A puff of smoke filled the air around the bench on which Krotar sat. His last year trapped on this rock had been uneventful. Though he had to give one thing to this shitty backwater planet. Their tobacco was among the best in the Galaxy. It was almost criminal how this planet handled the stuff. It was almost three times as strong as what you could get legally anywhere else in the galaxy. Hell, these Terrans figured out it gives you cancer, yet keep legislation to a minimum. 
Krotar was people watching. He had sat there all night, casually smoking, watching people enter this Gala. It confused him. If this was supposed to be the elite of New York, why was it held in some simple Convention Center, like some common expo. Surely with such wealthy investors, you would do something exciting. Like book out a museum, or a zoo, or a stadium. Krotar guessed it betrayed the real wealth of the organiser and clientele. They may as well rented a community hall for a couple hundred dollars, if they weren’t going to pick a suitable venue. 
He didn’t really care much for the Gala, but rather was using it as bait. He figured a gathering of the the supposedly richest in New York would garner the attention of the criminal underground. He hoped to foil a super villain and take their tech. He needed a few thing to fix up his ship before he could get off this god forsaken rock. The tech he salvaged from the battlefield that stranded him on this planet proved useful, but wasn’t quite enough to get him clear of this solar system. 

The cold wind bit at his exposed skin. Flicking the butt of his cigarette onto the growing pile that was amassing on the sidewalk. New York. The city that never sleeps. The perfect place for a man who can’t. Standing up, he stretched his stiffened joints. The human brain can only go so long before it simply ceases to function. The Xandarian and Kree can go a little longer, but still eventually need a break. Normally he would book into a sensory deprivation tank, but his usual parlour was closed for renovations. So, he sat on a bench on a snowy night. Shakily smoking a cigarette. Waiting for trouble.