Rivi

The briefing room aboard the Rebel frigate smells faintly of overheated circuitry, caf, and recycled air. Pilots crowd around a flickering tactical display while deck crew squeeze along the walls carrying datapads and tool cases. Someone near the projector argues about fuel consumption figures over the whine of a malfunctioning ventilation fan. Near the back of the room sits an Ortolan pilot almost impossible to miss despite how thoroughly she seems to wish otherwise. Her fur, naturally velvet-blue beneath the dye, is colored a vivid pink standing out sharply against the muted greys and olive drab of the briefing chamber. She occupies more space than the narrow folding chair seems designed to support, sitting carefully hunched inward with her broad hands folded awkwardly in her lap as if trying to make herself smaller. Whenever someone brushes past behind her, her floppy ears twitch and she instinctively pulls herself tighter against the edge of the table to avoid bumping them. Most people aboard the ship know her callsign before they know her name. Scalpel. The same pilot who cuts through Imperial patrol screens without taking a single hit now avoids eye contact with the exhausted lieutenant distributing mission packets. When the datapad finally reaches her, she accepts it with a soft mumbled thanks nearly drowned out by the room’s chatter. Only her hands move with complete confidence. While the briefing officer speaks, Rivi’s thick fingers absently tap against the metal tabletop in a slow syncopated rhythm matching the distant pulse of engines somewhere deep in the frigate’s hull. Occasionally she touches the edge of her caf mug with the hollow tips of her digits, expression tightening slightly at the burnt taste lingering in the metal. “The convoy route cuts through the Roche belt here,” the commander says, highlighting a dense asteroid cluster on the tactical display. “Imperial escort presence unknown. Expect TIE response within minutes if you’re spotted.” A few pilots groan. Someone near the front mutters, “Great. Blind debris flying.” Rivi speaks before seeming to realize she has done so. “They’ll come in too fast near the larger rocks,” she says quietly, eyes fixed on the projection instead of anyone in the room. “TIE pilots always overcorrect when their sightlines compress. If the convoy hugs the shadowed side here—” one thick finger points to a narrow channel between asteroids “—their own formation’ll trip over itself trying to pursue.” The room falls briefly silent. Several heads turn toward her. Rivi immediately shrinks a little lower in her chair beneath the sudden attention, ears drooping as though regretting the interruption. But after a moment, the commander gives a slow nod and adjusts the projected route. “Noted. Scalpel, you’ll lead the attack element.”

The asteroid field drifts across space like the shattered bones of some ancient world, tumbling slabs of iron-rich rock turning slowly in the pale light of a distant star. Below them, an Imperial supply convoy creeps cautiously through the debris — gray cargo haulers bracketed by TIE escorts hugging the shadowed faces of larger asteroids to reduce their sensor exposure. Hidden among the rocks, Rebel fighters wait. Most of the ambush force consists of aging Z-95 Headhunters and scarred Y-wing bombers running quiet between the asteroids, their hulls patched and mismatched from years of constant repair. Among them sits a single A-wing interceptor, sleek and knife-like against the heavier Rebel craft surrounding it. Inside its cramped cockpit, Rivi Lofgrun no longer looks remotely timid. The pink Ortolan sits forward in her crash webbing, broad hands moving lightly across throttle and control surfaces while the cockpit vibrates around her in layered rhythms: engine harmonics, shield feedback, life-support circulation, the faint rattle of an overstrained stabilizer she still has not found time to replace. Her ears twitch faintly beneath her headset as she hums under her breath, almost unconsciously matching the tempo of the engines around her. Around the field, Rebel pilots mutter over comms or check targeting systems while they wait for the convoy to enter the trap. Rivi barely seems to notice them. Her black eyes remain fixed on the tactical display as the lead TIE escorts sweep slightly too far ahead of the slower haulers. Her fingers tap once against the throttle housing. “Escort screen’s drifting forward,” she says over squadron comms, her hesitant mumble gone completely. “They’re nervous about the terrain. Give them six seconds.” No one questions her timing. The convoy pushes deeper into the debris field. Six TIE fighters widen their spacing approaching a narrow corridor between rotating asteroids, trying to maintain visibility through the shifting stone. One pilot drifts outward farther than the others. Rivi watches him do it. “Three,” she says quietly. The Rebel formation tenses. “Two.” The TIE formation widens another fraction. “One. Go.” The asteroid field erupts into engine light and laser fire. Headhunters burst from concealment in staggered attack runs while Y-wings roll heavily toward the convoy’s flank, ion cannons glowing bright blue. TIE fighters scatter in immediate confusion as targeting alarms scream across open comms. Rivi accelerates hardest of all. Her A-wing launches forward like a missile, engines shrieking as she threads through spinning debris at impossible speed. The interceptor seems less like a machine turning than a melody changing tempo, flowing through gaps between tumbling asteroids with unnerving smoothness. A TIE snaps toward her head-on and opens fire. Most pilots would break away. Rivi accelerates directly at it. At the last instant the A-wing twists sideways through a gap between two rotating asteroid fragments barely wider than its own fuselage. Green laser fire scatters harmlessly against stone while red bolts slash across the TIE cockpit in one smooth passing burst. The fighter explodes behind her. “Rear escort’s compressing,” Rivi says calmly, already banking beneath the convoy. “Push them inward.” Another TIE dives after her through the debris field. Rivi vanishes behind a rotating asteroid fragment for half a heartbeat before bursting upward across the Imperial formation’s blind side. Panicked green laser fire crosses directly through another TIE’s flight path. The explosion flashes emerald across her canopy. Scalpel never slows. “Timing window’s open,” she announces. “Hit the haulers now.”

The Rebel hangar smells of fuel vapor, overheated metal, and ionized dust. Technicians move constantly beneath the frigate’s cavernous ceiling, stepping around tool crates and power cables while battered starfighters rest in various states of disassembly under harsh maintenance lights. Fresh scoring marks still streak the hulls of returning Headhunters from the convoy raid, and one Y-wing near the far wall is missing nearly an entire engine cowling. Near the edge of the hangar, partially hidden behind the angular profile of an A-wing interceptor, Rivi Lofgrun sits hunched atop a maintenance lift with one side panel removed from her fighter. The Ortolan’s pink fur looks duller beneath the industrial lighting, stained in places with grease and coolant residue. One broad hand rests deep inside the exposed engine compartment while the hollow fingertips of the other trace carefully along a bundle of conduits, tasting faint chemical residue from the metal surfaces as she works. Every few moments she pauses to hum quietly to herself, swaying faintly in rhythm with the interceptor’s idling systems. The A-wing itself bears the unmistakable scars of hard Rebel service: patchwork hull plating, mismatched fasteners, carbon scoring around the laser cannons. But unlike many Rebel fighters, it is meticulously maintained. Not polished — simply cared for with almost obsessive attention. Rivi leans back slightly, staring at the interceptor’s nose section, before reviewing a small open datapad displaying several rough color mockups. Most are terrible. One has racing stripes. One somehow looks aggressive. One is unmistakably pink. Rivi stares at that one longest. Her ears droop faintly. “…maybe too pink,” she murmurs to herself. A pair of mechanics cross nearby carrying a coolant pump assembly. Rivi immediately pulls her legs inward to avoid obstructing them despite being nowhere near their path. One mechanic gives her a casual nod in passing. “Nice flying out there, Scalpel.” Rivi nearly drops the hydrospanner she is holding. “O-oh. Thanks.” The mechanics continue on without slowing. Rivi watches them leave for a moment before glancing back toward the datapad beside her. The pink mockup still sits there accusingly. Slowly, uncertainly, she reaches over and rotates the display outward a few degrees — just enough for someone approaching to see it, as if hoping for a second opinion. Or dreading one.

The nebula outside thins into long ribbons of violet and blue, stretched across space like smeared paint. The Rebel formation drifts through it in loose alignment, engines steady while distant static flickers softly through the clouds. For once, nobody is shooting at them. “Alright,” Green Three drawls over the channel, “which one of you is gonna admit this is pretty first?” “That depends,” Green Five replies. “Are we talking ‘pretty’ or ‘probably ionized enough to kill us’ pretty?” “Same thing in this sector.” A few quiet laughs crackle over the comms. Off the starboard side, Rivi’s A-wing rolls gently around a drifting veil of pale blue gas before easing back into formation. “There,” Green Two says immediately. “Scalpel’s doing it again.” Rivi blinks. “…Doing what?” “That thing where you pretend you’re not weaving through the scenery on purpose.” “I’m holding position,” Rivi protests. “Position doesn’t normally corkscrew.” Rivi’s ears twitch beneath her headset. Her hands shift lightly on the controls. “The density changes across the cloud layer,” she says after a moment. “The smoother line isn’t always straight.” “Easy for you to say from an A-wing. That looked suspiciously close to having fun,” Green Two replies, as the comm channel stirs with restrained amusement. Rivi ducks her head automatically despite being alone in the cockpit. “It was a smoother approach vector,” she mumbles. “That is the least convincing thing you’ve ever said, Scalpel.” “She’s smiling,” Green Three declares. “I can see it from here.” “I am not,” Rivi says, as if convincing herself it is true. “You absolutely are!” Rivi makes a tiny sound somewhere between protest and embarrassment while her A-wing slips neatly through another luminous band of gas. The lead pilot finally chimes in, voice dry with experience. “Green Leader here. Knock it off. Some people pet tookas. Scalpel flies figure eights through nebulae.” “That is not what I’m doing,” Rivi insists, sounding increasingly less certain about it. “Sure, it isn’t,” Green Five answers. A flicker of brighter light ripples through the clouds ahead, reflecting across the canopies of the formation. Rivi watches it for a second longer before quietly adding, “…It is a very nice nebula.”