Vorg's Ambush Bag

A battered satchel of worn leather and frayed stitching, its flap secured with a rusted buckle that clicks too loudly in the hush of the spaceport corridor. Inside, the air is warm and stale, carrying the sharp metallic tang of scavenged tech and the sweet chemical bite of lubricants—Vorg’s version of a conman’s perfumed handkerchief. Wads of stolen documentation spill from torn pockets, mixed with assorted components: a cracked data crystal, a handful of discolored Gallifreyan identifiers, and a single fragile green disc glowing faintly like a trapped firefly. The bag’s interior smells of old secrets and newer dangers; the outer surface bears scuffs from every hands it’s passed through, from desert market stalls to spaceport thieves. When Vorg rifles through the contents, the green disc trembles on his palm—not just a component, but a key, humming with the same desperate energy as the Miniscope itself.