Stela tugged at the edges of her hood, not liking the way the fabric scraped against her sweat soaked skin. Depredador was too hot for any sort of headgear, if you asked her, but she couldn't risk being spotted, couldn't risk the Troopers thinking her anything more than just another native, worth less than the dirt that formed the streets. Better they think her some random peasant than learning she was the Commander of the militia, that she was the same Butcher they were supposed to be hunting for.
She paused when two troopers passed by her, nodding her head politely, and luckily they didn't look twice. It was then she noticed the man, definitely not a native, though he didn't seem to be Imperial either. He wasn't dressed as one, and he seemed lost. Taking a risk, she approached him.
"Hey," she said, sizing him up. He was taller than her by nearly a foot, and her hand strayed to the blaster at her side. "We don't get many newcomers here."