Salem frowns and looks towards the door. "Myitt took a different host?" He looks back at Joanne, intending to ask for an explanation, but her tone makes it clear she's confused by the situation as well. "You'll have to point this other host out to me, at least."
When Keshin begins inquiring after the motives for this mission, Salem sighs. He doesn't want to start getting in to all this. He turns to watch as first one, then two, then three newcomers enter the bar. All three appear to be human, though in a place like this, that can mean very little. They give the impression of being separate parties, but that may be an act. A distinct tingle of fear, and the usual accompanying excitement, passes through him. Whether they're together or not, every newcomer has a chance of recognizing him, of being another bounty hunter or a representative of the Empire, or of the Andalites... he smirks to himself. Pretty much anyone that walks in has a good chance of wanting him dead. It'd be absurd, that his life's come to this, if it weren't so nerve-wracking.
His eyes track to the blond man who orders a coffee. He frowns, staring for a few moments, as though trying to figure something out. The man feels different, somehow, to the new sense Mar'd bestowed upon him years before. His eyes flick towards the auburn-haired woman, noting the way she holds herself-- an air of unconcern masking an underlying alertness, a wariness that only comes of experience. Or... so he imagines, at least. It's always possible he's projecting his own emotions onto her. With a visible shake of his shoulders, he turns back to Keshin, who is now fidgeting with his display. Even as he returns to the conversation, he keeps one wary eye out for trouble.
He smirks. "Isn't it considered... like, a faux pas or whatever to ask too many questions about a job?" He sighs. "I'm the client on this one. There's a..." He furrows his brow, trying to figure out where to start. "There's a movement within the Andalite higher-ups. I don't have all the details yet. Whatever's going on... it's covert. Well-hidden. Tough to gather the intel on. Very underground kind of stuff. But, as far as I can tell, the movement is mostly about... about letting the Yeerks win. About letting the Empire destroy... whatever this movement decides. Whoever it decides. Letting the Yeerks do their dirty work. About pulling the Andalites out of the war, about putting their resources into defense." He runs a hand through his hair and looks away. "I... I don't know if I've ever told you, but I spent some time with the Andalites. Years, actually." He lets out a bitter, choked laugh. "They might be a bunch of arrogant, xenophobic, hateful, grass-munching idiots, but their planet... was my home. I care about them. Some more than others. And I'm not going to let some deluded underground conspiracy destroy them, or hurt my... hurt my friends."
He smiles sheepishly, seeming to remember where he is. "The plan will be to allow the station to function as a sensor platform while crippling its ability to act as a waystation for troops. One of the... er... kingpins of this little conspiracy is scheduled to pass through the station soon. Our plan depends on shadowing him effectively. He's also our potential mark." He smiles tiredly. "I'm hoping we can find enough information to stop this movement in its tracks. I don't think it's very widespread at the moment."
As the bartender approaches each of the bar's new patrons in turn, his response is the same. He sets their requested drinks down in front of them, never speaking so much as a word. Along with the drink, he slides a tattered, yellowed old notepad on which three words are written. Cash or Tab?