Private Two Ways to Break the World

[Aren D'Shade]

The panel had been stripped down to its bones.

Aren crouched beside the open access housing with a small light clipped to the edge of the bulkhead, its cool white glow spilling over the exposed circuitry. The outer casing of the generator lay in careful pieces beside her, every bolt and plate arranged in neat rows on a cloth she had spread across the durasteel floor. Anyone else might have seen a mess of wires and scorched components. To her, it was a conversation waiting to be finished.

The station's maintenance logs had been vague.

Intermittent power drops. Systems rebooting at random intervals. Nothing catastrophic, which meant no one had bothered fixing it properly. They had simply reset the grid and hoped it behaved long enough to avoid paperwork.

Typical.

Aren adjusted the small driver in her hand and loosened another panel from the regulator housing, setting it aside with the same quiet precision she applied to everything else. The smell of burnt insulation lingered faintly in the air, confirming what she had suspected the moment she opened the unit.

Not sabotage. Neglect.

The power coupler had been running hot for months, maybe longer, until the shielding finally started to degrade. Someone had attempted a repair at some point, judging by the uneven weld along one of the conduits, but the work had been rushed and sloppy.

She exhaled slowly.

"Of course," she murmured to no one in particular.

Her fingers moved through the components with practiced familiarity, tracing the path of damage through the circuitry while her mind quietly rebuilt the system in layers of possibility. Replace the coupler. Reinforce the shielding. Realign the grid so the stress was redistributed across the secondary relay instead of concentrating in a single node.

Simple. If it had been done the first time correctly.

Aren reached for the tool case beside her and retrieved a replacement coupler from its foam slot, turning it once in her fingers before leaning back toward the open generator. As she worked, the rest of the station carried on around her—distant voices from the docking corridor, the occasional rumble of a freighter settling onto landing clamps, the low ambient hum of a place that never truly slept.

None of it distracted her.

Her focus remained on the exposed machinery in front of her, the quiet rhythm of repair settling into place as naturally as breathing.

Somewhere nearby, heavier footsteps echoed through the corridor. Aren did not look up. If whoever was approaching needed something, they would say so. Until then, the generator remained the more interesting problem.

Rolcor Wildstar

 

[Rolcor Wildstar]

The stars snapped back into place as the Broken-Vow dropped from hyperspace.


Rolcor Wildstar leaned forward in the pilot's chair, one hand resting lazily on the throttle while the other tapped the console. Ahead of them, the station hung in the void like a rusted crown of durasteel and blinking docking lights.

He gave it a slow, measuring look.

"Seen worse," he muttered.

A sharp electronic chirp answered him.

The astromech unit socketed into the co-pilot interface whirred as its photoreceptor turned toward the station. ARX-7N — Seven — began feeding telemetry across the cockpit displays.

Power fluctuations. Docking lanes cycling irregularly.

Rolcor watched the readouts scroll.

"Hm."

Seven gave another irritated beep.

"Yeah," Rolcor replied dryly. "I noticed."

Behind the cockpit bulkhead, the ship was alive with the quiet rhythm of its crew.

Somewhere aft, the heavy tread of Drokk Var echoed through the cargo deck as the massive Basilisk secured the freight clamps. Metal groaned under the weight of whatever crate he was wrestling into place.

From the engineering pit came the muffled voice of Tallo Nix arguing with the hyperdrive.

"I'm telling you, she's making that noise again! That is not a healthy sound!"

Rolcor ignored him.

Tallo had been convinced the Broken-Vow was five minutes from exploding for the past three years.

In the dorsal turret well, Gorrik Vass had already powered up the targeting systems. The Nosaurian preferred to watch new ports through a gun sight first and ask questions later.

And somewhere near the forward ramp stood Krann Vorga.

Rolcor didn't need to see the Weequay to know it. Krann always waited there when they docked—silent, immovable, ready in case the welcome committee turned violent.

The pirate captain eased the freighter toward the station.

The Broken-Vow was no sleek courier ship. She moved like a bruiser—broad mandibles and heavy hull drifting toward the docking ring with deliberate control. The magnetic clamps caught the ship with a deep thunk that vibrated through the deck plates.

Engines wound down.

Rolcor stood.

"Well," he said, grabbing his coat from the back of the chair, "let's see what kind of trouble lives here."

Seven gave a questioning whistle.

"Relax," Rolcor added. "We're just visiting."

The cockpit hatch slid open with a hiss.

Moments later the freighter's boarding ramp lowered into the station corridor.

Krann was waiting there exactly as expected—huge arms folded across his chest, weathered Weequay face unreadable.

Rolcor passed him with a nod.

"Keep the engines warm."

Krann grunted once.

The corridor lights flickered overhead as Rolcor stepped onto the station.

"Charming place," he murmured.

Something smelled faintly burnt in the recycled air.

He followed it.

The pirate captain walked deeper into the corridor, boots striking the durasteel deck with slow, heavy confidence. Each step echoed through the maintenance halls, the sound carrying ahead of him.

Then he saw it.

An open generator housing.

Tools spread neatly across the floor.

And a woman crouched beside the exposed machinery, working with the kind of focus that ignored the rest of the galaxy.

Rolcor stopped in the doorway.

He watched her for a moment.

Precise hands.

Ordered tools.

Someone who actually knew what they were doing.

One of his boots shifted forward, the heavy step echoing against the bulkhead.

The footsteps she'd been hearing finally arrived.

Rolcor leaned against the doorway and let a slow grin creep across his face.

"Well now," he said in his low, gravel-rough voice.

"Either you're the best mechanic on this station…"

His eyes flicked over the neatly arranged parts.

"…or the only one who cares enough to fix it."
Aren D'Shade

 

[Aren D'Shade]

The coupler seated with a soft metallic click beneath Aren's fingers as she tightened the final contact ring, holding the piece in place for a moment longer than necessary before easing the driver back and setting it carefully among the other tools arranged across the cloth at her side. The exposed generator internals answered with a steadier hum, the system gradually redistributing its load across the newly installed component, the way it should have been doing months ago if anyone had bothered to repair it properly.

Behind her, a heavy step echoed along the corridor bulkhead.

Aren had heard it well before the boot reached the doorway.

She did not look up immediately. Instead, she finished aligning the shielding collar and wiped a faint streak of carbon scoring from the edge of the housing with the corner of a cloth, her movements measured and unhurried as if the presence in the doorway were merely another variable in the environment rather than an interruption. Only once the final panel had been seated back into place did she lean back slightly on her heels and turn her head just enough to acknowledge him.

Her eyes moved over him in a brief, deliberate glance that took in the coat, the stance, and the quiet confidence in the way he occupied the doorway, as though space naturally arranged itself around him. After a moment, her attention returned to the generator while she reached for the driver and began securing the bolts along the housing.

"This unit has been failing for months," Aren said calmly, her voice steady and without irritation. "The coupler overheated and degraded the shielding. Someone attempted a repair, but they rushed it and ignored the stress imbalance in the secondary relay."

The final bolt tightened into place with a soft click, and the panel settled flush against the generator casing.

"So it kept failing."

She wiped her hands lightly against the cloth before resting one palm on the metal housing, feeling the system's stable vibration beneath her fingers as the hum evened out into something reliable.

"I'm not a mechanic," she continued after a moment, glancing up again as her gaze met his for the first time since he had spoken. "I just dislike inefficient systems."

For a heartbeat, she held his gaze, her expression composed and unreadable, before the faintest shift in her posture softened the distance between observation and acknowledgment.

"If you're looking for someone in charge of this station, they aren't in here," she said evenly. Then, after a brief pause, she added in a quieter tone, "But if you're looking for the person who fixed this, that would be me."

She straightened slightly, brushing a final smear of carbon from her fingertips.

"My name is Aren."

The introduction was offered simply, without flourish or expectation, yet the way she held his gaze suggested that the moment mattered.

"And if you need something," she added, "you can ask."

Rolcor Wildstar

 

[Rolcor Wildstar]

Rolcor didn't answer right away.

He simply stood there in the doorway, one shoulder resting against the bulkhead, arms loose at his sides as the corridor lights flickered faintly overhead. The steady hum of the generator filled the small maintenance bay now—clean, balanced, the way machinery sounded when someone actually knew what they were doing.

His eyes, however, weren't on the generator.

They were on her.

Slowly, deliberately, Rolcor let his gaze travel. A habit born from a lifetime of reading rooms, reading people—figuring out what kind of trouble they were before the first words were spoken.

But this time the inspection lingered.

The way she crouched beside the machinery with quiet confidence. The precise way her hands moved over the tools. The calm composure in her posture, like nothing in the galaxy had the authority to rush her.

Then his eyes followed the rest of the picture his pirate instincts were more than happy to appreciate.

Rolcor Wildstar had spent most of his life chasing the finer things the galaxy had to offer.

Good ships.

Good credits.

Good company.

And right now, the galaxy seemed to have placed one of those things directly in front of him.

His mouth almost curved into a grin.

She spoke, explaining the coupler and the failed repair, her voice steady and analytical. Rolcor listened, though perhaps not as carefully as he should have been.

The hum of the generator evened out.

Stable.

Reliable.

When she finally looked up and met his eyes, Rolcor pushed himself off the bulkhead and stepped into the room.

Boots heavy against durasteel.

"I'm not a mechanic," she said.

Rolcor huffed a quiet laugh.

"Could've fooled me."

She introduced herself.

Aren.

The name settled easily into his mind.

Rolcor nodded once in acknowledgment, his green eyes still studying her with that same sharp, amused curiosity.

Then she added the invitation.

If you need something… you can ask.

For the briefest moment, the first thing that crossed Rolcor's mind very nearly came out of his mouth.

His grin widened just slightly.

But then the pirate captain caught himself.

Cleared his throat.

Right.

Business.

Rolcor reached up and scratched lightly at the beard along his jaw before speaking again.

"Name's Rolcor," he said casually. "Captain of the Broken-Vow."

His thumb hooked over his shoulder toward the docking corridor behind him.

"Just set down a few minutes ago."

His gaze flicked briefly toward the freshly repaired generator, then back to her.

"You seem to have a talent for fixing things people were too lazy to fix right the first time."

A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"And lucky for me… I happen to have a ship full of those."

He shifted his stance slightly, resting one hand on his belt.

"My engineer swears she's about to explode every other week," Rolcor added dryly. "Which probably means she's still got a few good years left in her."

Then he nodded toward the generator behind her.

"But after seeing what you just did to that coupler…"

His eyes met hers again, a little more focused now.

"…I figured it might be worth asking if you'd be interested in taking a look at my ship."

The grin returned, easy and confident.

"Strictly professional, of course."

 

[Aren D'Shade]

Aren listened without interrupting as Rolcor spoke, the steady hum of the generator filling the quiet space between his words. She had already turned slightly back toward the housing, fingertips resting lightly against the metal casing as though feeling the rhythm of the repaired system beneath her hand. The vibration had settled exactly where she expected it to. Smooth, balanced, the subtle mechanical harmony that came only when the problem had truly been solved instead of merely patched.

When he introduced himself, her gaze lifted again.

Rolcor.

The name lingered for a moment as she studied him in the same measured way she approached every new variable that entered her environment. His posture carried the relaxed confidence of someone who had survived enough dangerous situations that he no longer felt the need to announce it. The coat, the stance, the quiet weight behind the way he spoke about his ship—it all fit together easily.

When he mentioned the Broken-Vow, her eyes flicked briefly toward the corridor behind him as if she could already see the freighter resting beyond the bulkhead.

Then he made the request.

For a moment, Aren said nothing. Her expression remained calm, thoughtful rather than hesitant, as though she were mentally turning the idea over the same way she would inspect an unfamiliar piece of machinery before deciding how to approach it.

"A ship full of neglected systems is rarely a boring problem," she said at last.

Her voice carried the same quiet practicality as before, though the faintest hint of interest had crept into it.

"If your engineer has been keeping it flying despite believing it's about to explode every week, then they're probably doing something right."

She reached down and gathered the tools she had been using, placing them back into their case with the same careful precision she had shown while working on the generator. Only when the final driver had been secured in its slot did she straighten fully.

"I'm not particularly interested in stepping on someone else's work," Aren continued, meeting his gaze again. "So the real question isn't whether I'll look at the ship."

A slight tilt of her head followed.

"It's whether your engineer would be willing to let me." There was no challenge in the question, only practicality. "If they're comfortable with someone else reading the system architecture and diagnostics, then yes," she added. "I'll take a look."

Her eyes drifted briefly toward the corridor again, curiosity now more visible beneath the calm surface.

"At the very least," Aren said, "I can tell you whether the things they're worried about are real problems or just mechanical anxiety." A faint pause followed before she added, almost as an afterthought, "And if the ship really is about to explode, it would be better to know before you leave the station."

Rolcor Wildstar

 

[Rolcor Wildstar]

Rolcor listened without interrupting, the faint hum of the repaired generator filling the small compartment while Aren spoke. His eyes followed her movements as she gathered her tools—precise, deliberate, every piece returned to its place like a system settling back into equilibrium.

It told him a lot.

Not just that she knew machinery.

But that she understood it.

When she mentioned not stepping on another engineer's work, a low chuckle rolled out of him.

"Tallo'll survive," Rolcor said.

He pushed himself off the bulkhead and stepped farther into the maintenance bay, boots heavy against the durasteel deck. One hand rested easily on his belt as his eyes flicked briefly toward the generator she had just finished repairing.

Clean work.

He could hear it in the way the system hummed now—balanced, steady, no strain riding the power flow.

"Truth is," he continued, glancing back to her, "the Broken-Vow isn't exactly factory stock."

A crooked smile tugged at his beard.

"Tallo and I rebuilt most of that ship ourselves."

His voice carried a quiet pride—not boastful, just the simple certainty of someone who knew every conduit and relay behind the bulkheads of his vessel.

"Original hull was a mess when I found her. Half the systems stripped, the rest hanging on by hope and bad wiring."

He gave a small shrug.

"Took us a few years, a few questionable salvage yards, and more than a couple creative engineering decisions to bring her back."

Rolcor's gaze drifted briefly down the corridor toward the docks, where the freighter waited somewhere beyond the walls.

"She flies because we made her fly."

Then his eyes returned to Aren.

"But ships change," he added thoughtfully. "Parts wear in ways you don't expect. Systems develop personalities."

A faint smirk returned.

"And sometimes it takes a fresh set of eyes to spot the thing you've been staring at too long."

He nodded once toward the corridor.

"Tallo won't mind you taking a look. Might grumble about it for appearances, but that's just tradition at this point."

Rolcor shifted his stance slightly, relaxed but purposeful.

"So if you're curious…"

He gestured down the hall.

"The Broken-Vow is docked just down the corridor."

Then his expression softened with a hint of amused confidence.

"And if you tell me she's about to explode, at least I'll know before I try taking her back to hyperspace."

 

[Aren D'Shade]

Aren listened as Rolcor spoke, her hands finishing the quiet ritual of returning each tool to its proper place inside the case. The small motions were automatic by now, muscle memory layered over years of work, but her attention was not on the tools. It was on him.

She noticed the way he moved through the compartment after pushing off the bulkhead, the slow, grounded confidence of someone who had long ago learned exactly how much space his presence occupied. Heavy boots on durasteel. One hand resting easily against his belt. Nothing hurried, nothing uncertain. He carried himself like a man accustomed to ships that only flew because he willed them to.

When he mentioned rebuilding the Broken-Vow, her gaze drifted briefly toward the corridor in the direction of the docking ring, as though the freighter might somehow reveal itself through the walls if she looked long enough.

"A ship that survives salvage yards and creative engineering decisions usually has a personality by the time it's finished," Aren said thoughtfully. "Sometimes several."

Her eyes returned to him as he finished explaining about Tallo, and when he mentioned the engineer's likely grumbling, she gave a small, quiet chuckle.

"That's fair," she said. "Most engineers feel obligated to protest when someone else looks at their work. It's a professional reflex."

She closed the tool case with a soft click and lifted it easily from the floor, straightening as the generator hummed steadily behind her.

For a moment, she simply regarded him again, measuring the invitation the same way she had measured the malfunctioning coupler earlier. Patiently, without rushing to a conclusion.

Then she nodded once.

"Curiosity is a reliable motivator," Aren admitted, the faintest trace of interest showing through her otherwise calm tone. "And ships that have been rebuilt instead of manufactured tend to be far more interesting to read."

She stepped past the generator housing and moved toward the corridor he had gestured to, pausing briefly as she reached the doorway.

"If Tallo decides to grumble," she added over her shoulder, "I'll assume the systems are stable enough that they can afford the distraction."

Her gaze met his again, steady but no longer distant.

"Lead the way, Captain."

Rolcor Wildstar