Junkertown station: arguably less “one town of a million or so souls in space” than “ten or so separate space stations sharing little more than a center of gravity,” wrapped around trans-shipping docks in the unpatrolled and lawless outskirts of a fringe system far from the Mage-King of Mars, his Hands, his Navy, or his laws. It spreads across a zero-g lattice seven kilometers tall and wide, and about 15 long, a mismatch of towers, hollowed asteroids, and spin habitats bolted to (or relocated within) a no-longer-spinning O’Neill cylinder and multi-kilometer docking towers. Whichever part you’re in, Junkertown is a place where people mostly come to do business they might be forced to avoid elsewhere. Its component parts are run by the practices and predilections of those who happen to own their part of the station or the power to insist on some measure of control anyway. Less than half of the people living there have any plans to stay. Tonight, crumpled in an alley in one of the spin sections, there’s about to be another hoping to leave.

Junkertown station: arguably less “one town of a million or so souls in space” than “ten or so separate space stations sharing little more than a center of gravity,” wrapped around trans-shipping docks in the unpatrolled and lawless outskirts of a fringe system far from the Mage-King of Mars, his Hands, his Navy, or his laws. It spreads across a zero-g lattice seven kilometers tall and wide, and about 15 long, a mismatch of towers, hollowed asteroids, and spin habitats bolted to (or relocated within) a no-longer-spinning O’Neill cylinder and multi-kilometer docking towers. Whichever part you’re in, Junkertown is a place where people mostly come to do business they might be forced to avoid elsewhere. Its component parts are run by the practices and predilections of those who happen to own their part of the station or the power to insist on some measure of control anyway. Less than half of the people living there have any plans to stay. Tonight, crumpled in an alley in one of the spin sections, there’s about to be another hoping to leave.

Junkertown station: arguably less “one town of a million or so souls in space” than “ten or so separate space stations sharing little more than a center of gravity,” wrapped around trans-shipping docks in the unpatrolled and lawless outskirts of a fringe system far from the Mage-King of Mars, his Hands, his Navy, or his laws. It spreads across a zero-g lattice seven kilometers tall and wide, and about fifteen long, a mismatch of towers, hollowed asteroids, and spin habitats bolted to (or relocated within) a no-longer-spinning O’Neill cylinder and multi-kilometer docking towers. Whichever part you’re in, Junkertown is a place where people mostly come to do business they might be forced to avoid elsewhere. Its component parts are run by the practices and predilections of those who happen to own their part of the station or the power to insist on some measure of control anyway. Less than half of the people living there have any plans to stay. Tonight, crumpled in an alley in one of the spin sections, there’s about to be another hoping to leave.