Whistling along with the morning birds, Torin Xivas, the mailman, parked his sun-yellow moped at the edge of the pavement leading to Varykino Village. Two worn leather satchels hung from either side, packed with mail for the villagers. He’d already sorted them, starting with the first humble cottage—the home of a sweet old couple with no children of their own.
He grabbed the satchel marked for Varykino Village and was just about to step through the gate when a black car slid in, coming to a stop right where he stood. His singsong whistle twisted into a note of pure awe as he took in the car’s sleek, luxurious design. For someone like him, who’d spent his whole life in the quiet suburbs, cars like that only ever showed up in the capital, usually driven by what he called “pompous pricks.” All he could see in the dark tinted window was his own startled reflection.
Then the window rolled down just enough to talk through. Torin could make out the color of the skin on the man’s forehead, but everything else was shadow. His eyes hidden behind sunglasses, a cap pulled low. What an enigma, he thought.
“Uh… morning, my good fella. How can I help you?”
“I want you to do something for me,” said the stranger, his voice pouring into Torin’s ears like honey melting in hot, simmering tea. “A small favor, you could call it.”
Torin blinked, thrown. In all his years delivering mail, no one had ever asked him for a favor like this. He adjusted the satchel on his shoulder. “What—what kind of favor is it? I mean, I’m happy to help… as long as it’s nothing illegal.”
It was impossible to read the man’s face. Torin saw nothing but darkness behind the glass, like talking to a living shadow. For a moment, he glanced away, letting his eyes rest on the lush greenery, the thick tree trunks, twisting vines, bursts of wildflowers. Anywhere. Anywhere but that car. He needed to remind himself he was still in Naboo, not standing at a crossroads in hell talking to a lost soul.
Without a word, the man slipped a black, rectangular box through the gap in the window. Half inside, half out. “I want you to deliver this to the Naberries. Specifically, to Padmé Naberrie.”