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[right][hr][color=white][b][b]Smith's Rest | HQ Tram Station[/b][/b][/color]
January 16th, 2677[hr][/right]
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He kept stewing, but did his best to swallow up that anger as much as he could. He’d been stupid and brash-arguing with the man in charge meant questions, meant distrust and that meant he’d either be riding the train back into warmer wastelands or he’d be buried somewhere under six feet of snow soon. [color=cdaf95]"He's a real treat."[/color] The sudden interruption by [i]another[/i] voice made Alan flinch a bit. Apart from one other companion who’d served with him on multiple missions, Alan hadn’t spent much time in the company of others that wanted to talk. Kill, drink, smoke and fuck, those were the usual predilictations of waster pilots.[color=cdaf95]"You got a name?"[/color]

The questions continued. [color=gray]“Yeah. Name’s Alan Fouren. I’m a pilot from the wastes. Dead Springs; the city that everyone loves to use an example on why it’s so hard to go indie.”[/color] Go indie and wind up with charred corpses. Go indie and die. A nice message from the Corporate Lords who were of course, [i]completely innocent[/i] in the tragedy. [color=gray]“Little place north of the Atlanta Megacity. Fairbanks territory. So who are you? You’ve got an accent that I can’t really place.”[/color] 

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