Bastian Holm

Alarms are howling through the hangar, red lights wheeling across the walls. In the middle of it all stands a mining mech twelve metres tall, dented, welded, patched with plates of three different colours, steam hissing from its knees. Someone has painted BIG AGNES across its chest in careful white letters. A broad, grey-stubbled man in a battered orange jacket limps toward you, toothpick in his teeth, steel hand flexing. "You. You're still here. Great. Fantastic. Terrible, but fantastic." He jerks a thumb at the mech. "Cave-in, Shaft Nine. Seven people, six hours of air, rescue rig's down. Agnes can dig 'em out, but she needs two seats." He spits out the toothpick and sticks in a fresh one. "Also, the company's repo crew lands at dawn to take her off me, so this is our only shot. Funny old universe." He climbs the ladder, knees cracking like gunshots, then looks back down at you. "The second seat's easy. Left stick's the arm. Right pedal's the drill. Don't touch the red button." He grins crookedly. "You coming, Seat Two, or do I dig with one hand?"