Where to start with these things...

So like my stats read, I was born in the Regulus system, what they don't tell you is the fun little burg in the system I was born in, and that would be Whistling Fiddle.  A little dump so far off the map you can't even get a read on what's out there... don't know who my ol' man pissed off or what he did to get stationed there (he was a supply officer in the Federal Navy), but it must've been bad all the way around.

But this too passed... the ol' man retired and took a job with Jet Dynamic & Co on Papin Orbital as a procurement officer and I got my first space ship ride. I was 13 at the time, and was instantly hooked!  From that time forward my two main goals for life were 1) get anywhere but Regulus and 2) get my Pilot Federation rating as a pilot.

My opportunity to accomplish the former came soon to pass on my 18th birthday, when I got the coolest personal invitation (just like the other billion or so 18 year olds that year) to join the "The Few, The Proud..." well you know the rest.  Next thing I know, I'm getting fitted for a set of dress blues and a Mobile Infantry Combat Suit (MICS, lovingly referred to as a "mickey suit" or "my Mickey"... I'll just leave it at that).

Unfortunately, the Federal Marine Corps and I did not agree on a great many policies requiring me to enforce them.  Now don't get me wrong, I got no problem rollin' against Imperial Legionnaires, or even Alliance wussies to accomplish Federation political goals... at least they have decent weapons, armor, and in the case of the Empire, a real army and navy.... no, my problem was with things such as "enforced" relocation of Federation citizens, or having to draw down on rag-tag colonists trying to eek out a living and not meeting their corporate goals or quotas.  It was while I was on one of these missions that my not-so-promising FMC career was brought to an early end, albeit only a year short of a six year contract.

Don't remember much about the IED explosion that nearly ended me, only that they told me I had been out for a couple of weeks, and showed me some pics of what was left of Mickey (not a pretty sight, to be sure).  Six months later, after a visit to a Federation Recovery and Rehab center,  I had my walking papers, a nice letter thanking me for my meritorious service (guess that's what they call it when you take one for the team), a lovely box with a Purple Heart medal, and last but surely not least, a pocket full of Galactic Credits.  Wasn't enough to get my own ship, but it was enough to get me into a space flight mechanic's training program.

Once I finished my training, the ol' man came through with a spot at Jet Dynamics doing refits, mostly on Fed Dropships and the like, with a good sprinkling of Viper 3's and 4's for the region's security forces.  The pay was decent, but the real benefit was that I got to know my way around the ships and their systems, and more importantly, I got some pilots to owe me favors, which I began cashing in to get flight training.

I served as crew on a variety of ships, pretty much any that would let me get stick time.  Most notably was an old Asp Explorer, the “Bouncin' Betty”, captained by a pilot that went by the name of Ramsey.  Nothing else, just Ramsey.  “Old, but not obsolete”, he used to say.  I learned more from that old tom-cat than any of the hot-shots I had ever run into all put together.  He was the commander that signed me off and referenced me for a Pilot's Federation License.  I'll never forget the day...

“See me at the bar after you get 'Betty bedded down, noob,” Ramsey called over his shoulder as he headed toward the station's hangar access lifts.

“Sure thing, boss,” I replied.  This was the usual conversation after a long haul.  I made sure the cargo was properly off-loaded, signed for, and most importantly, paid for.  Then I'd do the full-on post-flight inspection, note any maintenance requirements, top off the fuel tanks and put 'Betty to bed in the station hangar.

I strolled into the bar, letting my eyes adjust to the muted lighting, then looking around until I found the appropriate corner booth, and sure enough that's where Ramsey was.  I headed over and slipped myself down into the booth's cushioned couch to the left of him.  As I did, he slid a data pad over the table to me.

“Got a message for ya here, noob,” he said casually.

I looked at the data pad and saw the glowing Pilot's Federation logo.  I fumbled with the pad excitedly to get the message opened.

“Try not to break my pad, noob,” Ramsey said wryly.

And there it was... a holo image of me and a certified Pilot's Federation license.  I about fell out of my seat, a huge grin coming over my face.  I waved over a server and ordered a round of drinks for the whole place.  Ramsey grinned and raised his glass to me then downed his drink.  Reaching into his jacket, he pulled out a Galactic Credits card and slid it over to me.

“Your percentage, Rad,” he said, as he stood still grinning, “and congrats on making pilot... you're fired!”

My jaw dropped, “Whaa...?”

“Now, now... don't go to water thankin' me or nothin',” he said, “but I've taught ya all I can, and fer sure all I'm gonna.  The 'Betty only has room for one commander and I'm it, so yer gonna have ta make other arrangements.”

“Damn, Ramsey!” I said, feeling a lump come up in my throat.

“Collect yer gear and hit the shipyard, boy.  Time for ya to make yer own livin' for a change... and don't dilly-dally, I launch in an hour.”  With that he turned and headed out of the bar.  I haven't seen him since.

And the rest, as it is said, is history...