Leaning casually against the back bulkhead of
The Freebird's debriefing room, Shayl "Sparks" Munin crossed his armored arms, his colorfully painted helmet tucked securely under his left elbow. A relaxed, expectant smirk played across his uncovered face as he let out a quiet, amused huff. Around him, the room was a tense hive of activity—local militia rookies, anxious frontier smugglers, and seasoned freelancers either finalizing their flight gear or already scrambling out the doors to mount their ships.
Shayl's gaze swept across the crowd, lingering for a beat on the distinct silhouettes of the Jedi Outcasts present. Centuries of complex history made any Mandalorian a little naturally wary around space wizards, but out here on the edge of the Unknown Regions, he didn't care about ancient politics. They were all standing on the same line, facing down the same pirate filth for the exact same reasons, and that was good enough for him.
His eyes flicked onward, offering a brief, respectful nod of recognition to the other armored Mandalorian pilot across the room before shifting up to the mechanical frame of the tactical droid rattling off flight vectors. A machine handing down combat orders to living warriors was an objective absurdity, but the droid's synthetic voice was merely a countdown to a green light for action.
The moment the briefing concluded, Shayl pushed off from the bulkhead and stepped out into the frantic rush of pilots flooding toward the staging deck. Emerging onto the bustling hangar floor, his eyes immediately locked onto the sleek, weather-beaten Kestri grey durasteel of his MNV-52 Beviin fighter, affectionately dubbed
The Sparktail. The hand-me-down airframe sat proudly among the ragtag volunteer vessels, the vibrant orange and electric blue racing stripes of its custom nose art cutting through the dim hangar haze.
Ignoring the Alliance flight crew, Shayl conducted his own meticulous pre-flight walkaround. His hands trailed over the fuselage, checking the hydraulic fluid seals on the S-foils and ensuring the custom cooling sleeves on his main cannons hadn't loosened during transit. He knew the quirks of this airframe far better than any FWA deck technician ever could.
Satisfied, he scaled the boarding steps and slipped seamlessly into the cockpit, his armor plates settling comfortably into the pilot's harness.
Slipping his helmet over his head, the pressurized seal hissed as the internal T-visor displays flared to life. Shayl brought the starfighter roaring awake, a familiar, deep thrum rattling through his boots as the over-tuned sub-light injectors caught line. With a practiced flick of his fingers, he began toggling through his console diagnostics, shifting past standard tactical radar to prime his custom, long-range Outrider sensor cluster. Next, his thumb cycled the multi-phase frequency modulator on his flight stick, testing the weapon matrix as the console indicators blinked from Standard Laser to a blue-tinted Ion Mode, before finally locking into a heavy plasma yield.
A secondary indicator screen glowed amber, confirming his physical payload was loaded and primed inside the twin LS4 Cavalier launchers: a balanced spread of four M13 Drake tracking missiles and four shield-killing Mag-Pulse warheads. Reaching up, he gave a quick, ironic tap to the blackened, melted fuse dangling from his canopy frame—a silent reminder to keep his head straight before overdriving his engine matrix today—and sealed the transparent canopy.
Flipping open his local comms channel, Shayl's voice crackled cleanly onto
The Freebird's primary flight deck frequency:
"Flight Control, this is Starlight Seven. The Sparktail is green across the board. I am locked and loaded. Requesting deparure clearance."