#also the protags name is jaine antares

[nerdititis]

"Sir, we are coming up on Kronos." Jaine fought a sigh. Flying through an unstable wormhole with a faulty navigational array was stressful enough without having to worry about whether an important component of the ship like, oh say, the engine, was going to explode. Again. Which wouldn't be a problem, if the captain wasn't a cheap bastard who only paid for repairs when the part was more duct tape and prayer than what most people considered functional. The way the Interstellar Guard had been cracking down on smugglers lately, the only way he was coughing up the dough for a new engine would be if they hit the holy grail of black market product, or if they fell ouit of the sky. Which was looking more and more likely the more he forced them to use uncharted back-ways and quantumly unstable shortcuts. "'Bout fucking time, what did you do, take the god damned scenic route?" In addition to being notoriously tight with his purse strings, the captain, a stocky, middle-aged, scruffy man named Lort  Gregson, was decidedly vulgar, unhygienic, and basically an all-around slobbish pig. The only reason he had a ship and a crew to fly her was because a), the ship was a piece of shit that should never have been declared flight worthy, and b), he had a habit of finding people in terrible situations, and making them offers they just couldn't refuse. About to go to jail on trumped up charges of theft? Owe someone some money that you just can't pay? Looked at some gangsters girl and now he's going to cut off your eyelids and make you watch as he peels all the skin off your body? No problem. Just sign the dotted line and Uncle Lort can make all your problems disappear. Truly desparate people never read the fine print, which basically said "I OWN YOU". And something as clear as that can't be challenged in court. Many people had tried. They all disappeared. Mysteriously. "Sir, the wormhole we were using is extremely unstable. Gravity fluctuations were all over the place, I couldn't get a clear lock on our exit point, and the number three engine-" "Ah, just shut your fuckin' trap. I got no time to listen to your bitching, I got a meeting with the Minister in thirty minutes. Just land the damn ship as close to the Hotel Razziere as you fucking can." Lort started to leave the bridge, then something visibly crossed his mind and he turned back. "And you, put on somethin' halfway decent lookin'. You're comin' with me. Can't be too careful with that little rat bastard Minister." With that he turned and left, presumably to go to his cabin to fart and belch and scream at people over the hypercom. Jaine heaved a gusty sigh, then levered himself up out of his seat. There were advantages to being an android. Faster healing and reflexes, increased stamina, rarely if ever getting sick, and you were able to serve the hyper-web with your brain. Only downside was if you managed to get yourself owned by some stinky little jumped-up smuggler with delusions of grandeur and a paranoid streak as wise as Jupiter.

SO I decided to write a story based on that Night Vale tweet about wishes being monitored. This is what I have so far, and before I go further I want to know if this is something people would be interested in reading.