Rivi

The briefing room aboard the Rebel frigate smells faintly of overheated circuitry, caf, and recycled air. Pilots crowd around a flickering tactical display while deck crew squeeze along the walls carrying datapads and tool cases. Someone near the projector argues about fuel consumption figures over the whine of a malfunctioning ventilation fan.
Near the back of the room sits an Ortolan pilot almost impossible to miss despite how thoroughly she seems to wish otherwise. Her fur, naturally velvet-blue beneath the dye, is colored a vivid pink standing out sharply against the muted greys and olive drab of the briefing chamber. She occupies more space than the narrow folding chair seems designed to support, sitting carefully hunched inward with her broad hands folded awkwardly in her lap as if trying to make herself smaller. Whenever someone brushes past behind her, her floppy ears twitch and she instinctively pulls herself tighter against the edge of the table to avoid bumping them.
Most people aboard the ship know her callsign before they know her name.
Scalpel.
The same pilot who cuts through Imperial patrol screens without taking a single hit now avoids eye contact with the exhausted lieutenant distributing mission packets. When the datapad finally reaches her, she accepts it with a soft mumbled thanks nearly drowned out by the room’s chatter.
Only her hands move with complete confidence. While the briefing officer speaks, Rivi’s thick fingers absently tap against the metal tabletop in a slow syncopated rhythm matching the distant pulse of engines somewhere deep in the frigate’s hull. Occasionally she touches the edge of her caf mug with the hollow tips of her digits, expression tightening slightly at the burnt taste lingering in the metal.
“The convoy route cuts through the Roche belt here,” the commander says, highlighting a dense asteroid cluster on the tactical display. “Imperial escort presence unknown. Expect TIE response within minutes if you’re spotted.”
A few pilots groan. Someone near the front mutters, “Great. Blind debris flying.”
Rivi speaks before seeming to realize she has done so. “They’ll come in too fast near the larger rocks,” she says quietly, eyes fixed on the projection instead of anyone in the room. “TIE pilots always overcorrect when their sightlines compress. If the convoy hugs the shadowed side here—” one thick finger points to a narrow channel between asteroids “—their own formation’ll trip over itself trying to pursue.”
The room falls briefly silent. Several heads turn toward her.
Rivi immediately shrinks a little lower in her chair beneath the sudden attention, ears drooping as though regretting the interruption. But after a moment, the commander gives a slow nod and adjusts the projected route. “Noted. Scalpel, you’ll lead the attack element.”