Cian/Damia/Guy/Elvira
Lady Luck had a sick sense of humor. Cian had known it for years, but recently, he seemed to have something that amounted to unique skill for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. That he got out of trouble with no more than a limp most of the time wasn't the issue; the issue was the getting into trouble in the first place.
Take this afternoon for example. A simple visit to the Aerodrome -- paid with irregularity, like his visits to the Docks, to discourage "creative" inventory by those who received and sent shipments for him -- had turned to chaos as some idiot corsair had apparently decided to smuggle in a hold full of monsters. Which left Cian in front of the hangar still containing one of his chartered vessels -- and plenty of his cargo -- pointing his gun at a skittering mechanical spider (or whatever the fuck) and snarling, "Come on, you freaky piece of shit, just turn around and go the hell back to wherever you came from."
This once -- just this once -- he wasn't getting involved past the point of making sure nothing he owned got trashed. He wasn't a hero, for fuck's sake.
Which didn't stop him from trying to shoot the thing between where its eyes should have been, or contemplating breaking out the dice (as long as it wasn't his hangar that nearly got blown to shit, it also, he reasoned, wasn't his problem).