Ori follows, click-clack-clicking along, and picks their way more delicately over the sandy ground outside. Their long eyelashes go a long way towards blocking out the bright twin suns of Tatooine, but they still have to squint a little outdoors.
And they're terrible at small talk. Normally their master takes care of all of this and they just pick stuff up and haul it back to the junkyard. They feel awkwardly silent, their mind screaming at them to make conversation because it's polite and expected, but they can't think of anything to say, not even an innocuous comment on the weather, which is always the same anyhow.
Instead they begin to pick over the speeders in the back, the ones in too poor condition to be worth selling, but Ori has a keen eye and they can pick out which ones are salvageable with the right elbow grease. Still they hesitate.