Within the bay of the [i]Swift Fortune[/i] was a customized Z95 headhunter with the cockpit open. The base color of the fighter seemed to be a matte black with a dark red accent color on the wings. Upon closer inspection, on the port and starboard sides of the fighter, beneath the cockpit hatch was a red Twi'lek woman in a rather skimpy black leather outfit. An exotic dancer or an escort. no one was really sure. Except for the pilot. And he hasn't told anyone. The pilot of this craft was seated in the cockpit of the fighter, going through a diagnostics check. One of the engines had a slight misfire. Not a terribly huge problem, but left unchecked, you could find yourself floating in a cold vacuum. He was also doing routine maintenance on the ships internal computers, hiding under his forward console, peaking his head up every once in a while to take a look at the screen, only to discern what was a problem and what wasn't with his engine.

The captain's voice came over the intercom, calling everyone to the diner. "What does he want now? I'm in the middle of something..." Caster said to himself, slightly annoyed. He climbed out very carefully out of the cockpit and down the access ladder. He took the last puff of a hand rolled tabac cigarette that was sitting in a tray on the work bench. He'd been working so long that he forgot it was there and let it all but burn out. He put it out in the tray and walked towards the lounge, wiping his hands on his oil and grease smeared coveralls.

He opened the door to the lounge, noting that everyone - well, almost everyone - was there. He leaned against the bulkhead closest to the door and waited for the meeting to start. He removed form his pocket a small leather pouch that contained his tabac and a few rolling papers. Enough to tide him over until he got back to his quarters or his fighter.  He removed a sheet of rolling papers and began to sprinkle a small amount of his tabac into the center and distributed it evenly. He took special care to pack the substance by rolling it back and forth inside the paper, between his fingers. When satisfied, he rolled the paper around itself and licked the end, forming a perfect cigarette. A ship mate or two that he had on a previous ship would've said that he was methodical about his tabac. Oh well. He looked up, hanging the newly formed cigarette from his lips and waited for the captain to start the briefing.