The Smuggler sits. The sheen of sweat coating his face and chest mirrors the film of scum and filth coating the tabletop. The clammy, clinging sweat is in marked contrast to the dry and oppressive heat of the desert tavern in which he sits. It marks his white shirt, already stained with the dirt of a thousand such deserts and the mechanical lifeblood of his trusty steed.

Despite the heat, the smuggler seems calm, relaxed, focused entirely on his drinking companion. With one arm resting lazily across the back of his seat, and one worn boot perched nonchalantly on the edge of the table, it would be easy to mistake this scene for a casual discussion between two old friends.

Six small details are enough to disabuse the onlooker of that notion.

Firstly, the Smuggler's companion has the cold, glassy, dead-eyed stare of a contract killer. His lips pursed in concentration, and his free hand clenched around the table's rim, it's plain to see that the Smuggler’s companion isn’t here to reminisce about spice routes, ship speeds and the necessities of avoiding unwanted Imperial attention.

The second detail gives the observer some idea of what the Bounty Hunter's intentions are. Clutched firmly in his hand is a sleek black pistol, aimed towards the smuggler with a finger clenched purposefully around the trigger. This isn’t a conversation, or a catch up. No, this is a murder.

The third detail evens the odds. Below the level of the table, hidden from the view of the Bounty Hunter is the Smuggler's right hand. This right hand is only a few inches away from an empty leather holster, and this right hand is holding death. Death in the shape of a sleeker, blacker pistol, aimed more precisely and with a wisp of smoke obscuring the end of the barrel. This isn't a murder. This is a shootout

Detail four is mere millimetres away from the Smuggler's head. A shower of sparks, like an intricate flower of flame is blossoming from the headrest of the Smuggler's seat. Just above this fiery flora is a streak of brilliant red light, casting a sickly glow across the Smuggler's face.

The fifth detail is another streak of neon, suspended above the tabletop. A perfectly straight line can be drawn along the streak, one end stretching towards the Bounty Hunter's upper torso, the other stretching back to a wisp of smoke underneath the table.

Detail six is the wry half-smile on the Smuggler's face. The smirk of a crack shot who's certain that his streak of light is perfectly aimed. The grin of a scoundrel who can see the terror and panic in his adversary's dark eyes.

The Smuggler's name is Han. The observers know his name. The Bounty Hunter's name is Greedo. The onlookers are well aware of that fact. The question on the lips of everyone in the desert cantina is this:

"Who shot first?"