Jast pursed his lips in response. He was good with people in a transactional context. Business deals, connections, greasing palms, telling lies. Tradecraft was his profession, and he excelled in the interpersonal dealings as much as the gunslinging. In sharp contrast, genuine connections and empathy were not his forte. Hutt Space, and Nar Shaddaa in particular, was a cesspit of sentient trafficking and worse. She did not need to explain further for him to understand, but he wasn’t sure what to offer her in response.

“If it makes you feel better, I don’t think they’re interested in you,” he started, “but I guess associating with me is a death sentence until we get you to Republic soil. Once we get planetside—somewhere safe—I’ll give you some basic training. It’s better to be able to defend yourself than not.” 

He stretched, wincing as he rolled his shoulder. He figured it to be a strain, but he supposed he was lucky that was the full extent of his injuries today. “You did well back on the ship. I’m not sure I would have made it off without your help.”