Lance always lived in the outer sectors of the Virtua Galactic Union, on the very edge of the Colonized Galaxies, the Rim, a theoretical no man's land on the edge of the known explored universe, where Goverment officials or Military Commanders don't care enough to enforce any semblance of peace or order at anyplace besides their backyards.
Corrupt as it is, and Full of Space-Pirates, Insane Cults, and Criminal Gangs spanning over galaxies, and the few blacklisted Mercenaries doing dirty work for the rich.
It's Lance's only home, far away from any honorable society's, and full of wretched spice addicts, Sector 7, Planet-C-08325, or as we call it, Noma, the sparse lands, the northern hemisphere of the planet frozen in a ice age, and the souther hemisphere is a salt caked desert with not a single drop of rainfall in dozens of centuries, dryer then a expired Nutrient Dense Hard Tack.
For some it's a wonderful place to live in freedom, if you don't mind the owner of the planet, a Galactic Cartel hell bent on brain-washing anyone stupid enough to annoy them, and making them mindless farmers or robot like pharmacists and chemists.
The southern dry lands is where Lance resides, living in a hole in the wall of a bar full of drunks, ontop a majestic grimey, salt caked, Beetle shaped Floating Fortress of a city owned an ran by the Diablo Cartel.
Furthermore this enormous feat of machinery is powered by a particle accelerator capable of fueling the whole city for weeks off of 1 hydrogen atom.
Sitting in the hole in the wall, with only a Rusty metal cot, a bleach stained bedroll, and a small mirror on a wobbly dresser with mismatched drawers and a assortment of different knobs.
Lance while getting ready to open the bar, again, after the owner of the run down bar, Rick left to gamble away his leftover credits at the rigged casinos two nights ago
Lance after combing his shoulder length sandy brown hair, and throwing on his rusty goggles and a old hat made of some exotic alien beasts hide, makes his way from the old broom closet that's been... "roughly remodeled" after someone found a empty space between the overpacked bar's walls.
Undoubtedly more then likely from a drunk trying to find the bathroom or a fight breaking loose between the vicious inhabitants of this planet.
Flipping the power switch to on, the dim old lights flicker, the hum of the generator vibrates the fake wood floors, the dusty jukebox turns on playing some electric jazz.
Lance heads to the doors while whistling in tune with the music, whilst unlocking several jury rigged and modded physical locks from the door, only to finally open it with the fingerprint and retina scanner, hearing a loud beep, whirring noises and click, the thick metal door slides downwards into the ground, revealing the sandy street of Calypso, where the sun never sets and the evil never sleeps.