Hera Albion looked unlike herself in this ecumenopolis, she felt unlike herself too. Her red hair dye had been removed, revealing her hair's pale heritage, her Jedi robes stowed far away on another world, and her lightsaber hidden in the traveler's backpack she carried on her shoulders. In her roughshod clothes, medium armor-still blaster scarred from the attack on Yavin- and hooded cloak, she looked like any other refugee lost in the city world. However, Hera knew herself to be no refugee. Shrugging the strap of her backpack, she rearranged the dark goggles on her eyes and continued walking.
The Wooden LegHouse, a small, rough club on level 1275, was Hera's target today. The lower someone went on Coruscant, the less likely they were to encounter the local authorities. Even if Jedi were looked favorably upon on this world, the actions she took today she preferred weren't tied to her order. Looking to the back of the club, a large booth with a sign above it, crudely marked 'Braa Satrpe!' drew her attention. Good to know the bar owner could reserve tables when necessary.
Walking over, she sat down and took off her hood, allowing her white Arkanian hair to flow freely. In the moment, she looked like any other mercenary, and that was the point. Five others were called upon to join Hera at this table, with little more than the promise of riches should they succeed in a little bit of thievery. It was a job, and with her method of contact, she knew anyone who would take her offer up was either too trusting, too desperate, or a little too crazy. Exactly the kind of people Hera wanted.
The message she had sent was simple, "Mercenaries, I am Mira, and I offer you a job. Come to the bar the Wooden LegHouse on Coruscant, level 1275. For your success, I will make you rich."
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