The light was blinding and hot, but that was just a ploy that was used when someone was trying to get a record. The light not only made it nearly impossible to discern who the attorneys were, and it also put a slight amount of pressure under the guy who sat in the "hot seat". Under that heat, a being could slip and say something they weren't supposed to, incriminating themselves.
          But RC-1696 was not such a being. In his old unit he had been a recon. He was used to pressure; to enduring unbearable conditions while he staked out territory and enemy positions. That had been before his unit had been killed, and he had been abandoned by the so-called "Grand" Army of the Republic. Everyone thought he was dead, but it was obviously not the case. The only memento he walked away with from that battle was paralysis in his left hand and a noticeable limp in his left leg.
         With his new-found freedom, 96 set out for the nearest township. He had stumbled into a bar, where he managed to get drinks for free from the barman by using his injuries and status in the army as a tool. The success enticed 96, and from that day on, he had been a small-time con artist. He created a completely new identity, and thanks to surgery, he had changed his facial features so that he no longer looked like one of Jango's clones. He generated sympathy thanks to his physical burdens, and survived from day to day collecting money from saps who took him in.
         No one recognized him as a clone; not even the attorneys who were questioning him now. To them, he was just another low-life con artist, but one who knew what had happened at the dock just the night before.
         "It all started back in New York six weeks ago," said 96, "a small transport loaded with stripped DC-15 parts got jacked outside of Coruscant. The pilot didn't see anyone, but somebody kriffed up. He heard a voice; sometimes that's all you need."

Six weeks ago:

         The Coruscant Security Force blasted the apartment door into a smoking piece of metal on the floor. The man on the bed stayed down. The only threatening aspect about him were the numerous Mandalorian symbols tattooed on his lower back, shoulders, right shoulder, and the left side of his chest. He turned over to block out the hallway lights that flooded the room. The CSF surrounded him; aiming at his head.
         "Mr. McManus?" the squad leader asked.
         "By the Force, don't you di'kuts ever sleep?"
         Disrespect not withstanding, the squad leader stated, "We have a warrant for your arrest."
         McManus opened one eye scornfully up at the squad, "Kriff you, gizka-osik."
         Within a split second of McManus saying that, the squad unceremoniously picked him up, forced him to dress, and escorted him to the police transport.

         Later that day, CSF troops walked into an airspeeder repair shop. There was only one mechanic working in the garage, and he was the target.
         "Mr. Hockney?"
         Hockney looked up from the undercarriage of the speeder and looked in the mirror, "Who wants to know?"
         "Coruscant Security Force."
         Hockney heaved a sigh and reached underneath the speeder.
         "Oh hell!" the squad leader said. "Freeze!" He shouted before they rushed up to him, blasters drawn and aiming at Hockney.
         Hockney brought back a rag from underneath and wiped the sweat off his face. He looked down at the rag and shook his head, a smile cracking at the corner of his lips.
         "Sure you brought enough guys?" asked Hockney. He threw his rag onto the ground and got up to leave with the men.

         At the same time, a man walked out of a pawn shop in the Business District of Coruscant. He wore quite the outfit; fancy dress, a professional tie of sorts hung loosely around his neck. These were all indications that he had been to an upper class party of sorts. His walking out of a pawn shop suggested that he had gone for profit.
        As he walked around a corner, he spotted a speeder slowly but surely pulling up along the walkway.
        Boy sure looks like . . . oh they ARE looking at me.
        With an about turn, the man began to walk as casually as he could away from the speeder. But it was too late, and the man knew it.
        As the CSF got out of the car, the man knew the drill. He instantly raised both hands.
        "Mr. Fenster, we'd like you to come with us. Hands behind your back please."
        Fenster didn't give that easy though. As they brought his hands down to tie them, he'd manage to slip one free so that he had one arm raised and the other arm being tied. He managed to keep his hand free for a few minutes before three officers finally maneuvered it so that his hands were completely tied.
        When they got in the speeder, Fenster was finding great amusement with the situation. As the officers got in the car, they saw that Fenster had managed to maneuver the energy-cuffs off his hands. Fenster was playing with the cuffs, but making no move to get out of the car.
        Beginning to show annoyance, the CSF slammed the door shut, got in the speeder and took off at a speedy clip.

        In another part of Coruscant, a Bothan walked into a restaurant with a few CSF officers. They had eyes for one man. The Bothan quickly spotted him.
        The target was speaking to two Mon Calamari businessmen. Also at the table was a woman, a human female.
        As the Bothan and CSF walked up to the target, they caught snatches of a conversation being carried by the target.
        "It's quite simple really," the target was saying, "a restaurant that changes with the taste without losing the overall aesthetic; in other words, the atmosphere will not be painted on the walls. Let me give you an example," but as he began, the Bothan interjected.
        "This I had to see for myself."
        The target paused with a slight look of fear and disbelief in his eyes. The Bothan behind him had a smug look on his face.
        "Dasek," the target began, "I'm in a meeting."
        "Time for another one."
        The target looked at his Mon Calamari associates, "Everyone, this is Dasek Kujan."
        The Bothan pulled out his CSF ID, "Special Agent Kujan, Coruscant Customs. These gentlemen are with the Coruscant Security Force."
        Kujan smiled, "You look good, Keaton, better than I would've thought."
        One of the Mon Calamari slanted his eyes, "You have a problem, Mr. Keaton?"
        Kujan obliged him with an answer, "A small matter of a stolen transport loaded with GAR-issue DC-15 parts."
        The other Mon Calamari showed anxiety, "Mr. Keaton?"
        A slight pause, then Keaton responded, "Would you excuse us for a moment?"
        "We have some questions to ask you downtown; you're going to be a while," said Kujan. He was obviously sabotaging the meeting.
        The two Mon Calamari began to get up and converse with each other in their language. But before they could, the human woman and Keaton stopped them.
        "No, no, no, no, please, um, this is, er, this is a small problem. I'll talk to you later."
        Keaton patted the woman on the shoulder before he turned to go with the CSF. As they exited, Keaton waved again, a reassuring smile on his face.
        The Mon Calamari began to converse with each other again.
        "He seems to have a problem."
        "Unfinished debts?"
        The woman quickly broke in, speaking in fluent Mon Calamari, "No, no problem."
        Her pleasant smile and her beauty, set the Mon Calamari at ease again. They sat down to finish the meal, apparently satisfied with her placation.
        She took one look at the door, and then looked back at the businessmen.
        "So, what shall we talk about?"