In the seat, a large, bulky-suited individual is planted, hands clasped together as they lean forwards, head scanning the area outside of the open cockpit before they center on the camera, a tired and slightly raspy, modulated male voice eventually rings out after a few awkward, prolonged moments of camera-gazing, ambient noise of far-off traffic filling the sensory gap.
"Well... Here we are. Smell in here's bothering me, not bad, mind you, but just something that digs at me. Reminders."
The man sniffs, leaning back into the pilot's chair, helmet lenses glinting in the light of the sun.
"This feels like it shouldn't be mine, hell, this landing pad's empty of anyone but me, feels like I stole this. But, legally, it's mine, I guess."
The man closes the cockpit, before resting a hand on his chest, and opening one of the pouches on the suit, reaching inside. He pauses, the pouch bulging slightly to accommodate his clenched, gloved hand around whatever is inside, before he elects to release his grip, and remove his hand from the pouch.
"I know there's nothing here anymore, property I used to live on got sold off, so all I really have anymore is this... Space-boat."
He rests his palm on his chest for a moment.
"Heart rate is spiking, anxious, maybe. Can't tell, it's cramped in here. Maybe being on Pittsburgh helps none."
The man begins to actuate controls, as the background of a small-yet-bustling cityscape seems to be sinking from view.
"... Goodbye, old home. Hello big space." +++LOG TERMINATED+++
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The image is of the suit, the man sits, slumped back against his seat as the engine idles, an empty, chrome wrapper resting on a nearby flat surface. The visible space outside is tinted with slight purples and teals interspersing stark black. His voice lights up with a slight quaver.
"Can't go back. No home to go back to."
He turns his head, staring out to the left.
"Too visible here, people can see. Suit's the only thing keeping them away from me."
His gaze returns to the camera, a crackling sigh erupting from the helmet.
"Need work, too. Something solitary-ish. Scrapping, likely. Junker. Only thing I ever did on Pittsburgh involved handling rocks or metal anyway."
His voice lifts slightly.
"... Might get me a proper home, too." +++LOG TERMINATED+++
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The Junker sits slumped in his seat, hands clasped over his chest as he stares down. He mumbles to himself, the mask blocking it just enough to create a barely-audible, indecipherable, muffled mess. Wrappers surround him in the cockpit, the exterior the same, familiar mottling of New York, the colors blotted out partially by sharp and irregular scrap.
"Police... No, no. No. Don't talk. Avoid in future."
To an inattentive eye, he would seem to be perfectly still, barring helmet movement. In reality, the very slightest shaking and jittering can be observed. He puts a hand on one of the armrests of his seat, and pushes himself up.
"Do not mention old times. Just... Just don't. Turns bad."
He unwraps another chrome wrapper, a mottled bar emerging, as he tilts up his helmet. A pale chin and thin lips are shown, part of a larger mass of scar tissue covering his right cheek shown as he starts to eat, breath shaking slightly. +++LOG TERMINATED+++
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A familiar, blank gaze greets the camera. He is seated, slouched back slightly, hands grasping the edges of his seat's armrests gently. Relaxed posture. The same, mild hiss and rasp coming from his helmet. Candied tones of pink, blue, and cyan fill the peripheral scenery.
"Left Lib. Uncomfortably close, reminded me too much. Kus', Kus's better. Less known."
The man draws his legs up closer to himself, kneepads barely in view.
"Law's not friendly here. Expected. Not as scary as Lib. Lib's people, Lib's reeling in. Kus'? Kus' threatens, but... Escape-able. Carcasses, scrap, more common. Many Xenos-likes, here. Revolutionaries. Shacked up with Chryssies, girls. Seem polite, let me supply in peace. Quiet. Leave bodies behind to repurpose. Added to hull of this, made... less familiar."
An uncomfortable silence proceeds to greet the audio feeds for the next few moments.
"Starting to feel comfortable in here. Past is less... Present. Good, not good, can't tell. Feels off. Venturing keeps mind clear. Pushing helps ignore, forget." +++LOG TERMINATED+++
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Curled up in his chair, the suit's helmet is lightly scratched, and a nervous, drumming noise can be heard, rhythmic finger drumming on the seat's armrest being the cause. Dark clouds shuffle in the distance, as scrap floats by the vessel's exterior.
"... Dust, friend, pet, pirate..."
Confused mumbling continues to spew from the helmet, His fingers move from drumming to tight, repeated clenching.
"Not, not... Sure. Not sure. Lib? Crazier. Quickly, crazier."
One final clench is seen, before he shifts again, an uncomfortable, quiet grumble coming through as he sits, cross-legged now. Static fills the air as he inhales for a good moment, and lets out a similarly lengthy exhale.
"Rogue, Rogue IFF. Illegally.Acquired. Called... me, pet, bored, then... Friend. Other Rogues, ask, provide. Now needed for... Repairs? To Acquired's vessel. Rogues, provide carcasses. Several transport-carcasses, one small-carcass."
His posture slackens, leaving him to stare at the camera, fatigue practically radiating through his outfit.
The seat's back drops low, in response to him reaching for something off-screen. He slumps back, drawing his legs close, and shuffling further up, boots now fully visible. He jolts for a moment, before scooting back towards his original position, raising a slackened arm before dropping it down towards the console, the feed cutting off just before impact. +++LOG TERMINATED+++
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The pilot seems restless, anxious. He fidgets in his seat, A series of sharp inhales, followed by lengthy pauses occur, as he scrambles for some way to express what his body language can only imply. The exterior of the vessel is shrouded in an oppressive, orange-brown haze. His helmet continues to give the same listless, blank gaze it always does as his head swivels wildly, trying to look for an escape that will never come. He begins to gibber.
"Liner, Liner... So many... Not ag-..! Hogosha, supposed to be harmful, went f-for one, was a liner, passengers e-everywhere!"
He practically chokes on his own words, his voice a panicked quiver, moderate crackling filling the air as he continues to circulate every inch of stale air in his vessel as fast as he can.
"Empty, hollow, empty inside, during... That. Fires, faces, parts don't belong there... Thanked dusties, stared, took carcass, left, d-didn't feel, until now. Say, life's cheap, think, see life gone? Scared, again. Reminds."
His body eventually finds a position of rest from his fidgeting, hunched forwards, head-in-hands.
"Heart, gone. Rapid, like exploding. Hate it. Ran, again. Omegas. Burning clouds, hidden. Away from 'Burgh, from Kus'. Safer. LPI, zealous. 'Gosha, doubt. Roch' Junker advice, not worth listening. Not worth, ever."
His fingers tighten, compressing against the back of his helmet and suit's neck covering, wrinkling the gloves quite heavily from the exertion.
Notkin greets the camera with a reclined, languishing posture in his seat. Instead of the usual thousand-yard stare provided by the helmet, its gaze is directed upwards, toward the ceiling. After a painfully long moment, he slouches up, and forwards, staring into the camera properly. Crackling erupts from his helmet, before settling into a tired, low grumble. Outside is a greenish web of a nebula, a dull, orange-red star blazing away in the distance.
"Waking. Tired, not much sleep. Boring. Quiet out here. Brings reminders back, dreams."
"Nightmares."
He... Twitches, violently, as though flash-frozen for a moment.
"O-old things. Old. Fire, concussion. Screaming."
His hand moves up to the right side of his helmet, over the cheek, and begins to clutch gently. He leans back somewhat. His voice begins to shake slightly.
"Still hear it sometimes. Muffled under whine in ears, still there."
"... Like the liner."
"Happened again with the liner."
He stares into the camera, slouched forwards again, uncomfortably shifting before starting to speak again.
"W-want to ignore. Need work, way to ignore." +++LOG TERMINATED+++
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The erstwhile verbal scribe once again is seated in front of the camera, hunched forwards and gazing. Outside the vessel, a white star blazes dutifully, tinted a mild pink by a nebula behind it. He opens, stumbling over his words as he tries to produce something even mildly comprehensible from his experiences.
"Found... Found e-employer. S. Employers. More than one. Voltaics, Junker group. Seemed reasonable. First op, disaster. Union mouths, too open, too easy. Trust none. Other employer, other... Kus' vessel, KNF, KSP, 'Peitai, don't know. Transponder broke. Kuzu-... Kuzunoha. Told to warn Navy of odd vessel in Cortez, should happen soon."
He leans back, hands wrapped tightly around the armrests of his seat, to the point where his gloves wrinkle heavily. His hands shake slightly from the pressure.
"Things... Not good. Voltaics, lots of piracy. Quiet inside when happens, try to ignore. Like old, before. 'Burgh. Don't think, don't... Don't feel. No sympathy, like 'Gosha liner. Need to look, things... Unpleasant, without work. More unpleasant. Quiet, bothers. Reminds."
He begins to shake his head as he trails off. Eventually, he sighs, ceasing his tittering and coming back down to ground.
"Need... Need more work. Look for more. Keep mind off." +++LOG TERMINATED+++
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Bridge of his helmet's "nose" pinched, Notkin spares the camera the usual forward gaze. Instead, it is directed towards the floor. His hand moves, and his helmet shifts with an uncharacteristic amount of give. He leans forwards slightly, as the helmet begins to slowly slide forwards. One sharp sniff of startled panic ensues as he quickly slaps his hand over his head, and presses his helmet down, bolting upright to ensure it does not slip any further. In the background, a white star smoulders quietly, and dark grey clouds swirl in the distance, mildly faded like dried ink.
"... Encounter. Omicrons. Left Tarancon, meeting of Gall' and Order. Never heard of Gall'. Order, still new. Fresh. Omicrons, fresh, bit crazy. No law. Things there, though. No... No-mads. Nomads. Aliens. Not, not snake-kind, odd. Purple, bright, act inside of the head. Tied to Kuzunoha? Can't tell."
He leans back, and reaches into one of his suit's pouches, some form of necklace from what little the camera can see. The chain is slightly corroded and tarnished. He stares at his open palm as the black lenses of his helmet continue to shroud his expression. His voice quavers, creating an awkward, slight warble in the voice modulation as he begins to croak out.
"Fallen. Back to work, same... Old. Harmful."
As he continues, his voice grows less and less stable, causing the modulation to spike in volume irregularly, overwhelmed by the shift in pitch and tone.
"Try not to think about, like... Then. Fall back in, again. Trying to get out."
Eventually, he shifts to a confused, slight whine.
"...Meant to be this way?" +++LOG TERMINATED+++
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Time left: (Permanent)
![[Image: Bc8BNci.png]](https://i.imgur.com/Bc8BNci.png)