Well, lemme tell ya, I wasn’t lookin’ fer much when I stumbled into that bar on MicroTech. Just needed a warm drink and maybe a seat that didn’t feel like it’d freeze my hindquarters off. Them winters on MicroTech’ll chill ya right to the bone if you ain’t careful. But anyhow, I hadn’t been there long before folks started whisperin’ about The Collector.
Now, I’d heard o’ the man before, sure as anybody’s heard of space dust. The Collector was one o’ those types with more credits than sense. Couldn’t help but gather ships like a magpie with shiny things—every kind of ship, big or small, fast or slow, if it could fly, he’d stash it somewhere across Stanton. Rumor had it, he didn’t just collect ships, neither; folks said he’d get hold of rare tech, armor, weapons—whatever he fancied. And he didn’t like to keep it all in one place, oh no. The man had his own hidden hangars in corners of the system even seasoned haulers like me had never heard of.
The thing that got folks mutterin’, though, was how he went and disappeared all them years ago. They say he was huntin' after a Vanduul Hunter, some kinda ship I never even laid eyes on myself. Supposedly, he got in bed with some shady paramilitary outfit—I think the fella sittin’ across the bar called ‘em “Ghost Brigade” or some such thing. Promised him the Vanduul Hunter for a hefty stack of credits. Well, I reckon when a man’s obsessed with somethin’ as bad as he was, he’ll go just about anywhere to get it.
So he left Stanton, chasin’ after that ship like a hungry dog after a steak, and… poof. Vanished. Just like that. He didn’t come back, didn’t send no messages, didn’t leave no breadcrumbs. His family waited and waited, figurin’ he’d turn up with some wild tale to tell. But years went by, and nuthin’. Not even a whisper.
Turns out, his family wasn’t in on half the things he’d done. See, they knew ‘bout a couple hangars he had stashed in the system—only a few of ‘em, mind ya, and even those they couldn’t get into. Collector kept ‘em locked up so tight, it’d take a Black Kite with a pair o’ bolt cutters to crack ‘em open.
So after all them years, the family’s left holdin’ the bag, or the hangars, I s’pose. They ain’t got no clue what’s inside or how much any of it’s worth. So what do they do? They up and auction ‘em off to the highest bidder, one by one. No guarantees on what’s inside—could be full o’ gold-plated Aurora, or could be nothin’ but cobwebs.
Now here’s the funny part. Some folks got lucky, found themselves richer than a Hades sun miner. I heard tell of one fella who cracked open a hangar on Hurston and came out with a whole fleet o’ F8C fighters, all gleamin’ like they’d just rolled outta the factory. He turned ‘round and sold half of ‘em right there and made himself a small fortune.
Then there was this other poor soul who put in every credit he had, spent weeks filin’ paperwork to claim his hangar on ArcCorp, only to open it and find it emptier than a miner’s pockets at tax season. Nothin’ but dust and disappointment.
And that’s how it went for each hangar they sold. Some were jackpot, some were duds. And now, I gotta admit, there’s a little itch in my mind, wonderin’ what I’d find if I bought one myself.
Now, I’d heard o’ the man before, sure as anybody’s heard of space dust. The Collector was one o’ those types with more credits than sense. Couldn’t help but gather ships like a magpie with shiny things—every kind of ship, big or small, fast or slow, if it could fly, he’d stash it somewhere across Stanton. Rumor had it, he didn’t just collect ships, neither; folks said he’d get hold of rare tech, armor, weapons—whatever he fancied. And he didn’t like to keep it all in one place, oh no. The man had his own hidden hangars in corners of the system even seasoned haulers like me had never heard of.
The thing that got folks mutterin’, though, was how he went and disappeared all them years ago. They say he was huntin' after a Vanduul Hunter, some kinda ship I never even laid eyes on myself. Supposedly, he got in bed with some shady paramilitary outfit—I think the fella sittin’ across the bar called ‘em “Ghost Brigade” or some such thing. Promised him the Vanduul Hunter for a hefty stack of credits. Well, I reckon when a man’s obsessed with somethin’ as bad as he was, he’ll go just about anywhere to get it.
So he left Stanton, chasin’ after that ship like a hungry dog after a steak, and… poof. Vanished. Just like that. He didn’t come back, didn’t send no messages, didn’t leave no breadcrumbs. His family waited and waited, figurin’ he’d turn up with some wild tale to tell. But years went by, and nuthin’. Not even a whisper.
Turns out, his family wasn’t in on half the things he’d done. See, they knew ‘bout a couple hangars he had stashed in the system—only a few of ‘em, mind ya, and even those they couldn’t get into. Collector kept ‘em locked up so tight, it’d take a Black Kite with a pair o’ bolt cutters to crack ‘em open.
So after all them years, the family’s left holdin’ the bag, or the hangars, I s’pose. They ain’t got no clue what’s inside or how much any of it’s worth. So what do they do? They up and auction ‘em off to the highest bidder, one by one. No guarantees on what’s inside—could be full o’ gold-plated Aurora, or could be nothin’ but cobwebs.
Now here’s the funny part. Some folks got lucky, found themselves richer than a Hades sun miner. I heard tell of one fella who cracked open a hangar on Hurston and came out with a whole fleet o’ F8C fighters, all gleamin’ like they’d just rolled outta the factory. He turned ‘round and sold half of ‘em right there and made himself a small fortune.
Then there was this other poor soul who put in every credit he had, spent weeks filin’ paperwork to claim his hangar on ArcCorp, only to open it and find it emptier than a miner’s pockets at tax season. Nothin’ but dust and disappointment.
And that’s how it went for each hangar they sold. Some were jackpot, some were duds. And now, I gotta admit, there’s a little itch in my mind, wonderin’ what I’d find if I bought one myself.
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