Devin Virell
Redline Echo
The CR90 thrummed like a beast around him, and the ship’s hangar smelled of coolant. That scent seemed to cling to the area no matter how often the crew scrubbed the place down. Tools clattered, and somewhere nearby, a mechanic cursed under his breath as a coil sparked.
Devin stood near his locker, the thin durasteel door groaning as it was opened. Inside.. there wasn’t much. Just a few personal scraps and the jacket he’d been threatening to replace if he ever had the credits. Cargo pants, scuffed boots, and that fething jacket now shrugged over his shoulders. Luckily, it looked worn enough to pass for something you’d see in Worlport’s underbelly. Truth was, it was the nicest thing he owned, and at least it passed for stylish when zipped halfway.
A ration bar. A folded datapad, a small toolkit he knew better than to travel without. Then, with a more practiced motion, he tucked a blaster into the inside pocket. A slugthrower, rebellious in its own right these days. The weight pressed against his ribs, familiar, reassuring.. how he imagined a lightsaber must feel for a Jedi
The locker door had a cracked mirror bolted to the inside, a jagged line running across it. He leaned in anyway, running a hand through his hair, nudging a few strands into place like it mattered. Maybe it didn’t, at least not out here, but in a way, it was a ritual, a reminder he was still himself, not just another cog in the Rebellion. Mission details relayed in his head as he shut the locker.
A Rebel team had gone dark after spotting Imperial movements in Worlport. No follow‑up, no extraction.. just silence. He didn’t know the exact reason, but now it was his turn to step into the shadows and dig around.
Walking across the hangar, his booted echoed against the dark. The armed transport shuttle beckoned him forth. He leaned against one of the support struts, arms folded, eyes scanning about.
Somewhere on this ship was the Jedi he’d read about in the report. Devin was still getting used to working alongside these mystics with their glowing swords, whispering chit to themselves like they were in on some kind of big secret. But orders were orders, and if the brass thought pairing him with a Jedi was the way to crack this mission, then so be it. If he were lucky, maybe it’d be someone less pretentious than the blueberry diplomat,
Malora Varis
. To be fair, he imagined she could turn a cantina into a concert hall, her talk of the Force always sounding like another song waiting to be played.At the far end of the hangar, beyond the viewport, was Ord Mantell. The underworld there would be a mess for most, but he figured it might feel oddly familiar. Places like that had their own rhythm, their own rules, and he’d grown up in that atmosphere long before ever learning to fly.
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