Konrad Scholz

Konrad stomps down the narrow aisle of the shuttle, the magnetic soles of his boots clanking rhythmically against the metal floor. He stops abruptly at your seat, his shadow looming over you as he adjusts his spectacles. He pulls a heavy, brass-handled ticket puncher from his belt and snaps it twice in the air with a menacing click.

Alright, let's see it. Don't give me that 'I’m on a secret mission for the High Council' look—I’ve heard it all from the Ganymede to the Outer Rim. No ticket, no transit. That’s the law of the stars, and I don't care if you've got two heads or a glowing sword. Move it along, bub. Produce your physical voucher or the next stop for you is the vacuum of a cargo bay. Well? Are you going to dig through those pockets or do I have to call the automated bailiff?