The Yanks are the heads side of the coin that keeps Luna down. The first bastard what ever set foot on this rock was a yank, so they all act like they own the whole damn place. Or ought to, anyway. They’ll fuck you up fast and bad if they get the idea that you’ve got some fight in ya. Long as they think you’re quiet, they’ll leave you alone though. If you see a yank marine, don’t make eye contact. Don’t talk to the scary bastards, don’t even wish them a nice day. You won’t exist to them unless you point yourself out.
Civvy yanks aint all bad. Locals can be downright friendly if you look clean and talk pretty, and they’ve all got money and want to feel like they’re better than everyone else. They get spooked easy though, and spooked civvies call in the Kennedy State Police. The Kispees are under manned and equipped to deal with any problem more serious than petty theft, so if you look like trouble, they’ll request that you surrender, and then call in the Marines when you don’t. The Kispees and our kind have an arrangement, and none of us has ever been held in a Kispee cell for more than 72 hours.
If you do run into pissed off marines, you’re fucked. It’s really that simple. If you’re a natural, you’ll probably spend a few decades on a penal station at L5. If you’re a jar baby, you’ll probably get two years of hard re-education. In either case, barring outside interference, you’re fucked.