Julien grew up on a hydroponics estate in the farming hills of Adalonne, one of Gallente space's quieter agricultural systems — greenhouse domes and terraced fields stretching toward the horizon, growing the vat-grown protein and produce that fed half the region's shipping lanes. His family had worked that land for three generations, decent people the Federation praised in speeches and mostly ignored otherwise.

He never wanted the farm. Growing up, he spent more time watching the cargo haulers lift off from the estate's landing pad than he did in the fields — memorizing their hull types, their pilots' names, anything about the world beyond the hills. At seventeen he talked his way onto a supply run as cargo handler grunt labor, just to see a station up close for once. He never really went back.

For a few years he drifted through Gallente space picking up hauling and salvage work, sleeping in rented pods, learning ships the hard way — by getting stranded and figuring it out. A capsuleer sponsorship recruiter ran a psych screening drive through his station one day, and he signed up half as a joke. He passed. Months later he wasn't stranded anymore — he was immortal, still broke, and finally flying a ship he'd chosen instead of one he was just loading cargo onto.

He sends ISK home when he has it. He doesn't call enough. Sitting in a Venture cracking open an asteroid still feels less like work than anything he did on that farm.