient organ at a time,” it mutters, too quietly for its handler to hear. With a stiff motion, it picks up a tray of drinks and starts toward another table, muttering to itself.

“Self-loathing Statement: Reduced to serving drinks to these brain-dead organics. What an inglorious end for a hunter-killer droid of my caliber.”