[/size]Note by the editor: This biography merely recounts important details of the subjects career in IMG through a pose-esque narrative style, to provide ease of reading. Thus technical information; minor character back-story and excessive over-elaboration on setting detail has been cropped to the barest minimum. The editor or ‘Baffin Press tm’ cannot be held legally liable for any historical inaccuracies which may pervade this article as all information has been reliably sourced from a range of Intranet nodes and recordings of the subject himself. Note that this recording is unofficial, and has not been licence by the subject himself who cannot be held legally accountable for any inaccuracies, nor the Independent Miners Guild as a body, which reserves the right to sue for slander under Kusarian, Bretonian, Libertonian, Reinland, and Gallic magisterial law. Pro Hispanic slander is not legally justifiable, nor is the illicit copying of this file without the permission of ‘Baffin Presstm’, and any affiliate companies hitherto (or possibly in future) existence. All “issues” regardless of their nature are to be sent directly to ‘Kruger Mining and Materials’ where they will doubtless receive a more valuable use. Remember, all copies of ‘Baffin Presstm’, is another dead Outcast (Purely metaphorically, 1.2% of Baffin Press limited profits will be donated to military contractors). Buy ‘Baffin Press’, “bringing the truth, succinctly.” tm Happy reading.
Entry one:“I’ve always had an affinity with the Zoner’s”. Duncan smiled, stepping through the plasticised doors. “I guess now I’ll find out how much”.
The space ahead of him was colossal; a huge infrastructure platforms and elevated park spaces that latticed around a kilometre cubed, and every single inch of it, stuffed with people, more compressed than a can of Synthesised Luncheon Meat in a myriad of paradoxes. Corsairs mingled with Outcasts, off-duty Order with Libertarian Expats; even Bretonian migrants with Gallic explorers.
“Good to see nothing’s changed then”. He murmured, looking vacantly around the Porto Novan Peacekeepers Concourse with mildly dazed eyes.
Something tapped him on the shoulder. “Konnichiwa…, you new here”?
Duncan glanced over expectantly, and was disappointed to be staring into the face of some Kusarian who certainly wasn’t the weapons contact. Rapidly he analysed what he saw: “Ok, I’d say young, older by maybe a year, mid height, fairly standard clothing, cheap watch, pineal amulet… possibly a Discordianist… not much in the way portable possessions, one hundred credit chip in the back pocket… slight sun blindness from lengthy stellar exposure, mild muscle and bone wastage, completely harmless”. He thought, blinking slightly. “Good, probably not a con man then”.
“Do you need directions”? The Zoner repeated, sensing the slight delay.
Duncan didn’t miss a beat: “Oh, yeah thank you. I’m looking for a machine shop. Manuel Tennyson’s, 5th adjunction.”
“That way, second avenue on the right”. Indicated the Zoner, in possibly the most unhelpful directions ever given to man.
“Excellent, thanks”. Duncan walked off in what was almost certainly the wrong direction, lurching through the crowd. “What’s wrong with corridors”? Duncan thought. “Why does every single item of space need to be congested”?
He was pulling into a narrower street now, heading from the sterile cleanliness of the docking levels into the true guts of the station. Like all good guts, it wasn’t much to look at, but still did it’s job digesting all the detritus of the station. Even the people looked unsavoury, pitted and scarred.
“He said on the right”. Thought Lawrie. “The right… which right…”
Another tap on the shoulder, a tap hard enough to send him staggering.
“No honest man is ever walks that silent”. Duncan thought. “You Manuel Tennyson”?
“Depends on if you’re the Miner stiff who’s been browsing my ordinance”. Grinned a short, wiry corsair. His face was jovial but his eyes were riddled with intrigue.
“Not surprising…” Thought Lawrie; “…I’d be jumpy to purveying ordinance on a station with gun controls”.
The man was standing in front of a short, battered storefront crammed to the windows with broken or purposeless industrial parts.
