Zaeed didn’t busy himself with the politics of the galaxy often. He supposed that made him lucky. And, he was lucky. He could handle himself; if any bastard came up and tried to tell him what to do, Empire or Resistance or otherwise, he’d simply flash good ol’ Jessie and tell them to piss off.

He didn’t expect the politics to affect him. Most of the time, he supposed, that was what got people to care about politics – only when they directly bothered you. Naturally, when the Empire began to dig their dirty fingernails into the skin of his most recent home, he found it quite upsetting. He didn’t pride himself on having a ‘bleeding heart’ – but he couldn’t stand watching people die in the streets over petty reasons.

So, he decided to pick up a few more jobs. Smuggling people who couldn’t afford it half the time didn’t pay quite as much as the drugs he used to smuggle, but he supposed it would do for now. When the Jedi began sniffing around, he grew tense, eyes squinting as he pulled the cigarette from his lips.

“Can I help you?” he grunted. He knew they likely weren’t from the Empire, with that shiny saber on their hip, though he didn’t care much. They were a nosy bunch, often who got him in trouble with smuggling in the first place. He didn’t take kindly to snitches.