Follow the dialogue, inspect the available options and move between connected scenes.
Dialogue follows the supplied game text. The listed choices include alternate and expansion scenes; the archive does not simulate your save or certify that every route is reachable.
At dock in Kova Rim, a courier hands you a real paper envelope — the kind with wax on it. Inside is a handwritten note in a hand you don't know. 'Pilot. My name is Serel Kain. I captain the Titan-class Unprintable. I have been watching your work for two seasons. I do not offer patronage to pilots who apply; I offer it to pilots who don't. Dock at my ring at your convenience. Come with empty hands. — S.K.'
The Titan Unprintable is the biggest pilot-owned hull you have ever set foot on. The captain's mess is panelled in real wood hauled out of Neth-3 two decades ago. Serel Kain is older than you expected — late fifties, left arm prosthetic, coffee in her hand. She pours you a cup without asking. 'Pilot. I run a small fleet — three hulls, nine pilots. I am offering you a patron's berth. Small retainer, access to my repair bays, two missions a year I'll ask you to fly for me. You keep your own ship. You keep your own name. I don't own pilots; I pay them well.'
Serel smiles, which is a rare thing on a capital ship captain. 'You are the first pilot this year to ask. Good.' She sets her cup down. 'The catch is that the two missions I ask of you each year will not be the missions you want to fly. They will be the ones I ask of my patron pilots because nobody else will take them. They are usually dirty. They are usually important. If you take the berth and refuse a mission, I cut you loose and we pretend the berth never existed. Nothing personal. Just the way I run the fleet.'
Serel signs a simple sheet — no thumbprint, no hologram, just her name and yours and the date. She hands you a small enamel pin in the shape of a Titan silhouette. 'Wear this at dock rings where I have berths,' she says, 'and you'll be passed through without questions. Lose it and I'll replace it. Sell it and I'll remember.' She stands. 'Fly. I'll call when I need you.'
Serel nods the nod of someone who expected it and would have been mildly disappointed either way. 'Most pilots who belong in my fleet turn me down first time,' she says. 'Offer stands. Open berth.' She walks you to the dock ring herself, which is itself a mark of respect.
You tuck the envelope into your flight jacket and never open the wax seal again. A season later, at a different station, you'll hear pilots at the bar describing Serel Kain's fleet as the best small patronage in the galaxy. You'll keep your mouth shut. The envelope is still in your jacket. It is, you suspect, still an open offer.
