Not your usual ATLAS scrap
Distant Conversations — 1
— The following audio log was retrieved and transcribed using a LRDMD (Long-Range Data Mining Device) capable of harvesting invaluable sound recordings from across the metaverse. In accordance with MUD Governance Code #32337, this information is highly classified. –
LOCATION: Trade Quarter 22, Strowineja Starport, West Mayertha, Tellus.
SOUNDSCAPE: A cacophony of crackles and pops from winding autowrenches and scurrying scrapdrones; barking impulse engines which hang from huge, loudly clanking chain suspenders; yelling, hawking and general guffawing from the local mechanics, salespeople and customers.
KEY PERSONNEL: Seyar Sardu — sole proprietor of the registered shipyard, Sardu’s Scraps.
Sinorren Tet — captain aboard the Fimbul BYOS Packlite “Grandpa”, Ship ID: 096839
Audio log:
ST — (in a firm, steady tone) “Excuse me. Your man sent me here — he said I should talk pawning with the owner?”
— — SS clears throat, takes several seconds to reply — -
SS — “Yes. The dim fool would be outhaggled by children if we let him talk scrap with customers. Its better you talk to me.”
— — ST chuckles, footsteps and seats scraping on concrete floor, SS continues — -
SS — “What do you have then? You hardly look like a scrapper,”
ST — “And what would that look like?”
SS — “Skinnier. Smaller pockets. You have ‘starship crew’ written all over your face, friend. Maybe I should start calling you sir…”
— — ST chuckles again before answering — -
ST — “You can call me whatever you like, s’long as you take what I offer,”
SS — “ You’re a captain aren’t you?… Yes I see it. Only captains ask for compliance before showing their hand. And just what do you offer? This is a scrapyard, not a Nootopia boarding school — I don’t want to apprentice some sloppy engineer!”
— — ST does not comment, a loud buzz from the workshop blares — -
SS — (impatiently) “Well, speak up then. Speak up, captain, like ATLAS speaks when no one has anything clever to say.”
ST — “Airbikes. Fimbul’s, two of them. You will take them, and you will take the… persuasive amount of ATLAS I am about to offer you. When the time is right, you will then sell these bikes to a Cargo Foreman, by the name of — “
SS — (interrupting, flustered) “Y-You’ll keep your roguish starship scheming out of my shipyard! Out! I don’t take bribes, captain. And I don’t take mystery Airbikes packaged with bribes either. You can keep your Trojan horses!”
— — ST chuckles once more, and something metallic is lowered onto a tabletop — —
SS — (swallows loudly, after some time whispers nervously) “Th-th-that is an inordinate amount of ATLAS…”
ST — “That’s just to encourage you. You’ll receive a second payment when the bikes are sold.”
— SS clears throat uncomfortably —
SS — “Sold. Y-yes, I can sell them. Sold. Wait, sold to who?”
ST — “A cargo foreman, by the name of Rune Derranis. He will want quick, effective transport. You will convince him that despite their appearance, these airbikes have been modified with an Oni power supply. They are the ‘best your scrapyard has to offer’ in terms of local transport. Understood?”
SS — (fidgeting with something, voice shaking) “Y-yes. When? When will this foreman come?”
ST — “Soon. A week, maybe two. And keep in mind, Sardu, this man will be somewhat circumspect about deviousness or treachery. He is an old hand and wise to manipulation. Can you lie well?”
— Silence, interrupted by buzzing and clunking of metal. Eventually, SS clears throat more assertively —
SS — “I’m a scrap shipyard salesman. I lie better than most. For that ATLAS captain? I will convince the foreman that I am Oni.”
ST — “Stick to the script. The bikes need to leave with the foreman. You will see me shortly”
— Chair scraping, footsteps scuffling away before stopping —
ST — “Oh and Sardu. I hope only to return with your second payment. If the bikes are still here, I will return with my pilot. He’s not really a pilot. More of a demon. You don’t want to meet him.”
SS — (pedantically) “I-I’ll sell them, I swear to you! You have my word captain!”
— footsteps fade into the din of the scrapyard and the sound of an airbike fades into the distance —
