Here's the first draft of the flavor text that opens up Void Vultures. It's since been polished and improved, but you can take a peek here to see where it started:
Ten years ago, the powers of Earth and their many solar colonies erupted into violence in a system-wide war. With the terrible weapons at their disposal, it wasn't long before every habitable planet and moon was reduced to an irradiated dustball. Years of mass starvation and deprivation later, we survivors strain out a living by scavenging what remains on derelict space stations. We, the heirs of Earth, have become little more than vultures, picking over the carrion of a golden age of plenty.
I'm a scrapper — a salvage expert, if you want to be polite, but I answer to void vulture, scavvy, kender, station-stripper, magpie, even shitpicker. I draw the line at "junk monkey," though, so watch it. My mates and I board derelict orbital stations and anything else that might have some glimmer on it, kick in the doors, take down whatever security measures exist, and plunder whatever's left on the hulk. Sometimes, somebody or something has taken up residence, and we deal with them, too.
Lucky for us, the township that we return to never asks questions. They need our salvage to keep flying, feeding, and breathing and perhaps someday, if we pile up enough provisions, we'll be able to boost our way to the colonies in Alpha Centauri. Between you, me, and this bottle, though, that's pie-in-the-sky bullshit, a bedtime story to let the kiddies sleep at night. I'll be happy enough if we can knock over a planetoid and set ourselves up for the rest of our miserable lives.
Girl's gotta dream, after all.