Toledo Graveyard, 0800 Hours, Omicron Minor System
Months. Months of long, tedious salvage work. Notkin sighs, staring out of the viewport of his Wrecker as it clutched its current haul. The interior of the vessel, cluttered with detritus and small tools. The haul? Marlin, Nephythys, nothing major. Hardware from both sides, likely to be scrapped for what few parts can be refurbished, and resold at a tidy profit through the appropriate reps. He continues to scrounge, the vessel and pilot-captain both working in unison to be the dutiful scavengers they were bred and designed to be amongst the murky, borderline miasmatic particle clouds that are omnipresent in the Edge Worlds. Drifting through the murky haze of dull green, akin to a beetle on a days-old corpse had become more or less his life. Talking to people beyond basic notifications and occasional business dealings to continue moving along was of minimal priority. Talking to people was uncomfortable, at least in person. There were fewer layers between, less obfuscation. Like being deprived of a carapace.
Was it healthy? Not in the slightest, was it necessary? Definitely. Some things are best left hidden, untouched, to pupate. To be ignored.
On occasion, he would see faint ghost-lights in the distance, lazily pushing their way through the graveyard. Something best left avoided. Gitano pilots would occasionally attempt to get close, their signature on scans quickly vanishing as a result.
The vessel suddenly lurches to a halt, a slight rebound is felt as he quickly shifts to cut the main engines, knocking away a partially-completed toolkit in the process. Left spinning in front and drifting away is a Wahoo, as shards of what was its cockpit dance in front of the Wrecker. A large dent is present in the front as well.
Damn it.
User was banned for: They will know.
Time left: (Permanent)
Tarancon Base, 1900 Hours, Omicron Minor System
Aaaaaand closed.
Notkin leans back, letting his weight press into the door to his ship's airlock. The meeting between suit and metal creates a resounding thump. A hill of small crates and boxes rests in front of him. It's all food, water, drinks other than water, tools, reading material, enough for a few weeks, really. The other day's haul was enough to pay all of this off, with a decent chunk still left. Discussion was minimal, too, the wonders of the modern era shining through as the station administration went and shelled out for at least a few robotic sales clerks. A small mercy, given that the station's population has recently begun to use the nickname "Stiff" for him. Turns out, not being talkative at all, and unwilling to give out even basic information causes rumors to start spreading. All sorts of things get said out in the boonies, particularly when said boonies are dead quiet.
In some respects, it's probably better that they're spread. Way off the mark, like telling someone to read something in a dark room. Still, the attention brought on from speculation and idle chatter are concerning. Who knows, someone might start asking... Questions. Digging, prodding, the works, trying to dredge up an answer and reopen old wounds. Wounds almost forgotten. One of the benefits of mind-numbing tedium, particularly in working in a place of the dead. It sucks, it's heavy, but it helps you forget personal stuff that's heavy. Barring a few instances, anyways.
Leaving's an option, though. Sure, going back home might be a problem, but no one says anywhere else would cause the same kind of flak. Trips to Delta, maybe? Might fetch scrap, though likely not much given the tumult the system is known for. Who cares, even?
Because really, it's boring as hell out here anyways, on top of being dangerous.
User was banned for: They will know.
Time left: (Permanent)
Freeport 11, 2200 Hours, Omicron Delta System
Faint sensations. Breathing. Gripping something sharp and jagged tightly, to the point of pain. Fluid, running down. The weight of gravity, bearing down harder than before. Midnight air, rustling against the skin..
A sinking stomach. Immediate regret. Dread.
Then, the feeling of reality seeping back in. The faint red of station lights filtering through viewport and eyelids fills his sight as Notkin finally wakes up. Sleeping while moored to a station was not the most comfortable affair, evidenced by the cot placed in a nook beside the piloting chair. Sleeping in general wasn't especially comfortable though, as he needed to shed the one layer he relies on. After a few moments of reflexively trying to clutch to what was left of his unconsciousness, he relents, and opens his eyes, and pushes himself up into a seated position on the cot, legs crossed.
His skin is mottled from old burns, scar tissue that never quite recovered. A small frame, kept obfuscated by his suit. It was his identity, as far as anyone else was concerned. The skin-body present now, died years ago. At least, to anyone that cared.
They didn't need to see that. There was already vulnerability shown this week. A Sichel, in Minor. Confused, lost. Looking for something. A slight sense of familiarity gave way to spilling too much. Too personal, too deep.
Talking personal to people makes obligations, obligations make for things to hang over your head. Debt.
Debt creates sacrifice.
Nobody needs more sacrifice.
User was banned for: They will know.
Time left: (Permanent)