"That's it!! I worked my last day in this wretched place". I said this to no one in particular as I closed up Frank's Consignment shop for the last time in my life. Frank's a nice guy and all, and he's looked out for me as best he can but selling someone else's junk in someone else's shop for a paltry 900 cred a week on this shitty station isn't exactly doing it for me. I can't stand being here one more second so it's time for me to exit stage left. I want to be free, I want to wander aimlessly exploring the stars.

I was born to James and Kirsten Young, February 14, 3277 on Broderick Station. My parents were born here too, and never really had the aspiration to get out of this shit hole. Dad grew up with mom and after they graduated they eloped and got busy making me. They didn't have much in the way of possessions, a sparsely furnished apartment on the lower decks of the station, and a decent holodeck player with some outdated movies, but I guess that didn't matter to them. They were happy, and so was I. We had each other right up to the day they were lost.

Dad saved every extra credit of his earning to buy him and mom a surprise trip on one of those fancy cruise ships, and when one came through our system he jumped at the chance. There's not much to say about their disappearance. "Suspected Thargoid Attack" is listed as the cause of death on their codex entry.

I was 9 years old when it happened, and there's no doubt in my mind how damaging this was to my economical and social standing onboard the station. There aren't social programs on many of the poorer stations. There's simply no budget for it, so orphaned kids are usually subjected to all manner of perverse things. No one is looking out for us, and most every one turns a blind eye to how we're treated. Young boys and girls are usually forced into one of the gangs and, well..... Lets not even go there.

Broderick Refinery was built and placed into orbit around a barren chunk of rock logged into the codex as Islastyara A-1. Classified as a high metal content world, this little dwarf planet drew interest from some long forgotten mining company when a few novice explorers, Axis Mundi and Kiyosk (last name unknown) happened across it more than 90 years ago. The original surface scans by Kiyosk revealed a large outcropping of valuable metals, and with a war brewing, the Empire was going to need those materials. Unfortunately, the quantity and quality of the surface metals found in the scans were largely exaggerated. Apparently Kiyosk was notorious for padding his scan entries to earn a few extra cred. Some high level project manager for the mining company never bothered to have the sites re-scanned before committing to establishing a station out here. It cost the mining company trillions in projected profits and after a short five years the miners and their equipment were pulled off the station leaving it's inhabitants to fend for them selves. The mining company was so poorly mismanaged they closed their doors for good just one year later.

The Empire took control of our station assigning Carl Headberg, a seedy eyed number cruncher to manage the place. He was as frugal as he was tall. Born a belter in a low G station, Headberg was 8'2" tall and thin as a wisp. He had a mean temper and cared little for the people or the station. This was a backwater shit assignment he was given for screwing something important up, and he knew it. The Empire was notorious for pulling that shit.

The man squeezed every dime out of us hoping for a promotion and ultimately reassignment to a better system, but it never came. Headberg was murdered one night when a riot broke out in the lower decks of the station. Shortly after his death, the Empire found itself in a major war and we were once again forgotten and left to rot.

The station is falling apart in more ways than one. It's bursting at the seems with 29,000 smelly inhabitants. Various factions and gangs are always squabbling with each other for power and control. People starve, go missing, or outright space them selves in one of the many airlocks that don't have safety locks on them. The station is old and in need of major repairs. There's always a power outage to deal with, the food processors unexpectedly fail, or the air purifiers get shut down in some pointless demonstration of power and control. Don't even get me started on the landing pad problems we have.

One poor pilot was exiting his ship and the pad locks let go lifting the pad door up just enough to suck him through the tiny crack it made. There wasn't much left of him after docking maintenance managed to manually close the thing. The pilots burial pretty much consisted of some general purpose cleaner and handy wipes thrown into a bio bag and ejected from the stations waste port.

Times have always been tough on this station but its getting worse, and I think it's time for me to leave. I've saved up every credit I could working odd jobs, picking pockets, and even stealing from Frank's to buy my self a gently used ASP Explorer. Only 150 million ly on this baby, but you know what? She's mine and I've even got some spare cred to upgrade her before I bail out this sludge infested bucket of a station. Have I mentioned my disdain for this place?

The ASP once belonged to an old timer who used it to transport cargo and supplies from the planet surface. When he retired he sold it to some young cocky brat named James something or other. The kid always talked about getting out into the black, but he never really went anywhere noteworthy. He was one of those big talker types, and he never shut his mouth. It wasn't long before his mouth got him in trouble. Not with the law mind you, but one of the local gangs.

Black Sky Syndicate is not to be messed with. These guys mean business, and run a tight outfit. James was at Barnard's Star Tavern on C deck throwing back some shitty home brew and running his mouth about something he had no business knowing. C deck isn't exactly BSS territory, but they have spies, and one just happened to be sitting two seats down the bar from him.

The ship was impounded after the James failed to make his docking and upkeep payments. After it sat unclaimed for some time it was sold at auction. No one can really say where he ended up, and I didn't really bother asking. All I know is this bird is my ticket out of here, and I got her dirt cheap. I just have one more loose end to wrap up before my big departure.

"I really hate to do this to you, but we both knew this day was coming. I've got my departure slip assigned for first thing in the morning, and I wanted to return your shop keys and say my good bye's in person. And Frank... I'm not coming back, this place has noting for me."