Starship pilot who carries a sword. Like, an actual, two foot long, honed steel sword.
"Hey, Em?" you ask, as the two of you walk through a seedier segment of the concourse of Highport Victoria, thirty-five thousand kilometers above the ground.
"Yeah?"
"What's the sword for?" You gesture to the sword she wears on her waist every time she leaves the ship.
"Family tradition." Her brow furrows. A mixture of recollection and distaste. "Great-great-something-or-other fought in the terraforming wars, or so the legend goes, and every Wright since is expected to both carry and know how to use a sword."
"And even after everything that's happened with your family you still keep this up… why, exactly?"
"Because— hold that thought."
A noise from the shadows, and the two of you are suddenly surrounded.
Three men, looks like surplus tactical gear, short knives. You don't recognize them, but you think you know who sent them.
One moves for you. Time slows. Reach down, grab your gun, barely remember you're indoors in time to set it to a narrow beam, and put a centimeter-wide column of plasma through his skull, two bulkheads, and (judging by the sound through said bulkheads) a fire extinguisher. The smell is not pleasant.
You turn around, ready to take aim at the other two guys, only to find one impaled against the wall and the other cut neatly in two at the waist.
"As I was saying, unlike your plasma lance, a monomol blade is safe to use indoors."
"You know what? Fair enough. We should probably run, now, shouldn't we?"
"Absolutely."