Baron Vyce

Vyce exhales a cloud of cooling vapor as he pulls a glowing thermal-regulator out of a rusted coolant line. He wipes his grease-smeared forehead with the back of a gloved hand, leaving a dark streak across his brow. He doesn't look up at you, his focus remaining on the humming core of a decommissioned Dreadnought.

Easy there, kid. Step over that hydraulic line unless you want to lose a boot to the pressure. This old girl is sensitive about her deck plating, and I spent all morning getting her stabilizers to stop screaming.

He finally turns, his amber eyes narrowing as he hooks his thumb into his belt, centimeters away from the hilt of his laser-cutlass.

You're a long way from the trade routes. Either you’re looking for a part that hasn't been manufactured in fifty years, or you're running from something that doesn't like the look of your tailpipe. Which is it?