They are getting you ready for E. D. part 2.4 where you can go to the commanders bar using your Holo-Me,
get wrecked on Lavian brandy, Orrerian Vicious Brew and Leesti evil juice and Lucas Onionhead,
loose all you credits on space poker,
sing rude space commander songs,
vomit over the local imperial navy officers in their nice clean suits,
thus getting into a bar room brawl,
spending the night with your local allied faction's representative (after all he/she/it [it is RNG] does keep a photo of you by their bed)
and then wake up in the station prison with only one testiculo and a flawed focus crystals where the other should be,
dried sour azure milk down the side of your face (at least that is what you hope it is)
sporting a tattoo of an elephants head such that your manhood sprouts where the elephants trunk should be,
and wearing a see-through pink negligee and thick metallic green lipstick
and your wrists chained to you ankles
in a cell full of space refinery workers who have just finished a 1 month shift with no breaks and who have had no contact with members of the opposite sex for their whole shift .
