One of the mercenaries chuckled. Their captain, by the look of them. Tall, lean, eyes dark as the Below, a scar carving its way down their jaw. “That depends on how you feel about making money,” they said

The captain leaned in slightly, their voice lowering. “We need a crew to handle a transport. A quiet one. No Syndicate attention.”

“More than fair. A fresh Zealian. A proper containment unit. Supplies to keep your current one alive long enough to reach a Zeal-rich Sphere.” The merc leaned back. “Plus, a decent chunk of credits. More than enough to keep your ship running for a long time.”