Log Date:
	8/20/98

Log Cast:
	Trinket, Han Solo, NPC Twi'lek waitress, NPC Master Technician
McDaniels

Log Intro:
	It's been something of a relief for Han Solo to actually have
something to _do_ for once, even if it has been overseeing the GroundOps
troops stationed on Sluis Van, restlessly biding his time while most of
his friends are in the Caspar system on their diplomatic mission. The
business of being an active military man has helped lessen missing Leia,
but it can hardly distract him entirely -- especially when the Princess
has gone out of her way to call _him_ over the HoloNet, looking tired and
worn, and speaking of possible impending danger and discontent in the moods
of those she's met.
	Worried about his wife's situation -- not to mention the presence
of Luke on the ostensibly neutral world, given the trouble the young Jedi
has had himself in lately -- Han has found himself more distracted than
usual. Even the prospect of another round of sabacc isn't quite enough to
cheer him, given the unexpected accusation of cheating he'd received from
a SuppOps corporal's pint-sized droid.
	But nevertheless, once he reaches his off-duty hours, it's to the
Hyperdrive Motivator that Solo goes, if nothing else to keep tabs on the
morale of the sentients under his command and what civilians he might happen
to encounter....

----------
You turn sharply west heading for Commerce Avenue.
Commerce Avenue - Sluis Van
The Commercial district here seems a bit out of place with the rest of the 
  town. The Sluissi seem to have a knack with technology, but still able to 
  'blend' it well with the natural environment. This place is different. Along 
  the walls are obsidian monuments to the modern era. Tall straight buildings 
  prickling with antenna and blinking sensors, droids whirr down the street 
  and the local employees dressed in coveralls or business attire seem not to 
  notice the brilliant azure sky or soft sweet scent of white flowers coming 
  down the road. They are completely engrossed in their business of the 
  moment. This place seems to be designed for practicality not beauty. Still 
  engineered well, but lacking the smooth lines and bright colors of the rest 
  of the town.
To the North sits 'The Hyperdrive Motivator', a low obsidian black building 
  set off of the road. Plenty of locals mill around outside the door and 
  Sluissi businessmen of all sorts enter and exit discussing the daily stock 
  news. Sluissi engineers are the most prominent here and almost everyone 
  walking into the tavern looks like they have just finished their shift on 
  one of the orbiting space platforms. Greasy coveralls with various shiny 
  tools jutting out of the pockets seems to be the common dress. A low rumble 
  of music can be heard as the doors open and close.
                 -=-=-=-=-=-=<<Real Objects>>=-=-=-=-=-=-
=> Trinket
                  -=-=-=-=-=<<Visible exits>>=-=-=-=-=-
 Hyperdrive <North> leads to The Hyperdrive Motivator - Sluis Van.
 Central Square <East> leads to Central Square - Sluis Van.

Striding at a pace just short of brisk, lest a certain pair of 
  far-too-eager-to-be-helpful young ensigns somehow manage to waylay him in 
  his off-duty hours, Han Solo comes into view as he sets himself a determined 
  course for the door of the Hyperdrive Motivator.

Trinket wanders along the fringes of the crowd, her shoulders slumped, her 
  head cocked to the side as if she sees better with one eye or the other. 
  Idly she brushes at some irritation on her cheek, leaving behind a soft 
  stain of gray. She too appears to be making a direct beeline for the doors 
  to the tavern, on a direct intersection with Han's path.

Trinket
        Even the back of this young human woman's head might give some humans 
  and human-sympathetics thought to pause and try to catch a glimpse of more. 
  Fine, silky blonde hair so light in color it is almost white, falls a few 
  inches past her waist on the rare times it is not held back in some way. Her 
  skin is a smooth, creamy bisque ivory that reveals no flaws or marks. Large 
  cerulean-blue eyes glance at the world with serenity, framed in thick 
  light-colored lashes and delicately arched brows. Her lips are a light 
  primrose, contrasting nicely with her pale skin. She stands an unassuming 
  5'10", her height made unintimidating by a gentle demeanor. Her frame is 
  pleasantly proportionate, if a little on the thin side.
        She wears a technicians jumpsuit, a bit old and worn, as well as a 
  good few sizes too large. It seems covered with pockets, and straps for 
  convenient carrying of tools. Her flaxen hair is carelessly tied up with a 
  spare scrap of fabric, a secure, if not highly fashionable, arrangement. The 
  delicate paleness of her hands is interrupted by lines of grease underneath 
  the shortly-trimmed fingernails, as well as soft gray smudges on her hands.

The courses do indeed intersect, with the Corellian just barely avoiding 
  bumping into the tall young woman before he reaches the door. "'Scuse me," 
  he says gruffly, leaning back and offering with a gestured hand to let the 
  woman precede him.

Trinket nearly jumps out of her skin at Han's voice, apparently so lost in 
  thought that she didn't even realize the near miss. Scrubbed but 
  still-stained hands reflexively fly up to shield her face first as she takes 
  a good few steps backwards, stepping on a passing engineer's tail. She 
  colors crimson with embarrassment, saying nothing, but gesturing with a few 
  elegant handsigns to the hissing and retreating Sluissi in a supplicating 
  tone.

The Corellian's dark eyebrows go up. "Hey, take it easy," he advises mildly, 
  and reaches over to thumb the door control to hold it open for the young 
  woman. "After you...?"

Trinket glances back at Han sidelong, her blush still blooming in her cheeks. 
  She brushes back strands of blonde that have found their way out of the 
  messy tie in her startle, but only really succeeds in coloring her temples 
  gray. A hesitant smile creeps into her expression, and her fingers weave 
  intricately in the air before Han, before she places a hand to her heart and 
  nods gracefully. With that, she turns and walks into the bar, her features 
  extremely cautious.
Trinket swings open the doors to the Tavern and enters amid the blaring of 
  music and laughter from inside.
Trinket has left.

With a blast of air and loud blaring of music, you swing open the doors of the 
  Tavern.
The Hyperdrive Motivator - Sluis Van
The black obsidian marble of the exterior is used quite extensively here also. 
  The only difference is a waist high border in light grey stone around the 
  interior walls. In the center of the Tavern a large round bar also composed 
  of stone sits hidden by patrons milling around it laughing and talking 
  casually. Built into the bar, in front of every stool is a waterpipe. It's 
  contents can only be guessed, but by the effects it is having on the 
  engineers and workmen, it must be highly intoxicating. The mood in the place 
  is jovial but with a sizzling pent up energy normally found in blue collar 
  places on this planet. Behind the bar are high stone shelves with racks of 
  liquers and various sundries. Hanging above the bar at symmetrically placed 
  intervals are hanging plants and muted lighting rails. Several Sluissi 
  bartenders whisk silently over to patrons with trays of drinks, or kindly 
  lighting their cigarra's or waterpipes. Along the walls and discretely 
  placed to optimize privacy are low deep blue marble tables, flecked with 
  gold. Comfortable booth style seating wrap around each table affording the 
  occupants with as much privacy as could be wanted in a place such as this. 
  Music emanates from the ceiling and the volume level is just a bit too high, 
  but the patrons don't seem to notice. Sluissi waitresses and waiters move 
  through the crowd on snake-like lower bodies as if crossing a gentle 
  mountain stream, perpetual smiles on their faces as they serve customers.
<OOC: Type 'THELP>
                 -=-=-=-=-=-=<<Real Objects>>=-=-=-=-=-=-
=> Trinket
                  -=-=-=-=-=<<Visible exits>>=-=-=-=-=-
 Commerce Avenue <South> leads to Commerce Avenue - Sluis Van.

Ambling into the bar in the young woman's wake, the Corellian peers askance at 
  the fluttering of her hands, perhaps not quite grasping what he's seeing. 
  Some form of sign language? Trying not to look _too_ clueless, he takes note 
  of her facial expressions and the rest of her body language, and offers in a 
  dry rumble as he comes in, "This place is fairly low-key. Haven't had a 
  brawl in a week."

Trinket brings her hands up in a reflexive gesture to protect herself as a 
  waitress slithers past busily. The human glances back at Han as he speaks 
  again, blinking slightly in surprise. She tilts her head to the side, 
  holding up eight fingers, her smile questioning. Her face becomes that of a 
  teasing child, as she holds up seven fingers, then shakes her head. Then 
  holds up eight, raising a blonde brow as if seeking an answer.

Both baffled enough and interested enough that he hasn't bothered to head yet 
  to what's become his usual table, Solo lingers where he stands, his eyebrows 
  up. He bobs a distracted nod to the waitress, recognizing her, but most of 
  his attention is on the pale-haired young woman. "How many brawls, or how 
  many days in a week?" he asks archly.

Trinket frowns impatiently at Han, her disapproving expression as clear as if 
  she'd put her hands on her hips. She sighs emphatically, tapping her temple 
  a few times with a delicate index finger. She holds up seven fingers, then 
  taps her temple again. She holds up eight fingers, then makes a fist, 
  waggling it at Han. Her questioning smile erases the mild annoyance, 
  apparently forgiving his ignorance.

"Hey, hey, sweetheart, sorry, I don't think I know your particular sign 
  language, is all," Solo protests, lifting his own hands, palms up. His 
  tone's still mild, though his brow has crinkled in consternation. His hazel 
  gaze flicks from the woman's fingers to her temple, and then to her face.

Trinket looks Han up and down with close scruitiny, like a technician might 
  examine a squeaking rotodroid. She chews at her lower lip lightly, thinking, 
  then sighs. The long graceful fingers of one hand tap at the air lightly, as 
  if she types on a datapad. She tilts her head to the other side, questioning 
  once more, her expression shifting from patient maternal to waiting and 
  trusting child.

"Oh... uh, yeah, sure, hold on a sec..." The lanky ex-smuggler goes fidgeting 
  through his pockets, and he comes up eventually with a slim, but fairly 
  battered, little datapad. Exactly the kind of thing that tends to get 
  foisted off onto higher-ranking officers, and although it's small, it's got 
  a keyboard and a miniature screen. "Here ya go..."

Trinket takes the little device carefully from him, turning it over a few 
  times with cradling fingers. She flips up the miniature screen, fingers 
  petting it, as if checking for scratches. Her expression darkens as she 
  finds a few. She glances up at the older man with an almost hurt expression, 
  the blue eyes sorrowful. The fingers of her free hand dance lightly over the 
  keys. >>Don't your legs get tired?<<

Indeed, that little datapad has apparently been through a lot, from the look 
  of it; several of the characters are worn down into near-illegibility on the 
  keys, though all the keys are at least in the right places. Han squints down 
  at the screen, then peers at the woman. "Huh? Oh. Uh... well, I just hadn't 
  sat down yet, is all," he says gruffly. He starts moving, then, flicking a 
  lean hand off to a table that's already been cleared for him -- that 
  waitress, having seen him coming, had gotten someone to ready the General's 
  favorite spot already. "Come on, if you want..."

Trinket follows absently, petting and stroking the little datapad as if it 
  were an injured creature in need of protection from a larger, bumbling 
  creature. She reaches up to tuck a few errant wisps of white-blond behind 
  one ear, almost bumping into Han as he nears the table. She chews 
  thoughtfully at her lower lip, like a worried little girl.

The datapad submits to the patting, while its owner remembers his manners long 
  enough to tug out a chair for the lady, before settling his rangy frame into 
  the chair across the table. Glancing around to catch the eye of the 
  waitress, he waves a hand at her to let her know she can come his way for an 
  order when she has a moment. Then, the Corellian considers the girl who's 
  joined him.

Trinket's lips move silently, as she considers the device, examining and 
  taking stock of every little bit of damage, apparently. She seems completely 
  engrossed in her task, one hand reaching up to twist a lock of blond around 
  her fingers, an almost nervous, ritualistic gesture as she concentrates. She 
  sits on cue, apparently with subconcious awareness or trust that there's 
  something there to sit on. After a few moments, she flicks her gaze upwards, 
  having to look in several places before it rests on the man across from her. 
  She smiles with girlish shyness at him, and quickly drops her gaze to the 
  tabletop, fingers still idly twisting in her hair.

"Play with it all you like," says the Corellian, gruffly, not unkindly.

About then the waitress, a slender Twi'lek, reaches the table, carrying a 
  datapad of her own to take notes of patrons' orders. "Would you like your 
  usual tonight, General Solo?" she asks amiably.

Solo inclines his head at the waitress, answering in gravelly tones, "Uh, just 
  bring me a Corellian ale for now, yeah." He pauses, then asks of his table 
  companion, "You want anything?"

The strange young woman glances at her companion, then the waitress, nodding 
  with a polite smile of incomprehension. She hums softly, though it doesn't 
  quite form into words. She glances to Han beseechingly, as if requesting 
  help. The tangled hand pulls a little more tightly against the length of 
  flaxen hair, while the other cradles the little datapad against her, almost 
  like a shield. She seems nervous at the Twi'lek's presence, shifting a 
  little in her seat to almost imperceptibly scoot away.

"Uh, that'll be it, then, I guess," says Solo to the bemused waitress, who 
  nods slowly, and then heads off about her business. The Corellian then 
  returns his hazel gaze to the woman before him, just as bemused as the 
  Twi'lek female who's gone to fetch his ale. "Hey, it's okay," he begins, 
  sliding his hand partway out across the table, palm up, in a gesture of 
  harmlessness.

Breathing comes a bit more shallow and rapid to the blonde woman as she 
  watches the Twi'lek leave. A slight hint of perspiration even sparkles 
  across the pale brow. She glances back at Solo's words, moistening her lips 
  once, nervously. She relaxes a bit at his gesture, gracefully unentangling 
  her fingers from her hair and weaving an intricate, beautiful, but 
  indecipherable gesture back at him.

Indecipherable, indeed. Solo muses that in at least one form of smuggler's 
  cant he knows, those finger gestures would loosely translate to, "Pardon me, 
  honored sentient, but your pet bantha has just tapdanced in my cargo hold" 
  -- but he suspects that isn't what this girl has meant. He smiles puzzledly, 
  and asks, "So, uh, well. You got a name, sweetheart?"

Trinket hums softly again, an odd but pleasing melodic quality to it. Her lips 
  part, almost forming a word, but as the sound shapes, it seems to startle 
  her, and she slaps her free hand over her mouth, a look of surprise on the 
  delicate features. She blinks, then the memory seems to fade. She looks at 
  Solo a few moments more, as if she's lost her bearings. She tilts her head 
  to the side, and moves her hand out slightly to the side, palm gracefully 
  tilted. Repeat the question, perhaps?

Solo's hazel eyes blink under uplifted dark brows, as he tries to fathom 
  _that_ particular bizarre reaction. "Uh... your name?" he repeats. "What's 
  your name?"

Trinket ponders the question, seeming to genuinely have to rack her memory for 
  the answer. With a firm nod of confirmation to herself, she places the 
  cradled datapad on the table and taps her fingers lightly across the keys. 
  >>Trinket<< She turns the screen politely to the Corellian, a suddenly proud 
  and brilliant smile making her face radiant.

The Corellian thinks, _Trinket?! What kind of a name is 'Trinket' for a 
  grown..._ And then he catches himself. Regardless of the various 
  implications that immediately enter his mind about such a name for this 
  girl, that childlike delight in her face makes _his_ seasoned features 
  soften a little. "Trinket," he states, just to let her know he read it. Then 
  he offers her a lopsided smile of his own. "My name's Han Solo. You can call 
  me Han."

The Twi'lek waitress returns, deftly placing a clear glass full of amber 
  liquid at the Corellian's elbow, as well as a basket of small slices of hot, 
  steaming bread. "There you go, General," she says cheerfully.

'Han Solo' is repeated soundlessly on her lips, and she studies his face 
  carefully, as if trying to memorize it. If she has any familiarity with the 
  name or the face, other than the present moment, she hides it masterfully. 
  She smiles again at him, looking away shyly, then startling as she sees the 
  waitress. A glimpse of real fear can be seen from across the table at the 
  twi'lek's proximity, and the girl literally freezes into place, though the 
  self-protective, innocent smile remains on her lips.

The studying gaze can take in a weathered, lean face with a scar across the 
  chin, short-cropped but scruffy dark hair, a collar undone at his throat but 
  with the sigils of a New Republic general glinting on either side. His eyes 
  are hazel, more or less, some indeterminate shade between brown and gold and 
  green, and his gaze is alert, not missing the flash of fear in Trinket's 
  expression. He thanks the waitress, accepts his ale, then as the Twi'lek 
  continues on about her business, Solo nudges the basket of bread towards his 
  table companion. "Hungry?" he rumbles.

The slight movement and sound of the basket across the table seems to draw her 
  attention before the offer register. The girl relaxes visably at the 
  waitress' departure, her breathing slowly returning to normal. She glances 
  at the basket, a subtle flair of her nostrils and deep intake of breath 
  perhaps indicating she's hungrier than the now-serene face lets on. She 
  looks up at Han, once again bashful, and nods, once.

"Well, go on, eat up." Han's tone is still gruff, just a touch awkward; it's 
  apparent the man feels out of his element here. The basket duly scooted over 
  to his strange companion, he slouches back in his chair, taking up his ale, 
  sipping at it.

Trinket glances up again, inclining her head slightly as she regards the man 
  seated across from her. She gestures to him with an elegant turn of her 
  hand--noticeably not pointing--then to the bread, her brow wrinked with 
  concern. Isn't he hungry?

Oh. "Thanks," says the Corellian, reaching for a bit of the bread. Thusly 
  armed with food and drink, he finds himself flailing. He's gotten used to 
  coming in here and starting up a sabacc game with other officers every other 
  night or so, but tonight, there's this girl instead. And what does he say to 
  someone for whom conversation does not appear to be a forte? "So, um. You 
  live here, kid?"

Trinket takes a slice of bread, letting it warm her pale fingertips to a rosy 
  pink before taking a savory nibble. She shrugs slightly, a look of sorrow 
  flashing across the face that hides nothing, as if to say she does now. She 
  makes a pushing gesture with her free hand, a familiar gesture for being 
  kicked out of something.

Solo takes this in, and thinks he's grasped the meaning well enough. "That's 
  rough," he commiserates brusquely, idly tearing his own bread up into little 
  chunks before downing them, between swallows of ale. What else to say?

Trinket smiles mischieviously, the smudges of metallic dust making her seem 
  almost elfin as her eyes light up with impish delight. She feighs surprise, 
  shaking one floppy sleeve. A soft clinking can be heard, working its way 
  down to the cuff, and with a clatter two small mechanical components, 
  fraught with chips and wires, spill out onto the tabletop.

Solo's eyebrows wing up towards his hairline, and the loose strands of hair 
  that dangle down along his brow. His eyes widen, and he pauses in the middle 
  of another drink of his ale to stare at the things that have spilt forth 
  from his odd companion's sleeve. "You into collecting spare parts, kid?"

Trinket smiles shyly, ducking her head from side to side a bit. Now and then, 
  perhaps. A real giggle bubbles up from her lips, soft and musical to the 
  ear. The fingers of one hand idly pull at a stray strand of blonde, letting 
  it wrap around one finger. She watches Han's reaction with a pleased grin, 
  the fingers of her other hand idly correcting the wires, aligning the parts 
  perfectly, without a second glance from the eyes of blue.

The glass with the ale in it is still paused halfway to the Corellian's mouth. 
  He knows where those various wires go -- he knows pieces of alluvial dampers 
  when he sees them -- but the question is, does _she_ know what she's doing 
  with them? Not entirely sure what to make of her intelligence so far, he 
  decides to give her the benefit of the doubt, and asks her as casually as he 
  can manage, "Don't tell me, leftovers from maintenance on your ship?"

Trinket frowns with a rather hurt look. She shakes her head vehemently, her 
  graceful fingers weaving in the air, at just the right angle, and the right 
  sequences, even the exact distances needed to remove the small devices from 
  their nest in the frame. She folds her arms, a bit crossly. Oh no. These 
  parts didn't come from an 'extras' box.

"You took 'em," Han guesses, finally remembering his ale. He slugs down a 
  healthy swallow of it before setting it down before him, lest he drop the 
  glass. If this girl keeps pulling hyperdrive parts out of her sleeve, he's 
  afraid he might do exactly that.

Trinket shrugs, repeating the 'cast out' gesture, the hurt expression 
  remaining on her face from the memory. Her hand creeps back to her hair, 
  twisting it nervously once more. She picks up the pieces, as if to tuck them 
  back into one of the myriad of pockets that litter her jumper, but 
  apparently decides to think better of it. She offers them to the man across 
  from her, a sweet, guileless smile as much a part of the gift as the 
  relatively-new parts.

To this, Han actually gapes, and he has to clear his throat before being able 
  to tell his companion, "Uhhhh..... thanks, kid." Aware that Trinket's sweet 
  demeanor is getting in under his defenses, he nevertheless smiles crookedly, 
  a gentler version of his earlier lopsided grin. "Next time I'm on my ship 
  again, I'll be able to use these."

Trinket nods sagely, picking up a piece of bread again, chewing with a bit 
  more enthusiasm this time. A fair enough trade to her, perhaps. The long 
  legs are readjusted under the table, producing the clanking of metal tools 
  and force only knows what other ship components might be in the pockets of 
  her jumpsuit.

Solo hooks an arm up along the back of the chair, while sliding the parts into 
  his jacket pocket. The clanks and clinks aren't lost on him, and he 
  considers his silent companion, trying to figure out exactly what the hells 
  he has sitting before him. Then, with a mental _If in doubt..._, he drawls, 
  "So. What should I do with you, kid?"

Trinket glances into the now empty bread basket, and forlornly shows it to the 
  Corellian across from her. She smiles at him hopefully. Absent-mindedly she 
  fingers a grease-rimmed slight tear at the elbow of her jumper. She hums 
  softly again, though she doesn't attempt to form words. The cerulean eyes 
  study the tabletop with slightly drooping eyelids.

Aaaaah, the kid's still hungry. Half of his mind berating him for being such a 
  soft touch and the rest of him already turning to signal the waitress to 
  bring some more bread -- but then he catches himself again, remembering 
  Trinket's reaction to the waitress. "I can ask for some more food if you 
  want it," he offers.

Trinket nods tiredly, her eyes tracking each movement of Solo's hand, as if 
  committing those to memory as well. Apparently soothed, her hand releases 
  her hair, her fingers coming together and lacing with the fingers of her 
  opposite hand. Her lips move slightly, as if reciting something silently, 
  but the downward tilt of her head prevents even lipreading.

As long as the girl's looking down, Han turns to catch the eye of the Twi'lek 
  waitress, to get her to return to his table. Once he does, he turns back to 
  consider his companion, and what to do about her. "Uhhh, Trinket. Look, kid, 
  so do you have any place to stay at all or what...?"

Master Technician McDaniels enters from the street.
Master Technician McDaniels has arrived.

The simplicity of the blue eyes is striking as they flit up to meet Solo's 
  words. She shrugs her shoulders lightly, turning her gaze to the door, She 
  gestures towards it with another elegant wave, a graceful sweep of her 
  fingers indicating the sky beyond perhaps. It's nice outside, isn't it? 
  Everything will be fine.

Master Technician McDaniels manages to squeeze past a group of aliens nearby 
  the door, offering an apology as he nearly knocks one over on his way 
  inside. He peers around the Motivator, having heard the General was 
  frequenting the place lately. He seems to be carrying some type of datapad.

A brisk, saucily-clad Twi'lek waitress is en route through the bar, but she 
  stops near the door as she spies McDaniels's entrance. She smiles 
  pleasantly, her head-tails hanging about her slender shoulders, and she 
  inquires, "Good evening, just one?"

And in the meantime, General Solo considers his table companion in bemusement. 
  "Uh, well. If you're in some kinda trouble, or need some kinda help..." And 
  he trails off, his brows winging down again. _Yeah, smooth one there, slick. 
  Lost your touch, haven't you?_

Master Technician McDaniels shakes his head, looking over the Twi'lek's 
  shoulder before smiling and noting aloud, "Not here to eat, thanks." He 
  doesn't see the General right away, "I'm looking for General Solo, actually. 
  Have you seen him?"

"Ah," murmurs the Twi'lek in understanding, and she turns to gesture off 
  across the room. "He's over there. Come with me, please..." Indeed, the 
  Corellian might be spotted at a side table, currently looking rather 
  bemusedly at the pale-haired young woman sitting across the table from him.

Master Technician McDaniels follows, cautiously now, not wanting to trip on 
  someone's foot and make a fool of himself for the second time today. His 
  knuckles are nearly white, he holds the pad he was charged with delivering 
  so tightly. o O (Wow, delivering a message to General Solo himself. Wait 
  till mom hears!) O o .

"Excuse me, General," announces the waitress as she approaches Solo's table, 
  the technician in tow, "but this sentient wishes to speak with you." And 
  with that, the Twi'lek retreats to a discreet distance, returning to the 
  task of distributing drinks, though keeping an eye out in Solo's direction 
  should he hail her again.

Meanwhile, Solo blinks, his attention distracted from the girl at his table, 
  and he rounds a half-puzzled, all-expectant gaze on the young man the 
  waitress has brought to him. "Yes?"

Master Technician McDaniels
A fairly sprightly chap, he always seems pretty enthusiastic about even the 
  most boring of tasks -- retooling hyperdrives and calibrating communications 
  arrays included. He wears a simple technician's jumpsuit, a nametag on his 
  breast reading simply, "McDaniels".

Trinket shakes her head slightly, as if to clear it. Her hands are still 
  clasped before her, but her energy is quickly fading, noticeable by the 
  droop to the thin shoulders. She jumps, suddenly very awake, at the 
  appearance of 'new' voices nearby. Her eyes turn to the young man as well, 
  and she shrinks back slightly, her fingers tightening around each other.

"Ah! Hello, General, -sir-!" The master technician's stomach drops as he 
  wonders if he just managed to launch a bit of spittle at the General with 
  that last word. He just /hopes/ not. "I was asked to deliver this message to 
  you, sir! Priority one." He hands over the datapad. He notes Trinket, but 
  doesn't make any show of it.

Trinket blinks up at McDanieals, wincing and cringing at the louder last word. 
  Her hands stop halfway to her ears, as they realize the sound is gone. Her 
  attention is quickly captured by the jumpsuit the man wears, perking up a 
  bit and craning her neck to get a better look.

[And Han reads on the datapad:

<Encrypted, priority code 1, text only:
Commodore, Benjamin Jawath of FineLine Shipping wishes to discuss the chance 
  of his firm assisting our efforts against the Empire and with the Griffons. 
  I would like you to investigate this personally, if your schedule permits; 
  his suggestion is for you to book passage on his ship and ask for him as a 
  pilot. If he is legitimate, his offer will be invaluable. I'll look forward 
  to hearing from you.
Regards, Leia Organa Solo>

... along with a request for him to report back to his quarters ASAP.]

Han's expression doesn't change much, at least not ostensibly. But there is a 
  subtle shift to his features, turning them entirely businesslike and alert. 
  He nods tersely as the technician presents the pad, and in a few short 
  moments, he's scanned the message meant for his eyes. Then he keys in a 
  clear command to delete it from the pad's memory, hands it back, and says 
  levelly, "Understood, technician. Thanks, I'll get right on it."

Master Technician McDaniels salutes briskly and takes the datapad. "Thank you 
  sir, good day sir." With that, he turns and makes his way through the crowd 
  and out the door. o O (Wow, that has to be the coolest thing that will ever 
  happen to me...) O o .

Solo returns the salute, with military precision belying his rumpled attire. 
  And with that, the Corellian scoots his chair back, moving to rise, dipping 
  a hand into a pocket to come up with the credits to pay for his ale and the 
  bread that'd been brought him. He pauses, though, returning his attention to 
  his odd table companion. "Aaah, look. Trinket. I've gotta go, kid...."

Trinket watches the man retreat, with a genuinely puzzled expression. The 
  cerulean eyes flick back to Han, questioning once more. Her hands are still 
  poised near table level...she slips them on the table to rest. Her open 
  expression saddens, but she nods seriously nonetheless. One hand raises, in 
  a little, child-like wave.

The commander in chief of the New Republic's ground-based armed forces finds 
  himself experiencing the oddest of mental situations. In the back of his 
  mind, it goes something like, _Awwww...._ And with a rueful burst of 
  insight, he grudgingly considers that if a certain Princess ever follows 
  through on her suggestion of bringing little Worships into the galaxy, he'll 
  be thoroughly doomed. In a pre-emptive attempt to regain some of his fleeing 
  dignity, he fishes out a few more credits, and lays them on the table to go 
  with the bill and tip for the Twi'lek waitress. "Get yourself a decent meal, 
  huh kid?" he requests of Trinket gruffly.

Trinket nods solemly, a hint of a smile breaking through the open sadness on 
  her face. She takes the credits, studying the shapes and patterns of them 
  than really finding much else of value in them, by her expression. As if 
  they were treasured mementos, they are tucked into an arm pocket.

Well okay then. Squaring his khaki-clad shoulders, Han gives the fey young 
  woman another lopsided smile and rumbles, "See ya 'round, kid." He feels 
  uneasy about just leaving her here, though... and as the Corellian turns to 
  go, he does indeed flag down the Twi'lek waitress. But it's to stop her and 
  murmur to her, gesturing surreptitiously off at Trinket, a request for her 
  to keep an eye out for the young human. The waitress blinks her big eyes at 
  the General, and then at the girl, but nods readily, her alien features 
  nevertheless reflecting a kind of concern.

Mission accomplished, General. Han Solo gives his strange companion of the 
  evening one last glance, but his long strides take him swiftly out of the 
  bar and out into the night. Odd young women or no, he's got a job to do....

[End log.]