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Vikke’s third spacesuit is a suit in only the loosest definition of the word. Armor plating everywhere; even the joints are durasteel polygons, sad excuses for moving parts. Powerful magnets hold her to the underside of the Star Destroyer; if she wants to get anywhere fast, she’ll be needing the jet pack. Oh and lasers, did she mention this thing has lasers? They were a recent upgrade.
Vikke’s had the battlesuit since some ‘friends’ left it on the outside of her freighter; the previous owners hadn’t enjoyed an EMP cannon response to their requests to board. It had made a pretty trophy and occasionaly served to impress clients who didn’t quite understand what could be achieved with a simple blaster and a stealth belt, but she’d never actually worn it… until now.
She finishes cutting a hole in the ship’s shielding; position, shape, and size all carefully predetermined to allow access to one of the ventilation shafts without setting off alarms. This is the best kind of inside job, the perfectly planned fiasco. About twenty different kinds of infliltration droids wait in a line behind her; half of them are programmed to explode randomly over the course of the next three days. She urges them into the hole, one after another. Her suit leaves black footprints across the imperial ship’s shining exterior. She already has five different ideas for entertaining ways to dispose of the suit while leaving the feet intact to be IDed.
“Time to get paranoid, Admiral,” Vikke hums to herself as she jets off, “There’s a war going on and you’ve been paying far too much attention to all the right things.”
Truth is, there’s a dozen safer ways she could have done this, but none of them would have been half as fun. The mecha-armor was inspirational; it deserved to be a key ingredient in the plans. She will miss it hanging on her wall, but she’s been promised recorded footage of certain imperial agents going compeletely batshit in the aftermath of all this and that’ll be inspirational too.
Ninty more minutes in space before she reaches the asteroid she’s cold-parked the XS Freighter on and nothing to do but think. Vikke’s warm all over with the feedback from the lasers and the jetpack, and although she could be spotted at any moment, although some space rock could come along and spoil her day, although a million different things could go wrong and she has time to think of all of them, she’s not afraid. Far from it.
Space is her home. That’s the long story and the short story too. No matter how empty, no matter how hostile, no matter how risky— it’s home.