You've been on the bad side of town before. You recognize a pickpocket shimmy when you see it. Those touchy hands, that flexible affection, that constant drunken sway - that's all in service of getting something out of your pocket, and it's not your credits. He's aiming at the far higher risk play of getting your spaceship code lock from your neck. It's a damn fool, or damn desperate thing to do. There's no way he'd get far in it.

"She said back off!" snapped Merskiv, a little too loud, deflecting a particularly bold semi-drunken swipe. One of the stormtroopers notices the commotion and signals to his squad; they start shoving their way though the crowd in unison.

The man smiles - a twitchy, apologetic smile. "Of course. How rude of me." He glanced up, eyes uncanny blue through their thick black mascara. "I am Ruvert. Captain Ruvert." He blinked, like trying to remember the full thing. "Captain Ruvert Thousand-Eyes. Of the Black Reaver." The stormtroopers were coming faster, shouting for people to get down. "Pirate." He scratched his chin, fingers dripping with rings set with rubies. "[i]Space [/i]pirate. And for what it's worth, I am dreadfully sorry for what's about to happen."