it was a hot summer evening in the abandoned barrio when Ricardo and his brother, for whom he'd been sewn, put each other up to a thickheaded dare. before they knew it, he was careening down hallways far too long and convoluted to fit inside the building being chased by some thing that made the walls peel into a million sickly-white feathers that burned agonizing streaks out of his acrylic skin. and the next thing he remembered, he was awake in the arms of a suited soldier flickering with unfamiliar arcana, being loaded onto a stretcher, towering pillars of smoke blurring the light of three moons.

after the Wanderer shelter stitched up his stuffing and put him through basic classes (it helped that he knew a little conversational Malay), he found himself illuminating the details of Roman ethnicity and magical statecraft in the Kayser's Andalucia to a room of ethnographers and occultists, though he didn't understand why they were asking him at the time. one of the few paying occupations he was yet capable of in this world - bleeding off his life story, some might say, like he was donating plasma. but he didn't mind. he found himself shifting from office to office, surrounded by professionals and paperwork. he found that he was good at it, too, and he made connections. studying law came naturally, despite his disadvantages; so did the call back when Inner Sumatra Lanthanides offered him a spot on the in-house team. he's never been sure how to feel about his work, shuffling from planet to planet overseeing company legal compliance in the war-torn Raladarag, but between waves of employee turnover and errant peals of gunfire, it pays not to rock the boat too much.