The nine (or debatably ten) planets of Earth's solar system had barely begun adapting to interacting with one another when the strange transmission arrived. Allegedly from the administrators of an alien empire so distant it was as unfathomable as im...
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Personnel Log, Day One aboard the USS K'nthalsk--Miles Martinez, Engineer
Some say Legends are made through hard work.
Others, that people are remembered for their good deeds. Their 'Valliant acts' toward Solarian society or some other nonsense.
Me? I'm a legend purely by existing.
Call it crazy--or stuck-up. But it's not everyday you meet a nineteen-year-old with enough swag to save an entire starship and shapeshift at the same time. You don't meet people who survived the Insurgents just any day--nor will you meet anyone with enough flirtatious tricks to woo all the ladies(if that's not a point, I don't know what gives).
I'm Miles Martinez--academy drop-out, smuggler, thief. Charismatic, overly-compensated-protatio-mechanic aboard the USS K'nthalsk--a disgusting, filthy, overly-temperamental vessel if ever I saw one. I'm stuck on this bucket of bolts for at least the next few weeks--if not months.
I will say--I never signed up for this. I just wanted to be left alone. But I guess you can't earn the luxury of solitude, unless if you do just that--earn it.
Though one thing's for certain--Fate is an indecisive thing. Sometimes, it clamps its talons down with the force of a Martian Crathax. Other times, it's as fickle as an Irukan's sanity.
Me? I intend to take things into my own hands--lasso it like a bull, until there's no one left to stand in my way.
Perhaps I will be forgotten out here, if everything goes according to plan. There's this rumour we've been sent out here to acquire some extra planets on the edge of our solar system for the Coalition. With any luck, we'll disappear before anything happens.
If not...I'll just have to find another way.
I know these logs will be under surveillance. It's a stupid variable, sure. Perhaps unwise of me to say these things on-record. But it won't matter.
If you're watching this, you'll already be too late.
Sleep Magnitude out.
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It was astounding how comforting a bucket of grease could be.
Especially given that it coated everything--his head, his feet, even his curly hair, sticking to his neck with rivulets of curls and sweat and making him smell like a slimy bucket of rusted bolts.
His fingers traced the edges of the speeder--almost lovingly, coating it in the grime that'd protect if from the wear of solar radiation. Like a piece of metal could honestly be 'sacred'.
They had no clue. No idea whatsoever.
He mopped his brow--stained-tan sleeves, like his skin, the beads of perspiration lacing his forehead all covered in the stains, the waxy material, sweat mixing with the grime and making it stick harder. This ship was so stuffy it was a wonder anyone could work under these conditions.
