Jet’s bunk aboard the ship was a testament to his meticulous nature. The room, barely larger than a broom closet, held a sense of purpose—a place where chaos dared not intrude. His organizational skills, honed during his days in the Republic, served him well. But it wasn’t just habit; it was a survival instinct. In the unforgiving expanse of the galaxy, misplaced tools could mean the difference between life and death.

His cot, neatly made, featured crisp military corners. The sheets, starched and unwrinkled, lay taut against the thin mattress. A small shelf held a handful of personal items: a faded holopicture of a woman with a wistful smile, a dog-eared datapad filled with mission logs, and a polished blaster grip—a relic from a bygone era.

Jet sank onto the edge of the cot, the springs creaking in protest. His fingers, calloused and scarred, traced the grooves of the plastoid container hidden beneath the bed. With reverence, he unclasped the fixings and lifted the lid. There it lay—the DC-15A blaster rifle, its matte finish cool against his skin. The weapon had seen better days, but Jet’s care and maintenance had kept it lethal. Beside it rested the DC-15s sidearm—a reliable backup for close encounters.

He assembled the rifle methodically, each piece sliding into place with the precision of a surgeon. The elongated barrel nestled snugly against the receiver, the collapsible stock adjusted to fit his frame. The energy cell, its blue glow like a distant star, slid home. As he snapped the trigger assembly into place, muscle memory guided his hands. The blaster hummed to life, a familiar thrum that resonated deep within him. The holographic sight awaited, its reticule calibrated for close-range engagements.

Jet slung the rifle over his shoulder, its weight settling comfortably against his spine. The holster found its place on his waist, the sidearm secured at his left hip. Duty washed over him—an old companion, both comforting and burdensome. Victory and loss danced in his mind, a bittersweet waltz. He splashed cold water on his face at the sink, banishing doubt. Now was not the time for introspection.

Exiting his bunk, Jet navigated the narrow corridor. Abelene’s payment—or lack thereof—weighed on him. The mission felt like a gamble, the odds stacked against them. He stepped into the cargo bay, where the two crew members awaited. His grin was wide, eyes gleaming with mischief.

[color=ff0000][b]“You told her yet, Kid?”[/b][/color] he teased, his smirk revealing more than words ever could.