The Dead, The Shelled, and Those Still Breathing

[Typrop]

Toledo Graveyard, 0800 Hours, Omicron Minor System

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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.

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