[b] Mark A. Lopez[/b]
[hr]

Mark kept his rifle close—across his chest, finger off the trigger but resting near the guard—as he pushed through the station’s outer ring corridor. The air smelled like sweat, ozone, and desperation. People were packed shoulder to shoulder, shouting, pleading, screaming at locked bulkheads. Some were just sitting, staring at nothing. One kid, maybe twelve, was sobbing while gripping his mother’s coat. She looked like she hadn’t moved in hours.

Someone tugged at his sleeve, “EDF!? What’s happening? Are they letting us on?”

Mark shook his head, “I don’t know.”

That was all he had, he kept his brisk pace. He didn’t wear the uniform because he had answers, he was a grunt by most means and that meant being in the same boat of knowing jackshit as these civvies. He kept walking. A scuffle broke out near the stairwell, two guys grappling, one with a pipe, the other bleeding already. A third jumped in and Mark just angled away, ignoring it. Security wasn’t coming, they were either dead, underground, or getting blackout drunk like everyone else trying not to think too hard and he wasn't about to play hero, he had bigger problems, they all did.

At the far end of the corridor, the viewplate showed the ship, the ESS 3822-01, still docked, still inactive. Still his only shot.

Mark stared for a moment, his jaw flexing. The idea of stealing a shuttle crossed his mind again. Maybe he could rig something to extend the oxygen, scrub CO₂, maybe. But the conclusion was always the same: a few extra days before he’d die cold and alone in deep space. Not a real option. He’d made it this far, and this? This was as far as he could get without help.

His legs carried him without much thought to the nearest familiar neon. The Drink was half-lit, half-packed, and half-silent in that low, pressure-filled way that meant everyone was thinking about dying but pretending they weren’t. He stepped inside, rifle still slung, eyes scanning habitually for exits. Always did. He clocked a few people at the bar; what seemed to be a Dhasath woman, a redhead in fatigues, a Kiellar in lab armor, and then someone else.

A man; human, tall, face like someone had just thrown him through a war and he was nursing the last of a whiskey bottle and talking with more confidence than sense.

[quote=@Terrans]"I can pilot anything….” A pause to take a swig. A slight bit of swagger coming through. “… Just give me the manual and some time and I can get anything moving.”  
[/quote]

Mark stopped mid-step.

He caught the tail end of it. He didn’t know if the guy was drunk, post-shock, or just trying to impress the women. But he wasn’t about to let the opportunity slip.

He approached slowly, setting his rifle against the edge of the bar with a quiet thunk. His left arm—mechanical and old but well-maintained, whirred faintly as he adjusted the sling.

He didn’t sit. Just looked at the man and said:

“Then maybe you’re the luckiest bastard in the room.”

Mark nodded toward the viewplate window, where the massive hull of the colony ship hung in orbit like a ghost.

“Because if you can really fly that thing, I can probably get us past the locks and patch what’s left of the launch systems.” He paused, “Unless you’d prefer to stay here and see how long it takes the bugs to eat through the bulkhead.”

He the proposal hang there and looked around the group. None of them looked sure, but they looked like people who had already run out of better options.

“Name’s Lopez by the way,” he added, “Engineering, Eden Defense Force. I don’t do pep talks. I fix things.”

He took a seat, reaching at the other side of the bar and grabbing the first thing, a bottle of tequila, fitting. 

"So, what do you all think?"