Chapter 5 part 3

###Solo: A Narwhal Story

The Guild outpost, once teeming with the chaos of fresh recruits—imagine a cargo hold of over-caffeinated glow-moths smashing into every console—had finally settled into something resembling order. Not peace, mind you. Out here on the edge of Lunatran Empire territory, “order” just meant the airlock wasn’t jammed with deserters, and the med-bay only had two rookies getting their stomachs pumped after eating “mystery meat” from a derelict.

The ill-suited had slunk back to their home colonies, their dreams of glory snuffed out faster than a match in a solar storm. Take the Stellar Serenaders—a crew so convinced diplomacy worked in the void they tried to negotiate with a pack of marauders. Last I heard, their captain was selling algae-based haikus on a backwater moon. The void doesn’t care about your syllable count, kid.

Then there were the reckless ones. The Lightning That Slays Stars (their hull decal read “Slays”—poetic, really) flared bright but brief. Their captain, a hotshot who’d pawned his own cybernetic liver for a shiny plasma cannon, ended up indentured to a mining corp after botching a simple salvage run. Turns out, you can’t vaporize contractual fine print. Who knew? Their implosion was so spectacular, the Guild started taking bets on which crew would crack next.

And the broke ones? Stars, the broke ones. The Rustbucket Renegades couldn’t afford sealant for their oxygen leaks. They fractured faster than a derelict in a debris field, their legacy now a cautionary sticky note on the cantina’s ration dispenser: “Don’t let your engineer ‘invest’ in casino asteroids.”

Running a crew with too many chiefs and no chain of command? That’s like herding radioactive space-slugs. Flat-rate missions bleed credits faster than a hull breach, unless you’re running a skeleton crew. The Spectral Bargain learned that the hard way—eighteen members, one ship, and a communal toothbrush. They took a flat-rate delivery job to Tau-7 and ended up owing the Guild after their botanist turned the cargo hold into a hydroponic spice den.

Then there were the gamblers. The Eventide Gambit crew bet it all on a high-stakes Syndicate vault heist, only to discover their “master hacker” couldn’t bypass a child-locked datapad. Last transmission? A blurry vid of them scrubbing plasma residue off a mining barge in the Kappa Belt. The lucky ones? Indentured to corporate warlords, drowning in debt from that one guy who thought cybernetic tentacle arms were “versatile.”

The survivors? They’ve got half a brain cell to rub between them. Mostly.

Even now, half the crews here feel like unstable warp cores. The Nova Nomads keep “forgetting” docking fees exist, and the Void Howlers’ idea of diplomacy is screaming until the other side surrenders. But hey, Baldr Station’s got character. By “character,” I mean the lingering stench of burnt thruster fuel and poor life choices.

Established crews are hunting for fresh blood—those rare rookies who haven’t realized “profit share” is Guild slang for “you’ll get paid in expired ration bars.” The Iron Aegis crew’s been lurking near the sim-pods, luring wide-eyed kids with promises of “glory” and “free protein paste.” It’s bleak out here.

But not every rookie’s a fool. The smart ones stick to the shadows, memorizing which vendors dilute the coolant and which bartenders water down the synth-gin. Those who land a spot with a solid crew? They might survive long enough to upgrade their boots from “duct-tape couture” to “mildly singed.”

As for me, I’ll trade tips for synth-milk. Buy me a glass, and I’ll tell you why that relic-hunting gig is a scam (“The ‘ancient artifact’ is a Korvian’s lunchbox”) or which crews to avoid (“The Celestial Manta’s last rookie’s still scraping fungal blooms out of the vents”).

Sometimes, though, my reputation as an informant attracts… odd characters. “Mr Narwhal, let me join your crew!” they’ll plead, eyes gleaming with misplaced admiration. 

I always turn them down. I fly solo, and that’s how I like it.  

Eventually, they figure it out. “Huh, Narwhal’s kind of a weirdo,” they’ll mutter, and the admiration fades. Good. Don’t go taking dangerous solo contracts just because you think it’s glamorous. Trust me, it’s not.  

“Mr Narwhal, won’t you join our crew?”  

The question caught me so off guard 

I nearly choked on my protein bar.  

“I’ve heard you’ve been solo this whole time, Mr Narwhal. But we don’t put stock in old prejudices about... certain genetic markers or anything!”  

This kid—Sun, he called himself—was intense. His crewmates stood behind him, their eyes sparkling like they’d just discovered a new star system. It was… unsettling.  

What recruitment is this? Not for some cult right?

And don't casually diss my mixed race.

“I’m solo because I like it that way,” I said, brushing crumbs off my flight suit. “Thanks, but no thanks.”  

“Eh…?”  

He looked genuinely shocked. 

Kid, you’re drawing the wrong kind of attention in the Guild.  

“Let me introduce myself properly!” he pressed on, undeterred. “I’m Sun, captain of the *Farthest Flare*. This is Taiyo, our tech specialist, and Hae, our weapons officer.”  

I’d already said no. Twice. But his persistence? I’ll give him that—it’s a trait that could serve him well out there.  

“I can’t say this loudly,” he added, leaning in, “but Taiyo and I have Holy Solar Commonwealth genes. Enhanced reflexes, eidetic memory—"

“—And a death wish?” I cut in. “This is a Lunatran station. Flash that heritage too boldly, and you’ll have Empire loyalists keying your ship.”

Sun blinked. “But… Baldr’s neutral!”

“Neutral,” I said dryly, “doesn’t mean friendly.” Last month, a mechanic got his nose broken for humming a Solar anthem. The Guild mediators shrugged—workplace dispute.

“We’re careful!” he insisted. “And you’ve got the same spark! We could—

I blinked. Did he think that would sway me?

This guy has no sense of personal space. Is it that I won't refused because we share solar genetics? Don't tell me weird stuff like that.

“Look, Holy Solar genes or not, I’m not joining your crew. I like flying solo. End of story.”  

“You… like being alone?” he asked, as if I’d just confessed to being a sentient nebula.  

“We exist,” I said dryly. “We’re real. Now, if you’ll excuse me…”  

Admittedly there really are only a handful able to properly solo in this sector.

They left eventually, but not without Sun throwing a hopeful invitation over his shoulder.  

“Let us know if you change your mind!”

I watched them disappear into the airlock, shaking my head. Another group of rookies, venturing into the void with more bravado than sense. 

They didn’t strike me as pirates, 

But that type, they fly into asteroid fields without realizing. Kinda scary. They look like they've barely left their home system.

Their captain tried recruiting me with that wide-eyed, core-worlder naivety that screamed “accident waiting to happen.” 

I just hoped they didn’t start an interstellar war.  

"You sure, Narwhal? A proper crew is offering you a berth? Gonna let this chance slip?"

The cantina regulars ribbed me mercilessly. “Turned down a free ride, Narwhal?” chuckled a grizzled mechanic. “Ship’s a junker, but still!”

“Narwhal, you turned down the *Farthest Flare*? What a waste!”  

“Shut your thrusters,” I shot back.

The drunks at the cantina were having a field day.  

Mocking another crew’s name is bad form, and *Farthest Flare*? It’s a solid name. 

Solar-themed monikers might rub the hardcore empire loyalist the wrong way, but that’s their problem.