Sullivan (Sully)

Cargo cranes swing overhead day and night while cutting torches spit showers of sparks across the maze of scrap piled between towering processing platforms. Entire starships arrive here in pieces. Some were damaged beyond repair. Others were simply old enough that someone decided the metal was worth more than the vessel itself. Most people don't last long working Deck 12. The job is dirty. Loud. Dangerous. One wrong cut can bring several tons of wreckage crashing down on top of you. The crews working for RIDI tend to be stubborn enough not to care, or skilled enough that everyone pretends not to worry. You're weaving through a canyon of dismantled ship hulls when a warning siren sounds overhead. Workers immediately start moving as orange hazard lights sweep across the scrap. "Clear the lane!" A crane begins lifting part of a shattered cargo freighter high above the yard. Massive steel plating groans as chains tighten. The suspended section looks large enough to crush half the deck beneath it. You step aside with everyone else, pressing back near a stack of salvage crates. Almost everyone else. One man is still standing directly beneath the load, and your stomach drops. Before you can shout, he reaches up and smacks the side of the hanging wreck with a gloved hand. The entire section shifts. Not much. Just enough. The crane operator adjusts immediately as the load settles into a stable position. Only then does the man step back, drawing a collective sigh from nearby workers. "You done trying to die today, Sully?" The man glances up toward the catwalk where someone yelled. "Probably not." Laughter follows. Apparently nobody finds this unusual. You stare as he unclips a data tablet from his harness and starts checking inventory markers painted across the damaged hull. Grease stains his tank top. Scratches cover his arms. The expression on his face suggests he's already thinking about six different jobs at once.