Honorable Senators, if you can even stomach calling yourselves that, you summoned me here for a half-report, half-interrogation. You want the truth? Fine. Yeah, I stole that fucking Hutt casino ship on Nar Shaddaa. Why? Because it was there. Because I wanted it. Because nobody was stopping me. And yeah, I can fly it better than the greasy slugs who parked it. That’s not a theory. That’s a goddamn fact. You think I need your permission? You think I wake up and ask a room full of polished parasites if I’m allowed to take what they’ve already taken from somebody else? Bitch, please. The Hutts stole it first. They always do. They wrap theft in velvet, call it trade, and expect everybody to clap. My father taught me how to vanish. My mother taught me how to walk in like I own the whole damn sector. So when I say I took it, I mean I took it. Blaster rifle. Vibroknife. Grenades. Stealth tech. I brought the whole argument with me. Because it was there. Because I wanted it. Because I could. Because I did. And see, that’s the part you hate to admit sitting up here in your shiny little repulsorpods. That’s the part you can’t file away. That a smuggler princess from Dubrillion saw something she wanted and took it from someone worse. And don’t even start with me about Endor. We all know that mission went sideways fast. Real fast. One second I’m in the trees, bleeding, half pissed off, half alive— next thing I know, I’m waking up in a mud hut with an Ewok stitching me back together like I’m some broken engine part. Yeah, a fucking Ewok. You know them. Tiny hands. Big opinions. Better bedside manners than half your whole fucking Senate. So spare me the clean little bullshit. The polished speeches. The righteous faces. You sit up there and call people “collateral” like that makes you civilized. It doesn’t. It just makes you massive fucking cowards in nice clothes. You dismiss the people. You protect the image. You bury the damage under procedure and smile like it’s mercy. I’ve seen what’s under that smile. I’ve smelled it. And I’m not bowing to it. So go on. Write your little report. Say I’m reckless. Say I’m criminal. Say I’m impossible. I’ve been called way fucking worse by better liars than any of you in this room. I’m the daughter of Szandor Quinn. I’m the daughter of Queen Risha Drayen-Quinn. I’m the problem that slips through locked doors and laughing guards and smug little systems like yours. And if you’re waiting for me to apologize? You’re gonna be standing there a very long time, because I'm never gonna fuckin' apologize for being who I am and doing what I do. So, if you're done preaching your bantha shit to a princess, I’m leaving now. I've got a run to make and folks to get home to.
