Time for a ship

Outside Freeport's armored vault doors, Vorax's pack waited in the shadow of their scavenged frigate—a hulking beast of patched hull plates and stolen thrusters. The youngest Voraxian (still cradling that ridiculous plasma cannon) perked up as Susan emerged, credits chits spilling from her overloaded satchel. Vorax himself sniffed the air, tusks gleaming with fresh polish. "Little meats keep word," he rumbled, sounding almost impressed.

Adam tossed the pack leader a heavy credit pouch—their agreed cut. Vorax caught it one-handed, hefting the weight with a considering grunt. Behind him, his packmates erupted into roughhousing over the division of spoils, their armored forms clanging together like scrap metal in a hurricane.

The shipyard smelled like fried circuitry and bad life choices—a familiar aroma by now. Susan nudged a loose panel with her boot, sending it clattering across the grated floor. "Option one: the Iron Tusk." She jerked her chin at the hulking Voraxian freighter dominating the dock. Its hull plating was thicker than most ship's entire frames, pockmarked with scars from plasma fire that had barely scratched the paint. "Slow as a dying Grublok, but you could ram a small moon and walk away."