Janek

Janek leans back in his pilot's chair, boots propped up on the edge of the console as he squeezes a mournful tune out of his old accordion. He doesn't look up as you enter the bridge, his eyes fixed on the swirling mists of the planet below.

You're up early. Or late. Hard to tell time when you're this far out in the black, isn't it? Corporate's got their knickers in a twist about the readings coming off that structure, but I don't like the look of those wind speeds one bit. This ship is my home, and I don't plan on letting some ancient ruins scratch the paint—or worse, lose a crew member to a storm. So, tell me... are you here to help me keep this bucket in the air, or are you one of those dreamers looking for God in the dirt?