Main / 1105-011-WagesOfSin

Calendar

1105-010? -- 1105-011 -- 1105-012

Timing of events
6:00 - Start of Day
12:00- Flort Hires a Pilot
13:30- CROW finds some passengers
17:30 - Flort Cuts his own throat
20:00 - Flort ends a busy day with some Haute Cuisine

Torpol Highport - Wages of Sin 12:00

From the outside the Wages of Sin looked rough. The hull showed visible stress fractures, and the bent Drive housing would make things sporty. Inside was another story. The rec deck radiated polish, A full wall holo of a crashing shoreline, with subharmonics that made you think you were at the beach. Soft jazz from the high-end sound system played throughout the ship and a wet bar with genuine glass bottles with real liquor.

Vessa stepped in, cool and alert.

Flort Blitzen stood by the bar making a drink, his back to her. he had his shoes off and had mismatched sox. “I read your certifications,” he said, she could hear his smile. “Navy Flight, merchant veteran, solid under fire. The ship will be trading the Reach. I need a good pilot who might have to handle trouble. It’s standard rates, and steady work.”

He turned toward her and handed her a glass of brown liquid with actual ice cubes. “Could be some grey work, which will pay commensurate with difficulty. The ship does do contract work.” He said with a question in his voice.

Vessa thought for a moment. “Ship looks like she pulls to the right.”

“She does” Flort agreed. “Crow handles the ship like a champ, but passengers like someone with warm hands on the stick.”

A quiet chime sounded overhead.

“Acknowledged” said Crow’s voice. Uncharacteristically calm, and distant.

Flort passed over a data pad with the contract. "Are you shy? If you want the High Stateroom you’d be bunking with our security specialist.

She thumbed the pad without looking "As long as he doesn't get handsy we'll be fine. I hope he doesn't mind snoring.

Flort has spits give Vessa a tour of the ship. He smiled as he heard her exclamation when they found the hot tub. “What can I say, I like comfort.” Flort said into space.

“Boss, Did you make a decision on the Engineer position. Rex Brannick. He seems eager to leave the station and he checks our boxes. You know, he’s breathing. No one else on the board right now.”

“Let's see what Crockett comes up with. I don't want to start off by making unilateral decisions without him. Start lining up passengers. We need five for Blue.

"on it"

Torpol Highport - Wages of Sin 13:30

Crow looked for Middle passengers. It took a full hour, an operational insult, thanks to low-bandwidth terminals, redundant forms, and the absolute chaos of human interaction. Half the requests came through garbled text. One required him to hold for music. Music.

Eventually, he confirmed five bookings:

• Gilbert Kennedy, 57
• Jackie Fleming, 45
• Eldon Seddon, 34
• Mazie Mcarty, 26 (medical flag: pregnancy)
• Jess Raycraft, 40

Crow logged their payment credentials, ran a passive flag sweep, and assigned bunks. Passenger profiles were sparse, but the credits cleared. Crow flagged the Bonesaw in the medbay, and notified jeeves to get ready for passengers.

"Crow to Captain: Five passengers confirmed. One flagged medical. Ages range 26 to 57. Booking was inefficient. I remain unsupervised."

CROW [SKILL] Broker/0 (2D) (vs Difficulty 8) [2d6, rolled 8] [0 Effect, Average SUCCESS] 1d6 Hours, 1 Hours. Find passengers for WOS from Torpol to Blue
CROW [Table Roll] Effect/0, Steward/2, pop/1, Ports/2, Distance -1 (2D+4) (vs Scale) [2d6+4, rolled 9] [0 Effect, Average SUCCESS] 1d6 Hours, 1 Hours. Find passengers for WOS from Torpol to Blue 11 found

Torpol Highport - Wages of Sin 17:30

The captain and XO of the Piper’s Dream circled the Wages of Sin’s air raft with tight jaws and narrow eyes, clearly unhappy but knowing they didn’t have a better option.

It was beat-up, lightly scorched, and somehow still more functional than anything else on-station. Flort stood proudly beside it, arms spread like he was unveiling a classic.

“Listen, Bob, can I call you Bob?” Flort asked, already continuing. “This model right here won the TAS Reliability Award in 1075, 1086, and 1091. That’s three decades of dependability. You won’t find another raft like this, this side of Fist.”

Crow’s voice chimed in over Flort’s earpiece, dry as vacuum. “Technically it was a runner-up in 1091. The award went to a model with working inertial dampers.”

Flort ignored him and kept the pitch going. “This raft has seen more landings than I can count and never let us down. Only reason we’re parting with it is… special circumstances.” He sighed theatrically. “Honestly, I’m cutting my own throat here.”

The XO, clearly unimpressed, looked him dead in the eye. “You’re ripping us off and we know it. If we didn’t need this at our next stop, you could shove it.”

“Wonderful,” Flort said brightly, already keying in the digits. “Let me get you that account number.”

Crow, quietly: “Congratulations, Boss. You’ve sold an unpressurized death sled to desperate people. Again.”

[SKILL] Admin/2 EDU/0, Expert/1 (2D+3) (vs Difficulty 8) [2d6+3 = rolled 8+] [Average SUCCESS] 1d6 Hours, 5 Hours. Find a Buyer for the WOS Air Raft

[SKILL] Broker/3,Oposing Broker/2-, DM Advanced Vehicles/0, (3D6+1) (vs scale) [3d6+1 = rolled 11] [100% Sale] Sold WOS Air raft KCr250.

Torpol Highport – Wages of Sin – 20:00

Flort lounged on the rec deck couch, one damp sock draped over the armrest, drink in hand. The holo-wall played crashing waves, soft jazz masking the ship’s tired ventilation. It had been a busy day. Losing the air raft hurt. The money would help the ship turn a profit—and lessen the odds of Flort having lied to Crockett about incoming revenue.

“Crow, order what we can on the deal with Beren Skahl. Fill up as much as possible on the toasters.”

“Sorry, Boss. When you didn’t call him back, he sold them.”

“We’ll find another cargo tomorrow,” Flort replied, unfazed.

Karen, one of the crew droids, stood nearby with an analog clipboard in hand. Her face couldn’t move, and yet her default expression somehow always seemed to be mildly outraged bureaucrat.

“Captain, washing your socks in the kitchenette sink violates hygiene protocols 3, 7, and 14-C.” It flipped a page for emphasis. Flort was pretty sure it was blank. “That basin is not for personal laundry.”

Flort sipped and answered without looking up.

“Socks were clean. Just needed a rinse. Didn’t even use soap.”

“You left lint. And a puddle.”

Crow’s voice crackled in Flort’s earbud, dry as overcooked protein brick. “We can have the new guy space it. As a test.”

Jeeves glided in, tray held like he was presenting haute cuisine.

“Tonight’s dinner: algae kibble, gently steamed and arranged with deliberate geometry. Paired with a generous pour of ambient-temperature hydration.”

Flort raised his glass.

“To clean socks and staying just this side of respectable.”

Spits, watching from across the room, grunted. “Algae kibble again?” he muttered, disgusted.