Wraith
Victra's boots made no sound on the polished duracrete as she stepped off her cruiser. She always moved like that - not for effect, not to intimidate. That's just how it worked when you didn't waste effort. Every step served a purpose. Every breath was budgeted. She didn't do swagger. She did momentum.
Scarif's Confederacy base was, as usual, oppressively perfect. Sun-kissed towers gleamed in soft blue and white, like some architect thought peace could be color-coded. Beaches sparkled like brochure promises and smelled like disinfected serenity. Victra hated it.
Nothing to patrol. Nothing to chase. Nothing to shoot.
Just dull logs, diplomatic clearances, and star charts cleaner than a senator's conscience.
She'd barely saluted the hangar control when she veered off into the administration wing. Her jacket hung half-zipped, rank insignia flashing just enough to make junior officers turn awkwardly away. She was tired of nodding at the wide-eyed. Tired of the polite smiles. They were always grateful she wasn't yelling. Like yelling was her default setting.
The conference room at the end of Corridor Theta-9 was usually deserted - used for budget meetings and the occasional failed mutiny debrief. It was exactly the kind of silence she needed to finish her report, seal it, and forget the week of watching outer space do nothing.
But as the door slid open with its soft hiss, her eyes caught movement - two officers, too close. Mid-sentence. A hand brushing another. Soft laughter that didn't belong in a military installation unless someone was drunk or stupid.
One of them looked at her like she'd walked in holding a detonator.
Victra blinked once. "Didn't see anything." she muttered. She turned crisply - not a flinch, not an apology, just looking to escape a conversation that was not meant for her.