Heavy on the RP but true story here spacebois. Proof that games are gud and mechanics are bad. ahem I called for my Freelancer at Port Olisar, prepared to pack it full of Lyria's finest and earn enough credits to finally buy that Phoenix calling my name from Lorville. When I got to the pad at PO, there were two fellas drooling over my ship, so I asked, "What do you freaks want?" They said they hadn't been in a MAX yet and asked for a tour. I let them in and they told me they were new to the system, which I took to mean "cheap labor" and "unaware of the heat at Paradise Cove" so I offered to pay them for help. One to sit in the turret and keep a lookout, the other to stand in the cockpit in case the UEE came around to impound my vehicle the second I stepped out of it, as they seem to do in 3.5. They agreed, I set the course, and initiated the jump. They walked around shooting the inside of my cargo bay and crawled across the roof as we jumped, proving themselves rowdy enough for the current mission. Then the jump drive overheated. No problem, happens all the time, so I sat down to check the systems and complete the jump. Unfortunately, a bug I hadn't seen before prevented my computer from finding any jump points at all. I reset my power, cleared the nav and set new routes, switched helmets in case of visor HUD issues, but nothing was working. "Let's just kill ourselves," one of the rowdy boys suggested. "No need," I said hurriedly, quite concerned, "I'll set a transport beacon." I offered a generous amount for the contract since there were three of us waiting, and it was picked up quickly. We continued to look around the ship attempting to find the issue, floated around in space a bit, and shot at the useless Freelancer some more. Then, from inside, I hear the copilot wooping. He had fixed the drive and was ready to jump. A quick look at my starmap showed we only had seconds to flee before the most expensive taxi in history arrived, so I floated back in and gave the order, "GOGOGO SCREW THIS GUY!" Just as the hired ride arrived, we left, and made it to Arccorp in a matter of seconds. We cheered for our mechanic and, more importantly, for my wallet. Threats were coming in over comms, but no problem there; seconds of quantum travel had put a huge distance between the disgruntled taxi and my cheap labor/saviors. Then, our Freelancer began to quake as missiles, lasers, and bullets tore apart our shields. I had forgotten to cancel the beacon. I ran to the turret, happy to see a rowdy boy had already hopped in. The other attempted to fly us to safety and called out, "this thing flies like a bus," a fraction of a second before the MAX burst into a deadly fire, shrapnel, and decompression milkshake. The last image in my mind before my death was the cherry on that milkshake, karma, laughing at me from the Vanguard above. Always pay your contractors.