¶ Welcome to the BPL14 Wiki
"Where the only law is corporate profit, and even that is questionable."
You fucked up.
Maybe you got caught skimming a little too much off the books, and someone needed a fall guy. Maybe your last scientific breakthrough involved more fire than success. Maybe, in a moment of panic, you shot the ambassador instead of the assassin. You fuc-had a love-affair with the bosses favorite sidepiece. Or maybe you just pissed off the wrong person at the last corporate Christmas party.
Whatever the case, you got reassigned. Not fired, no, that would be too simple. You got sent here.
¶ BPL14: The Station Where Careers Go to Die
A forgotten corporate tax shelter, BPL14 is a decrepit, barely functioning outpost on the farthest edge of what Nanotrasen still considers "their jurisdiction." It is a monument to bureaucratic inertia, floating just outside the reach of real society.
Its official purpose? Classified. Its real purpose? A dumping ground for personnel deemed too inconvenient, too incompetent, or too dangerous to keep anywhere else. It would cost more to decommission this station than it does to keep it limping along, so CentComm does the next best thing:
- Staff it with the exiled, the unlucky, and the barely employable.
- Write it off on the quarterly financial reports.
- Pretend it doesn’t exist unless it starts costing too much.
You arrived on a rusty shuttle older than some planetary governments, so old your grandfather probably rode one just like it, the pilot hacking up a lung as they manually override yet another system failure. The docking clamps failed twice, the airlock sounded like a dying animal, and the welcome committee consisted of a bored quartermaster and a janitor cleaning up what was probably blood.
And now, this is home.
¶ Who Works Here?
BPL14 is not staffed by the best and brightest.
Its crew is an assembly line of professional failures and moral degenerates, the kind of people who couldn’t even get reassigned to a mining colony because they’d either start a riot or find a way to set fire to the vacuum of space.
You will work alongside:
- Disgraced officers who learned that taking bribes is fine, just not from the wrong people.
- Duplicitous gamblers who tried to "fix" a Nanotrasen lottery and failed spectacularly.
- Petty criminals whose sentence was "employment" because the prison system was over capacity.
- Scientists who blew up their last lab and called it a 'calculated risk.'
- Engineers who believe safety regulations are just speed bumps on the road to innovation.
- Medical personnel who spend more time cooking narcotics than curing patients.
- Security officers who treat the law as a vague suggestion.
Even the AI has probably gone through some kind of existential crisis at this point, buried under a mountain of corporate regulations so contradictory that it may or may not have declared the station as an independent nation-state last week.
No one on this station is here because they’re qualified. They are here because they are cheaper than hiring someone competent.
¶ How Does This Place Even Function?
It doesn’t. Not really.
The ventilation system spits out more rust than air, the lighting flickers ominously even when fully powered, and the janitor has given up entirely on cleaning any stains that require more than five seconds of effort.
The only reason BPL14 hasn’t fallen into a black hole yet is because:
- No one in charge actually wants to be responsible for its failure.
- The people here are just competent enough to keep it from fully collapsing.
- The smugglers, black-market dealers, and off-the-books bounty hunters make just enough credits to keep the station running.
CentComm only gets involved when the station either makes too much noise or stops sending back quarterly reports. As long as profit is greater than expenses, no one cares how many bodies get stuffed into the nearest airlock.
If there is an official record of how BPL14 is still operational, it has likely been heavily redacted.
If you’re here, you either work here or you’re trapped here. Either way, your suffering is our profit.
¶ What is this Wiki?
This is where we document the lore, history, and utter degeneracy that defines BPL14.
This is not a place for uplifting stories of heroism—this is a place for:
- Bureaucratic nightmares
- Corporate malfeasance
- The quiet acceptance that your station, your crew, and your career are circling the drain
¶ Want to contribute?
- Got a story about a smoking, drinking, stealing lowlife who somehow made it to middle management? Write it down.
- Did a janitor gain too much knowledge and mysteriously disappear? Log it.
- Has the AI suddenly started referring to crew members as "acceptable biomass"? You should probably document that.
The truth of BPL14 is whatever we make it. So long as it stays profitable, CentComm doesn’t care.
¶ Survive. Profit. Or at least don’t die before your shift ends.
🚀 Welcome to BPL14.