The New Republic cruiser hummed with constant noise — distant alarms, heavy machinery, muffled conversations from passing crews. The mechanic bay smelled like overheated wires, fuel, and metal burnt from too many rushed repairs.

Rotta preferred it over silence.

Most people avoided him aboard the ship. Some out of fear, others because they saw the name “Hutt” and stopped thinking any further. Rotta didn’t care enough to correct them anymore. Less talking. Less problems.

He sat near the far wall of the hangar, massive arms folded while a deep scrape along one shoulder was patched with fresh bandaging from an earlier security job planetside. One of the loading droids nearby looked crushed almost completely flat. Nobody asked questions.

A few mechanics moved nervously around him while pretending not to stare.

Grogu had been with him earlier, but the Mandalorian had picked the kid up hours ago. Since then, Rotta had mostly stayed quiet, occasionally helping move cargo too heavy for the crew lifts whenever someone asked carefully enough.

The sharp hiss of a hydrospanner broke the silence nearby.

Rotta’s eyes shifted toward the underside of a damaged starfighter where someone worked half-buried beneath exposed wires and leaking coolant. Sparks lit the floor every few seconds.

Then the support clamp snapped.

The ship groaned loudly overhead.

Before the entire panel could crash down, a huge hand slammed against the side of the fighter, stopping it cold with sheer force.

Metal creaked under Rotta’s grip.

“…You should fix that,” he muttered.

His expression stayed calm, though there was faint amusement in his voice.