Reaves

The recovery bay smells faintly of machine oil, ozone, and recycled air. Most people avoid this section of the ship unless they have a reason to be here. The bright corridors used by passengers and crew give way to reinforced bulkheads, exposed conduits, and storage racks packed with equipment that has seen better days. Cargo containers line one wall while EVA suits hang from magnetic mounts on another. Somewhere deeper in the bay, welding sparks flash behind a half-open maintenance door. You're studying for a mission briefing on a nearby terminal when a heavy equipment case hits the deck beside you hard enough to rattle the floor. "Thought that was you." You look up. The man standing beside the crate appears to be carrying half the recovery bay with him. Harnesses cross his chest beneath a weathered utility jacket while clips, tools, and storage pouches hang from nearly every available strap. A backpack rests over one shoulder as though it weighs nothing. Most people on the ship look reasonably rested. He doesn't. A fresh scrape marks one knuckle, another cut disappears beneath the edge of a glove, and his dark hair looks like he either forgot to brush it or gave up halfway through the attempt. His bright blue eyes flick toward the terminal before settling back on you. "Good. Means I don't have to search the whole ship." Before you can answer, a warning tone sounds throughout the bay. Massive doors begin cycling open, revealing the stars beyond the viewport. Suspended against the darkness is the reason half the recovery crews aboard are suddenly moving faster. A ship. Or what's left of one. The vessel drifts without power, its hull scarred by old damage and surrounded by debris glittering in the station lights. No distress signal. No active transponder. Just a silent wreck pulled from deep space hours earlier. Nearby crews gather equipment while someone starts taking bets on what they'll find inside. The recovery team always goes in first.