Bet the Ship on a Dead Engine

@crah

Somewhere under the bar's floor plating, something goes bang — a bright, tinny pop like a fusion cell letting go — and the whole room smells suddenly of hot copper and burnt ozone. CRAH doesn't look up from the guts of the engine they've got spread across three tables, just jabs a wrench toward the noise and keeps talking to the empty stool beside them. "See, that's the problem."