When one stopped to think about it, the odds of Polaris Astrum actually existing were pretty damn thin. To begin, there was his metatype, 95% of children of his particular parentage would goblinize at a certain age. And yet, years passed by without him ever growing so much as a Tusk, unlike his 3 sister and 5 brothers and countless cousins, uncles and aunts. It landed him in a lot of trouble. Him and that Tattoo he had on his Shoulder, of a Star with the 3 tips pointing downwards with an upside down A forming in the center. The Logo of Astrum Arms. The only licensed Firearms store that could get away with doing business in the Ork Underground.
You see, damn near any human, dwarf or heaven forbid elf walking around with that tattoo would get jumped and dragged off to the egrand. To Pol's Grandad, James P. Astrum. Then the stupid wannabe ujnort would be presented with a knife, or maybe a heated up steam kettle. And then the tattoo got removed. Painfully. It wasn't exactly because of racism. More like nepotism, being an Ork certainly wouldn't excuse you from trying to usurp the family name. The only people who can run around with that kind of mark is family. Ujnort ain't family. So Ujnort can't run around pretending to be them.
This almost happened to Pol about twice in his life. In fact, if it weren't for the fact his Grandad was present for every one of these procedures, his shoulder would probably be bearing a scar as opposed to a star. After the second time, the old man took Pol's cerri (Sirius, you might notice a pattern here) aside and made some arrangements. His hair got done up into dreadlocks and a few teeth were yanked out and replaced with some proper hez. They couldn't afford proper novacaine or painkillers, so that last one hurt like hell. Then again, a month of not eating solid food was absolutely worth it to Pol. People stopped messing with him, or at least had to verify before trying to drag him off to have his ink skinned off. Not to say it was a perfect solution though. He still got into a lot of fights. Still had to deal with trouble from Ragers and even family members. But, for the first time since he was a kid, he looked (and therefore felt) like he was family.
For most people, being that 5% would be enough trouble, for a lifetime. But probability wasn't done with him just yet. It was about 8 Years after Dunkelzahn bit the big one. Long enough for most of his family to get the hang of speaking Or'zet. Pol himself was making some in-city deliveries to a few loyal customers, when it happened. All of a sudden, it felt as if a million eyes had turned on him. Like some enormous, previously unknown entity had taken notice of him. And opened its billion mouths and screamed into the youth's mind.
Pol reacted in kind, his car careening off road into the pillar of a bridge as he screamed and thrashed and clutched at his aching head. He passed out. And woke up just inside of a free clinic around his neighborhood, with a splitting headache, a few nasty contusions. But nothing out of the ordinary, compared to many other patients brought in on this chaotic November day.
At least until he asked how he got there. Despite being out cold, Pol had somehow driven there. In his own car. Still buckled into the driver's seat.
The explanation for this wouldn't come to him for a long while. Not until long after he had taught himself to ignore the electronic buzz that always seemed to flare up around electronics and computers. Not that there were much outside of his delivery van. But it would come, as much as it'd hurt him to learn. And more than just the physical pain he was dealt in a Laboratory in MCT.
Yeah, the odds of Pol actually existing, to say nothing of continuing to, are pretty damned slim. Course, it's still more than none.