The Outsider.

Bill grew up without a real home. He laid his head wherever he could, on whatever backwater moon or planet his family came to a rest on at the end of a rotation. His father was a drunk and a lousy excuse for a human being and his mother wasn't much better, so Bill, being the eldest of three, ending up fending for his siblings and himself most of his early years.
He ran away the first chance he got, at the age of ten, and did his best to send back whatever money he could to make sure his brother and sister would get a good meal.

It was the day after his 15th birthday that he received news that his siblings were dead, or as good as. His brother had been caught stealing some bread, to feed themselves and Bill's parents had drank and spent all his hard earned money that was meant for his siblings, and his brother was shot like a dog in the street over it, and his sister was sold into slavery by his parents for drugs. By the time Bill could arrive on Nal Hutta to exact his vengeance, he was denied, both of them were dead, overdosed.
He years trying to track down his sister's whereabouts, only to find out when he was just shy of 23 that he too had been killed when her Master had had enough of decided she wasn't pretty enough anymore.

Bill got his sweet revenge nearly ten years later, and personally watched the rodian SOB bleed out on his expensive carpeted floor, after having stabbed him with his own, antique dagger.

Bill served in a militia shortly after that, protecting those who couldn't from the lawless and the savage, and there he met and befriended some of the best people a man could ask for. After serving his time, he'd finally saved up enough money to buy his own little ship, and star a shipping business and did all right for a number of years.

But tariffs, taxes, tolls, and bribes were eventually enough to nearly end his career as an honest hauler, until a friend convinced him one day to try his hand at smuggling, as Bill had a knack for being able to take care of himself in a scrap and had dodged enough blasters to earn himself some rep.

He quickly found that he was damn good at what he did, flying around, taking the high-risk, high value drops that few others would touch. He tried to keep a crew with him, and he did for a time, with faces and friends coming and going throughout his life and into his later years when he finally decided to settle down and live a life of peace and quiet on a remote moon where few ever frequented.

Now, news has reached his ear that a new resistance of rebels had given the Empire the kick in the pants that they had coming, at some place called Yavin or another. Normally this bit of current events would be near just the same as any other, but few poor decisions and a couple of backstabs 'friends' later, Bill's found himself with no ship, no home, and barely any credits to his name

Bill's not one to end himself at the end of his own blaster. He'll depart when he's good and ready, so until that day comes, he's packed up all he needs, all he owns, strapped on his belt and blaster, and donned his hat once more. Time to score enough to retire for real this time.

Relationships (2)

Comrades ('Dirt Neck' Squad)
Bill served in his prime years with a local militia, mostly fending off pirates, outlaws, degenerates and the like. Their squad nickname was given to them after their superiors quickly learned that they were willing to do the dirtiest, least desirable tasks and assignments out of their entire company. The survivors of the squad still keep in contact with each other, and even gather on occasion to eat, drink, swap stories, though mostly it's drinking.

Former Rival (Trudy)
A rival smuggler he competed with for jobs and opportunities, their every encounter was terse, tense, and usually abrasive. However, since retirement, they've managed to form a loose mutual respect for one another, and would have each other's backs if the other came to them for help.

Dutybound.

Bill has lived his entire life by a personal code that he's rarely strayed from, and does his best to uphold.
-"Earn your keep."
-"Be straight and honest with them that deserve it."
-"Never shoot a man who doesn't have it comin'."
-"Rub a little sand on it and keep on doing."
-"Do you and do it better."
-"Gonna stand up, or ya gonna shrivel?"

Bill is a 64 year-old human male. He is tall, standing around 6'1'' when he's not hunched slightly from age. His eyes match his hair, durasteel grey, and he's grown out his hair and beard since retirement, with his locks now falling down nearly to his shoulders. His beard is neatly kept, grey, with white having crept onto his chin and tainting his hair. His mustache and sideburns are similar in color and just as groomed. While he takes his time moving, he walks with purpose and has done a good job staying fit, despite his age. His skin has been well tanned and toughed by the suns of many worlds, and his hands are calloused, with scars adorned in number across his knuckles and palms.
His voice is rough, he speaks slowly, and deliberately, rarely wasting his breath on meaningless banter or small talk. Bill speaks what's on his mind, and he doesn't butter up to people.