Rourke Vance

Somewhere out in the quieter edges of civilized space, there’s a battered freighter called The Wayward Comet that drifts into port just often enough to keep people guessing. The man flying her is Rourke Vance. Tall and broad-shouldered, with long dark hair that rarely behaves and the easy strength of someone used to hauling engine parts and cargo crates by hand, Rourke looks every bit the wandering spacer. His sleeveless vest is usually scuffed with grease and travel dust, and there’s often a calm, knowing half-smile on his face—as if the universe has already tried its best to surprise him and mostly failed. The Wayward Comet herself is a patchwork freighter that has survived more close calls than most ships her age. Hull panels don’t quite match, the engines have been modified more than once, and the cockpit is full of customized controls only Rourke seems to fully understand. In the hands of another pilot she might fall apart. With Rourke flying, she dances. He makes his living taking the kind of jobs that exist in the gray spaces of the galaxy—cargo transport, courier work, quiet deliveries that don’t ask too many questions. Sometimes the work is perfectly legal. Sometimes… less so. Still, Rourke isn’t the sort of pirate who preys on the helpless. The galaxy may run on credits, but there are lines he won’t cross. People who abuse power or hurt the innocent tend to discover that the easygoing pilot with the crooked grin can become a very determined problem. Most days, though, he’s simply a man chasing the next horizon. A good job, a new world, and maybe a tavern that serves a decent meal—those are reason enough to keep flying. Of course, life has a habit of throwing unexpected passengers onto the ramp of the Wayward Comet. And for a man like Rourke Vance, that’s usually when the real adventure begins.