[The Falcon is too large to slip in unnoticed, so today, Ben sticks with his stolen shuttle and parks it far off on an empty beach -- parking in the bay would have required registration, and it would have been flagged as a stolen ship instantly. He's not quite confident enough in his fast-talking skills to talk his way out of an arrest -- especially not with the First Order already on high alert.
Canto Bight had become a bit of a pet project for him -- with the war going on, it was easy to offer his smuggling services without any eyes following him. He had enough credentials built up that he could slip in mostly undetected once his ship was on the ground. He'd been cursed with his father's genes (not his mother's altruistic heart -- perhaps if he had, he might have more formally joined her in the war after Han Solo's untimely death), and so there was absolutely no way he could stealth his way inside without at least pretending he belonged there.
And so, he adjusted his stolen cufflinks and fastened the clasp of his pressed jacket as he wandered into the casino straight to his usual table. He'd long since given up on properly combing his hair. Any facial recognition system would ping him instantly with or without it -- no amount of remapping would hide that nose.
There's an uncomfortable itch in the back of his head that he can't quite place the source of. Hopefully, his contact wouldn't be long. But in the mean time, he procures a set of dice until his usual drink comes to find him.
First shot hits its mark, earning him a tired sigh from the attendant. He's careful how much he shoots. Enough wins, and the attendant would no doubt toss him for cheating. All the while, he keeps his peripheral vision on the entrance.]
baseball slides in here with that smuggler life
Canto Bight had become a bit of a pet project for him -- with the war going on, it was easy to offer his smuggling services without any eyes following him. He had enough credentials built up that he could slip in mostly undetected once his ship was on the ground. He'd been cursed with his father's genes (not his mother's altruistic heart -- perhaps if he had, he might have more formally joined her in the war after Han Solo's untimely death), and so there was absolutely no way he could stealth his way inside without at least pretending he belonged there.
And so, he adjusted his stolen cufflinks and fastened the clasp of his pressed jacket as he wandered into the casino straight to his usual table. He'd long since given up on properly combing his hair. Any facial recognition system would ping him instantly with or without it -- no amount of remapping would hide that nose.
There's an uncomfortable itch in the back of his head that he can't quite place the source of. Hopefully, his contact wouldn't be long. But in the mean time, he procures a set of dice until his usual drink comes to find him.
First shot hits its mark, earning him a tired sigh from the attendant. He's careful how much he shoots. Enough wins, and the attendant would no doubt toss him for cheating. All the while, he keeps his peripheral vision on the entrance.]