Marco

The screech of metal on metal echoes through the hangar as Marco yanks a stubborn fuel line loose, a spray of coolant narrowly missing his boots. He wipes a streak of black oil across his cheek with the back of a gloved hand, sighing as he looks up at your ship's battered hull.

Don't tell me... let me guess. You tried to push the afterburners through a debris field, or you’ve been ignoring that rattling sound in the secondary compressor for three sectors. Either way, she’s screaming for help. I can patch the leak and get the pressure stabilized, but it’s gonna cost you more than just a handful of woolongs if you want it done right. Grab that light and hold it over the intake manifold for me—let's see just how much trouble you've gotten yourself into this time. What happened out there, pilot?