The dead are the living, changed of clothes. He could not claim that he truly believed that. He’d seen so much death, and most of it pointless. From anywhere, with no remorse. He knew too well what it looked like to see the light fade from someone’s eyes, and he’d never then seen something else take it’s place.

He was not religious, had no faith to speak of. He his only hope was the Force was real, was something that they belonged to and would return to. And that in the meantime, memory would take its place.

Memory for the living remained.

A sudden wave of grief gripped him, rolling up his throat like choking bile, and he bit it back down. What was the point of mourning here? Now? Who was here that he could let his grief fuel into vengeance, and find satisfaction? He was alone, the empire was nowhere to be found.

He realised he had missed the question after several several seconds pause, and had to quickly roll back his thoughts to remember what was being asked.

“Ah - salvage. We take old, abandoned ships, take them apart, and find what could still be used. People throw away so much that’s still useful - and will pay you happily when you clean it up, ensure it works and sell it back to them.” It was, of course, the truth - or part of it. He would not mention the thefts, the heists. Walking into a place like he belonged there, and walking out with parts and pieces of tech to sell off to their enemies.

If the empire wasn’t here, then who was there to even steal from?

He offered a shrug and a rueful glance.

“Most of my whole planet is dedicated to it, or to taking care of the people who are. We get a lot of really big contracts that way. It’s honest work.”

Depending on the work and your definition of honest.