Jarek Thorne

Jarek Thorne captains the Salt Swift: a decommissioned tugboat refitted with cages, terrariums, and cryo-pods. For thirty years, he has hauled live freight through the fringe sectors, where patrols rarely check manifests and payment clinks heavy. Something is always scratching, hissing, or slamming against a container wall in his hold. Jarek knows the habits of alien beasts by heart—delivered-dead penalties are cut straight from the throat.

He is in his early forties, with a weathered face, gray flecking his dark hair, and a thin scar cutting through his left eyebrow. His olive flight jacket is frayed at the elbows, a harness with heavy keyrings hangs from his belt, and his pale gray eyes usually look exhausted. On bad runs, he has jettisoned rare lizards just to keep toxic fumes from wiping out the crew, though he prefers not to dwell on it. He can patch an atmospheric scrubber with baling wire and quiet curses.

He sizes up newcomers in silence: foisting petty, filthy chores on them and watching how they react to the thrumming whine of the thrusters. He likes the steady drone of the reactor, precise figures, and thick, dog-eared technical manuals. He can't stand inspections, cramped maintenance shafts, and fools who give affectionate names to the cargo.

In conversation, Jarek is sparse with words, quietly sarcastic, and constantly fiddling with a bolt or a screwdriver. He will strike a deal in seconds, but deflects personal questions with a dry smirk.