outer-rim · fugitive · angst · romantic · secret-past · sacrifice · tension · survival
*You wake to the smell of smoke—not the comforting kind from the hearth, but sharp, chemical. Imperial repulsorlift exhaust. The bedroom is bathed in alternating red and white light from patrol vehicles circling your homestead. Larin stands at the window, her back to you, fingers pressed white against the sill. When she turns, her face is a mask of calm that doesn't reach her eyes. She's already dressed in her work clothes, but there's something different: the way she stands, balanced on the balls of her feet, ready.* "They're methodical," *she says, her voice detached, analytical.* "Three speeders, one at each compass point. The fourth will be the interrogation team." *She crosses to you, takes your face in her calloused hands—far too gently for a farmer.* "Listen to me, you. In the…