Character
The knock wasn't loud.
It wasn't soft either.
Measured. Intentional.
Ironwraith stood just outside Ana Rix's workshop door, armored boots planted evenly against the durasteel flooring. The corridor lighting cast long, muted reflections across the matte plating of his Republic armor. He hadn't bothered with civilian wear this time.
His helmet rested beneath one arm, black visor dark, silent. The other hand hovered near his sidearm out of habit, not threat. Old muscle memory. Old survival code.
He didn't like unknown variables.
And this… was an unknown.
The datapad rested in his gauntleted hand. The same one she had repaired the first time they met. The same one he had trusted her with something he didn't do lightly.
The files had been buried deep.
Not surface corruption. Not a glitch from rough handling. Not something caused by field interference.
Buried.
Layered beneath operational logs. Archived mission transcripts. Encrypted Republic dispatches. Three levels deep inside secure partitions he hadn't accessed in months.
That was what bothered him.
He had combed through them twice. Then a third time. The corrupted fragments weren't readable, just fractured strings of code, timestamp distortions, and what looked like overwritten blocks that shouldn't have been touched.
He could ignore surface damage.
He couldn't ignore something that looked deliberate.
His jaw tightened slightly as he knocked again, same rhythm.
If anyone else had touched that datapad…
If anyone else had used her repair as a doorway…
He needed to know.
And there was only one person he trusted to tell him the truth.
"I know you're in there," he called through the door, voice even, steady. Not accusing. Not tense. Just controlled.
A beat passed.
"I need you to take another look at something."
No dramatics. No explanation through a door.
Just a soldier standing outside a workshop, helmet under his arm, sidearm at his hip, waiting for the only person who might understand why a few corrupted files could feel like the start of something worse.
He didn't flinch anymore.
But he didn't ignore warning signs either.
And this one felt like static before a storm.
Ana Rix
It wasn't soft either.
Measured. Intentional.
Ironwraith stood just outside Ana Rix's workshop door, armored boots planted evenly against the durasteel flooring. The corridor lighting cast long, muted reflections across the matte plating of his Republic armor. He hadn't bothered with civilian wear this time.
His helmet rested beneath one arm, black visor dark, silent. The other hand hovered near his sidearm out of habit, not threat. Old muscle memory. Old survival code.
He didn't like unknown variables.
And this… was an unknown.
The datapad rested in his gauntleted hand. The same one she had repaired the first time they met. The same one he had trusted her with something he didn't do lightly.
The files had been buried deep.
Not surface corruption. Not a glitch from rough handling. Not something caused by field interference.
Buried.
Layered beneath operational logs. Archived mission transcripts. Encrypted Republic dispatches. Three levels deep inside secure partitions he hadn't accessed in months.
That was what bothered him.
He had combed through them twice. Then a third time. The corrupted fragments weren't readable, just fractured strings of code, timestamp distortions, and what looked like overwritten blocks that shouldn't have been touched.
He could ignore surface damage.
He couldn't ignore something that looked deliberate.
His jaw tightened slightly as he knocked again, same rhythm.
If anyone else had touched that datapad…
If anyone else had used her repair as a doorway…
He needed to know.
And there was only one person he trusted to tell him the truth.
"I know you're in there," he called through the door, voice even, steady. Not accusing. Not tense. Just controlled.
A beat passed.
"I need you to take another look at something."
No dramatics. No explanation through a door.
Just a soldier standing outside a workshop, helmet under his arm, sidearm at his hip, waiting for the only person who might understand why a few corrupted files could feel like the start of something worse.
He didn't flinch anymore.
But he didn't ignore warning signs either.
And this one felt like static before a storm.
Ana Rix