[Verse 1] Personal holo-log. Carmilla Quinn. Dubrillion's finest little nightmare. The Temperament's deck is a mess again. Black paint. Red trim. Cheap pride. My favorite kind of home. We just tore up a pack of droids that thought a Wookiee village was their personal shit-stain of a parking lot. Loshk took the front line. I took the parts that fell off. Very efficient. Very rude. I had the blaster pistol out first. Then the scattergun. Then grenades, because apparently subtlety is for people who enjoy being vaporized. I slipped the stealth tech when things got spicy. Walked through the whole stupid firefight like a bad decision in boots. And yes, father would be thrilled that Szandor Quinn's daughter handled it with grace. My mother, Queen Risha Drayen-Quinn, would call it diplomacy. I call it surviving with my eyebrows intact. Next stop's Hoth. Supplying a Republic base. Because somebody has to keep those frozen idiots fed before they turn into heroic ice sculptures. After that, Tatooine. Markets. Ship parts. The Temperament is being a little fucking temperamental, which is funny in a way that makes me want to kick her hull and apologize. Oh. Hold on. Noir's here. My custom black protocol droid. Standing there like a funeral in a tie. Right. That's enough. End log.
