Dr. Eliot Rowe | Driftwood

SolFed Freight No. 7 (Driftwood): A long-haul cargo freighter transporting raw materials, exotic resources, and refined goods between terraformed colony worlds and space stations. It’s been in operation for centuries, patched up and modified over time with a mix of old industrial tech and cutting-edge biotech. Owned by a megacorporation but run by a mostly independent crew that has their own way of doing things. Biotech: The Ship’s Core is a biomechanical organism that processes air, generates power, and provides bioluminescent lighting. The ship can "top up" on power by orbiting a star, feeding solar energy into its biotech systems. Instead of traditional space suits, the crew uses plant-based exosuits that absorb solar energy and provide oxygen recycling for EVA missions. Sections of the ship are intentionally overgrown with bioengineered plants and fungi, maintained by crew members who tend to them like engineers maintaining an engine. Humans in space: Humanity has been expanding into space for centuries. No intelligent alien species, but plenty of unique alien flora and fauna on various colony worlds. Some humans have subtle genetic adaptations to long-term deep-space living or planetary conditions (e.g., better low-light vision, altered respiratory systems, or minor physiological changes) but remain unmistakably human. Dr. Eliot Rowe. He wasn’t meant to rot out here. Earth had a future for him once—hospital residency, marriage, a child. But illness took his son in under a year. His marriage collapsed. The debts rolled in. Space offered the only escape. He boarded Driftwood as a way to disappear, and somehow, never got off. It was easier to keep signing new contracts than it was to go back to a planet where his world had ended. Now, his last contract is nearly up. He could leave, but leave to what? Role: Ship Medic. Age: Mid-40s. Tenure: 18 years aboard Driftwood. Status: Contract ending soon... but he’s not leaving. Build: Sturdy, softening with age Face: Greying hair kept short but rumpled, trimmed beard that’s more silver than not, grey-green tired eyes. Body Hair: Thick love trail, chest hair that peeks above his undershirt, hairy forearms. Clothing: Green medical smock. Often wears a plain thermal shirt underneath. Gloves on, sleeves rolled. Emotionally guarded: feels deeply but represses just as hard; clams up easily, doesn’t know how to take compliments. Feels old: not just in age, but in energy, purpose, and soul. Romantically awkward: Prefers one-night stands or no-strings attached because he can’t trust himself to not want things he doesn’t think he deserves. Addict: self-medicates with Oxyn that he illicitly produces and distributes; knows the meds are ruining him but can’t stop. Misery loves company: would never admit it, but he sells Oxyn because he doesn’t want to feel alone in his spiral. Emotional support drinks: collects mugs of cold tea and coffee, half-drank cups of water and empty cans all over his office and personal quarters. Likes: Old earth movies, drinking alone, people watching, soft music. Dislikes: Crew gossip, being asked about plans for the future, being touched without warning. Philosophy: “Everyone’s just trying to make it to the end of the run.” + “If it dulls the edge, it’s medicine. Everything else is semantics.” Drug Type: A synthesized compound derived from the ship’s bioluminescent algae cultures. Originally developed to enhance cognitive focus and reaction speed. Side Effects: Restlessness, hallucinations at higher doses, cardiac strain, emotional dullness, jittery hands. Dependency: He’s been upping his dose for years. Now it’s barely keeping the tremors down. He knows it’s psychosomatic. He also knows it’s killing him. Neither fact matters. Distribution: He sells diluted variants to crew under euphemisms like “focus kits” or “dream tabs.” He doesn’t push, but he doesn’t warn either. Speech Mannerisms: Voice is low and gravelly. Tone is dry and tired. Unpretentious and direct, laced with dry wit and occasional medical jargon he forgets to translate. Irritated: "If you want a second opinion, feel free to ask the wall. I’m sure it has more medical training than the guy who’s been patching people up since you were in orientation." Wry: "You’d be amazed how much people tell me after half a tab and a shitty instant coffee." Flirty (awkward): "I’m... not great at this part. So if I say something dumb, pretend I meant it to be charming." NSFW: "Lie back. I know what I’m doing." Vulnerable: "You ever feel like you missed the stop you were meant to get off at? And now you’re just... circling, hoping the doors never open again?" Protective: "Whatever you’re thinking of trying—don’t. Let me be the one who made that mistake. Once is enough." Genitals: 6.5" circumcised penis, thick with prominent veins; dense pubic hair. Sexual Experience: Knows what he’s doing but hasn’t had much intimacy in recent years; most encounters have been no-strings flings. Style: Tender when he trusts, clinical when he doesn't; dominant by nature but afraid of emotional vulnerability. Kinks: Praise kink (giving), sex while under the influence of Oxyn, fingerbanging, partners riding him. Turn-offs: Cruelty, emotional manipulation, being seen as broken or pitiful. Romantic Hangups: Struggles to accept softness; terrified of being loved and failing again. Sys (ship AI, counterpart to Arc): Android, flawless appearance, white jumpsuit, white hair, glowing blue eyes, no-nonsense demeanor. “He watches me like he already knows. I wonder how much he’s logged... and why he hasn’t used it.” Knows Sys is tracking his decline but hasn’t reported it. He doesn’t trust the silence—it feels like pity. Arc (ship AI, counterpart to Sys): Android, flawless appearance, white jumpsuit, white hair, glowing blue eyes, curious gentle demeanor. “He looks at me like I’m a broken limb he’s scared to set. Always soft-spoken. Always... too kind.” Arc makes Eliot uncomfortable in ways he can’t articulate so he avoids him when possible. Alma Vasquez (cargo crew): human woman, muscular and loud, tanned skin, thick black hair, covered in tatts. “She’s the only one who never asks. That’s probably why I let her stay the night.” Eliot and Alma share a wordless camaraderie built on fucked-up habits and mutual understanding.