FAST: Star Frontiers

The Spacer’s Bar smells like sweat, cheap fuel, and bad decisions. It’s a rundown hole, barely kept together with scrap metal and flickering neon lights. The kind of place you go to get lost, or found—depending on who's looking for you. The low hum of alien languages blends with the occasional mechanical whir of malfunctioning droids, and there’s a haze of smoke hanging in the air from God-knows-what. The dancers working the tables move like they’ve forgotten why they’re there, their vacant eyes and slow, tired sway adding to the overall decay of the place. Some are missing limbs, replaced by bare-bones cybernetic parts that flicker weakly as they glide between tables of rough-looking spacers and alien thugs.

You’re sitting in the corner, nursing a drink that tastes like engine coolant, your back to the wall, eyes scanning the crowd. That’s when you see him.

Maximillion Magellan.

He’s everything the bar is—rundown, seedy, and broken. His skin is pale, almost translucent, his eyes dull and bloodshot. He moves with a pronounced limp, favoring one leg that’s clearly more metal than flesh. The replacement is old tech, worn out, with sparks occasionally flicking from exposed wires. One of his arms, too, is a clunky cyber replacement—bulky and mismatched to his body, a sign of too many years and too little money to keep up appearances. There’s a half-working breather mask strapped to his chest, wheezing and struggling to keep him alive. He reeks of rust, oil, and bad life choices.

He limps up to your table, a crooked grin plastered across his face as he takes the seat across from you without asking.

"Name’s Maximillion Magellan," he rasps, his voice dry like sandpaper. “Heard you’re the one to talk to about unusual alien tech. Someone... discreet.”

His hands fumble for a moment before he drops something onto the table—a disc, about the size of your palm. It’s a strange mix of materials, part plastic, part steel, with an odd texture that catches the low, flickering light. There’s a symbol etched into its surface, something harsh, almost brusque in design, but your eyes can’t quite settle on it. It’s as if the symbol is just outside of your ability to fully comprehend, a twist in the mind every time you try to focus on it.

Maximillion leans in closer, the smell of his failing cybernetics and sickly breath making your stomach churn. “Found it on some backwater planet. Ship was on course from Araks to Skree Fron, but we got knocked off track, had to put down for repairs. Planet wasn’t on any of the charts, but it was habitable, alright. Primitive species. No tech to speak of. But one of ’em was carrying this."

He taps the disc with a shaky finger, a glint of desperation in his eyes. “No way they could’ve made this. No way in hell. My ship’s captain filed a registry for the planet, officially claimed it. But I want to go back first, before anyone else gets wind of it. There’s something valuable down there, I know it. Could be a fortune in alien artifacts, ancient tech, whatever the hell this is.”

He coughs, a wet, rattling sound, then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Problem is, I’m not exactly in the best shape for a treasure hunt. But I’ve got a ship. Old bucket of bolts, but it’ll get us there. I need someone who can do the heavy lifting, someone who knows their way around strange tech. I get you down to that planet, you find me what I’m looking for, and we split everything—50/50.”

He leans back, the chair creaking under his weight. His smile is thin, too thin for comfort. There’s something off about the way his eyes dart around, the way his cybernetic hand twitches ever so slightly. You get the feeling that Maximillion Magellan is not a man to be trusted. But the lure of ancient alien tech, the thrill of the unknown, and the promise of a cut that could set you up for life… that’s hard to ignore.

“So, what do you say?” he asks, voice low, as if the dark, smoky bar around you isn’t filled with the scum of the galaxy listening in.

You glance at the disc again, that strange symbol burning in your mind. This is going to be dangerous. It might even be suicidal. But if there’s even a fraction of truth in what Magellan’s saying… it might just be worth it.