A young freelancer walked through the docking bay of Freeport 9, and were it not for how he carried himself he would appear completely harmless. Unlike most freelancers his age, he walked confidently through the base, looking around with a watchful rather than curious eye. His synthetic leather jacket had multiple bulges, though whether they were weapons or more benign was impossible to determine at a glance. Behind him was his CSV, Stigandr, an ancient Norse word a Hessian once told him meant "wanderer".
James Fox, who sometimes used his ship's name as his own alias, had been orphaned in a Xeno raid on Detroit Munitions at the age of 15, seven years ago. He sold off most of the things belonging to his parents and bought himself a second-hand CSV from a retired Junker, a friend of the family, and left Manhattan the next day. He couldn't bear to stay and be surrounded by the memories of his parents, but at the same time, he didn't want to pursue vengeance. He just wanted to leave.
Until recently, Fox had been content with just living on the move, making enough money to keep his ship running and himself healthy, but that gradually changed as he saw how successful other freelancers had been. Some had mansions, some had small fleets of ships, one even owned an entire space station! Understandably, Fox wanted some of that.
He was led to Freeport 9 by rumors of great profits to be made, although he had some doubts about the station. These doubts were further fueled by the fact that the only "good" deal he'd found was the million-credit Boron scam that any rookie would recognize. Just as he sat down for a drink, a Hispanic woman approached him, looking around nervously.
"I need your help," she said in a furtive, barely-audible whisper.
"You look like a-"
"Corsair. Ex, if you'll help. I just want to get away, there's too much killing, too much suffering, I can't take it anymore. I'll pay you if you can get me to Liberty, all I have."
"Liberty? Why Liberty?"
"No one will recognize me... hopefully."
"And why me?"
"Your ship. Plain, small, no unwanted attention. And you don't look like the type to turn me in. Please!"
She was desperate, to the point of being almost incoherent, and he didn't have any other useful leads. He'd been thinking about looking for work back home in Liberty anyway.
"Yeah, fine. I'll get some extra food, you head out to the hangar and wait by the CSV. It's the one with the green canopy."
