Xeno Alliance Recruitment (iRP)

[Geno]

1.) Name
Aslan Ramon Herrera (officially recorded as Smelter 3B941).

2.) Date of birth
April 29th, 809.

3.) Place of birth
Planet Houston.

4.) Describe in your own words your previous experiences, your view of the Xeno Alliance, and your motivation to join:

I used to come from a small nomadic settlement in the outer fringes of the Galveston Desert on Houston with some other desert dwelling loners who rejected the authoritarian rule of Liberty. I can’t remember much about my early days, but papa would always talk to us about plans of “saving up” as well as “going back home” with my mom. Plans that, in the end, are still up in the air.

I lived a bit of a muddled life back in my early childhood, either cradled between red rocks and dead trees, or huddled up with the other nomadic villagers in wild rides across the scorching heat of the Galveston. We would all occasionally settle down together to set up shop near the bigger cities, my uncles would peddle artifacts to the cities, giving us enough supplies to move on to the next location by the end of the month.

It was rough, and certainly wild, but I felt truly alive. As I grew up, my Papa taught me plenty of things. Survival stuff, mostly. I was taught how to pitch fires, how to stomp on desert critters, how to ration food and water, how to tie knots and torniquets and how to follow the stars above for directions. And while my mom taught me how to read and write and how to use a radio, I was still never the brightest bulb on the stage, if you know what I mean. But I turned out to be darn good with a pistol. They stuck me to guard duty for most of the time, scaring the wild coyotes away. Sometimes I would have to travel on foot for entire days to scout a suitable spot for our monthly stops, but it definitely shaped me into what I am today.

Papa was in the middle of nowhere to work as a fence of sorts between Rheinland and Liberty to facilitate the artifact trade for a pretty low profit, thanks to his connections. Being hidden in the boonies for most of the time would allow him to stash his artifacts from Rheinland in our trunks, and we were saving up a modest amount of unmarked credit chips, along with my mom’s job as a chef for the rest of the family. Things were looking so great, we even saved enough for my own hoverbike. It didn’t take long for me to finally understand why papa was always so secretive about his trade and his true origins. It turned out that the shiny purple pebbles and baubles were highly illegal, and it didn’t take long for him to get caught while he felt daring enough to visit Montrose by himself.

What followed was complete bedlam for me – my dad was convicted on multiple charges of artifact smuggling and was sent to Sugarland for many years, while I immediately left Houston at the age of 18 to accept an opening on a Pittsburgh salvage yard to scrounge up more credits to pay for his bailing fee.
Big fucking mistake. For the next five years, I worked like a dog, collared to Junkers who were under the guise of being Deep Space Engineering people. They were not. They were animals, and treated us like animals. Every day was the same, every day was spent wearing respirator masks to endure the dust storms and to not breathe in the rust from the decomposing ships we were asked to disassemble. I’ve spent my first months lamenting my decision, thinking about pressing that trigger button on my laser cutter while pointing it into my eye rather than letting them yank my chain one more time.

But then it hit me. What if I could make them pay for what they’re doing to people like me? I became resentful, it became an unstoppable force against the immovable wall of labor I was faced with. The friction grew. I shared my sentiments with the other workers in my yard, we tried to set up SOS beacons in the ground to snatch the attention of anyone out there who could come down and help us take down the guards. I prayed for it to work. Every day, for so long, until I lost track of time.

But then it happened. Whether it was on purpose or by accident, your Ethan Bryant fell right out of the sky to help us. The Morganton was there, and after years of learning how to scrap ships of that size, I inevitably picked up how to put them back together as well. I could only patch up the hull breaches and get the engine to start again. I left Pittsburgh, and Mr. Cristopher Beltran found me in Ontario, clueless and lost – all my HUD was telling me was to bring the Morganton back to base. While I initially assumed the guise of Bryant, Beltran saw right through it, and decided to help me. I wish to return the favor. And I wish to help the Alliance put an end the vicious cycle of greed and despair the Junkers are spreading.

(//ooRP section)

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