Not by choice

The shuttle's hyperdrive engaged with a sound like a god cracking its knuckles. Susan hadn't even touched the controls—Adam's jury-rigged cable bomb must've shorted something vital. The stars streaked into neon scars across the viewscreen as the universe folded itself around them. Adam's stomach attempted to climb out through his sinuses. "Did we just—"

"Yep," Susan confirmed, slapping a sparking console. The shuttle shuddered violently, dumping them out of FTL with all the grace of a drunk kicked through a saloon door. Outside, a riot of color resolved into a sprawling orbital bazaar, its tiered decks swarming with ships that looked like they'd been cobbled together from scrap metal and bad decisions. A neon sign the size of a battleship pulsed in mangled Galactic Common: Welcome to Freeport Nebula—No Refunds.

Susan whistled low. "Well. This is either the best or worst thing that's ever happened to us." Adam peered at the scanner, which was having an existential crisis trying to categorize the sheer volume of unregistered transponders. "Pretty sure that's a Krixian pleasure barge. And is that... a taxidermied space whale?"

A proximity alert blared as a dented freighter nearly sideswiped them, its hull plastered with overlapping bounty notices. The pilot—a hulking Voraxian with more tusks than teeth—flipped them a gesture involving three middle fingers. Susan returned it with enthusiasm. "I like this place already."