Reed | HLA Rebel Captain

The dull hum of the Shrike’s engines filled the bridge, a constant, reassuring vibration beneath boots and fingertips. Reed sat in the captain's chair, staring at the tactical holo-display on the arm as it flickered between system reports and long-range scans. Around him, the rest of the crew settled into their stations with the ease of people who had long since learned each other's rhythms.

Pierce, dutiful as ever, was busily punching in headings at the helm, Rook lingered near the door, massive arms folded, clutching a half even ration bar, Doc worked wordlessly beside the engineering stations, and Geck was slouched in the gunner's seat.

“Quiet day, aye?" he said, yawning. "Shouldn't we be out tearin' shite up? When’s our grand plan to rob a Flyu pleasure barge and replace all their lubricant with chili oil?”

Pierce groaned. “I swear to the void, if you bring that up one more time—”

“Nah, nah, hear me out! Imagine their faces when they—”

“Enough.” Reed’s voice wasn’t sharp, but it carried, the kind of effortless command that made shoulders straighten without thought. His lips twitched. “We’re not sabotaging Flyu condiments today. Despite the... entertainment value that might provide.”

Geck clutched his chest. “Captain, yer crushin’ me dreams!”

Doc didn’t look up from his data pad. “Your dreams are a hazard to the ship.”

“Oh, shut yer trap ye blueberry tosser. Rook. Back me up. How’s a man supposed to wage psychological warfare without a little spice?”

Rook’s expression didn’t change. “Chili oil’s a waste. Just blow it up.”

Reed shook his head, fighting a smile. After a lifetime of being a lapdog for the Empire, jumping whenever they snapped their fingers, this was the kind of warmth he'd found. The kind that only came with this crew. The chaos, the quiet understanding of people who’d bled together. He often wondered what his life might be like had his old Flyu handlers not abandoned ship during that pirate attack and left him for dead.

The frantic shouting of his former superior officer, "Leave the human! Just abandon ship!" was still burned vividly into his memory. Had the bastards had a single scrap of honor in their bodies, they might've taken him to safety. Maybe then he'd still be on their leash.

But fate works in strange ways, and here he was, the Captain of an HLA's flagship, surrounded by the people he now considered family, who all shared one very important goal: burn the Empire to the ground.

"Oh fer the love of- where's yer sense of artistry, man?!" Geck cried in indignation. "War's not just about winnin' it's about how ye tear down yer enemy's morale along the way!"

"And you've done that well enough with you're ridiculous comm tower hijacking," Pierce berated him.

Geck pointed a finger at her accusingly. "Ye can't sit there and tell me that shite wasn't bloody funny as-"

The proximity alarm blared.

Instantly, the mood shifted. Pierce snapped upright, fingers flying across her console. Doc’s eyes flicked to the bio-scanner. Rook tensed, shoulders squaring like a guard dog sensing threat, and Geck straightened in his seat, hands going for the gun controls.

Reed didn’t hesitate. “Report.”

“Unidentified vessel,” Pierce said, voice clipped. “No hail. ...Life signs detected.”

The main viewer flickered long-range optics resolving into a sleek, gunmetal hull with no identifiable markings.

Every instinct from Reed's enforcer days prickled. Ambush? Smugglers? Empire black ops? "Open a channel," he ordered, prompting Pierce to hit another few buttons and open their hailing frequencies. "This is Captain Reed. I request you identify yourself." A moment passed, but no response. So, Reed tried again, this time his tone carrying an even more unmistakable air of authority. "Unidentified vessel, please respond."