Stepping into the bar was a scruffy-looking gentleman, who had just come off the Firefly-class transport Don Quijote. His name was Manuel Rodriguez, a Colonial native who had taken up freelance trading and smuggling after the refugee fleet arrived in Sirius. His eyes sagged more than a plastic bag filled with concrete, and it was clear that all he needed was some R&R.
He was impressed with the furnishings inside, and plopped himself down on a stool nearby. Eyeing the odd animal-like creature with caution, he turned to the bartender with a credit chit, waiting for the commotion to simmer down.
