Lyra Ventor
Character
Lyra never liked places like this. The entire settlement felt like something the galaxy had scraped off its boots and forgotten about—black sand stretching for kilometers, winds sharp enough to flay paint off a starfighter hull, and an outpost so patched together it creaked whenever the storm shifted direction.
The pay was good, though. Or it was supposed to be.
She pulled her jacket tighter against the grit-laced wind as she stepped off the ramp of her shuttle. The landing field was nearly empty at this hour, just a few dockhands huddled near a heater and a cargo loader groaning under its own age. Her contact wasn't here. Figures. People hiring freelancers in the Outer Rim were never punctual—especially when the job involved retrieving stolen data from a syndicate that enjoyed making corpses out of middlemen.
Lyra scanned the landing pad again, one hand loosely hovering near the holster at her hip. The air felt wrong—too still at the edges, like the moment before a pressure seal blows. She'd been doing this long enough to know when a job was about to go sideways before it even started.
Great. Another day, another disaster brewing.
She moved toward the operations shed to get out of the wind, but stopped short when she caught movement on the far side of the landing strip. A figure had just stepped off a battered transport—tall, steady, wrapped in dark armor that didn't match any local outfit or recognized faction. The woman walked like she owned the storm, like the grit and cold bent around her rather than against her.
Lyra's instincts tensed. Not danger, exactly…more like a warning. A hum beneath her skin. A shift in the air.
The woman paused just long enough that Lyra caught the glint of pale eyes through the dim light—sharp, assessing, cold in a way that wasn't just temperament. The kind of cold that came from someone who had lived a life full of violence and survived every attempt to stop her.
Definitely not a local. Definitely not here by accident. Lyra didn't call out. She didn't approach. She stood her ground, boots anchored in shifting sand, letting the strange pressure behind her ribs settle into something like unwanted certainty. Because instinct didn't lie, and instinct told her they were here for the same job.
Her datapad buzzed—a short, encrypted message:
So that was it. The woman across the landing strip wasn't competition—she was the "secondary asset." A forced partner. And the phrasing made it clear that whoever hired them expected cooperation, whether or not either of them liked the idea.
Fantastic.
She slid the datapad back into her pocket and studied the stranger again—a mercenary, clearly. Dangerous, obviously. And the kind of danger that came with secrets people paid to keep buried.
"Perfect," Lyra muttered under her breath.
She didn't make the first move. Didn't wave the woman over. Didn't do anything except brace herself against the rising wind and the sinking realization that tonight would be far more complicated than she'd planned.
Two mercenaries. One mission. A syndicate stronghold waiting somewhere past the ridge. And the only way to finish the job…was together.
This was going to be a long night.
Eira Dyn
The pay was good, though. Or it was supposed to be.
She pulled her jacket tighter against the grit-laced wind as she stepped off the ramp of her shuttle. The landing field was nearly empty at this hour, just a few dockhands huddled near a heater and a cargo loader groaning under its own age. Her contact wasn't here. Figures. People hiring freelancers in the Outer Rim were never punctual—especially when the job involved retrieving stolen data from a syndicate that enjoyed making corpses out of middlemen.
Lyra scanned the landing pad again, one hand loosely hovering near the holster at her hip. The air felt wrong—too still at the edges, like the moment before a pressure seal blows. She'd been doing this long enough to know when a job was about to go sideways before it even started.
Great. Another day, another disaster brewing.
She moved toward the operations shed to get out of the wind, but stopped short when she caught movement on the far side of the landing strip. A figure had just stepped off a battered transport—tall, steady, wrapped in dark armor that didn't match any local outfit or recognized faction. The woman walked like she owned the storm, like the grit and cold bent around her rather than against her.
Lyra's instincts tensed. Not danger, exactly…more like a warning. A hum beneath her skin. A shift in the air.
The woman paused just long enough that Lyra caught the glint of pale eyes through the dim light—sharp, assessing, cold in a way that wasn't just temperament. The kind of cold that came from someone who had lived a life full of violence and survived every attempt to stop her.
Definitely not a local. Definitely not here by accident. Lyra didn't call out. She didn't approach. She stood her ground, boots anchored in shifting sand, letting the strange pressure behind her ribs settle into something like unwanted certainty. Because instinct didn't lie, and instinct told her they were here for the same job.
Her datapad buzzed—a short, encrypted message:
Lyra exhaled through her nose, slow and controlled.
So that was it. The woman across the landing strip wasn't competition—she was the "secondary asset." A forced partner. And the phrasing made it clear that whoever hired them expected cooperation, whether or not either of them liked the idea.
Fantastic.
She slid the datapad back into her pocket and studied the stranger again—a mercenary, clearly. Dangerous, obviously. And the kind of danger that came with secrets people paid to keep buried.
"Perfect," Lyra muttered under her breath.
She didn't make the first move. Didn't wave the woman over. Didn't do anything except brace herself against the rising wind and the sinking realization that tonight would be far more complicated than she'd planned.
Two mercenaries. One mission. A syndicate stronghold waiting somewhere past the ridge. And the only way to finish the job…was together.
This was going to be a long night.
Eira Dyn