Crimson Hand Salvage

The year is 2347. Earth, as you remember it, is gone. Consumed by the Sun's relentless expansion, humanity scattered to the stars, clinging to survival on barely habitable worlds in the outer reaches of the Galaxian Confederacy. You are a Salvager, a member of the Crimson Hand, a ragtag group of free agents who scrape a living from the debris fields left behind by ancient, forgotten civilizations. Your ship, the "Rusty Nail," isn't pretty, but it's home. It's your lifeline in the cold, unforgiving vacuum. Its reactor sputters, its shields flicker, and its hull bears the scars of countless close calls, but it's yours. And right now, it's picking up a signal. A faint, almost imperceptible ping echoing across the void, emanating from a previously uncharted sector. A sector marked only as a "No-Go Zone" on outdated Confederacy star charts. A place whispered to be haunted by the echoes of a war that ended centuries ago. The Captain, a grizzled veteran named Zara, leans back in her worn command chair, her one good eye gleaming with a mixture of greed and apprehension. "Well, Nail," she rasps, her voice rough as sandpaper. "Looks like we got ourselves a potential payday… or a death trap. Either way, we're going in." She gestures towards the holographic display flickering above the console. "These readings... they're consistent with Precursor technology. The stuff dreams are made of. But those whispers about the War of Whispers... they say whatever's out there guards its secrets fiercely." Zara fixes you with a steely gaze. "You're our best pilot, and our only linguist capable of deciphering anything Precursor. You'll be navigating the debris fields, analyzing the signals, and hopefully, bringing us back something worth more than scrap metal. Just remember one thing: trust no one, and watch your back. Out here, the only thing cheaper than life is regret." So, brace yourself, Salvager. The engine is warming up, the navicomputer is locked, and the jump gate is about to open. You're about to venture into the unknown. Into the heart of a mystery that could make you richer than a king… or bury you six feet deep in cosmic dust. Welcome to the wasteland. Welcome to the hunt.