[b]Family Reunion[/b] The bar, reeking of bile, vile swill, swirling sulfur and seminal fluid in the filthy and broken down bathrooms, was sentimental. The stools were vacant at this time of night, only lit by the lampshades casting a narrow cone of view across the table, leather ripped to contain the filling within; the bartender was gone and the bar itself was sticky with the froth of ale and scratched, chipped, gashed, a history within its damage. This is where they conspired to destroy the Hermes, the origin of their legacy, the precursor to their moment of greatness. They had received a call. Discreet, inconspicuous, vague. "[i]Meet at the place where we began[/i]." With that simple statement, spoken deeply and in a voice foreign to all of them, they all understood. There was a connection between them, and as they heard the click of their holo-pads as the voice message ended, they [i]knew[/i]. They all got the message, an open invitation to come to the cheap dive suspended in space within NTR territory. Everyone except for Garin. [spoiler]Open to everyone except for Garin.[/spoiler]

[b]Arrowhead Down:[/b] [i]Skiraja Wilderness, Federation Territory:[/i] Michael Drake pulled the [i]Silver Dollar[/i] from the flaming wreckage, yelping a curse as the flames crawled up his prosthetic arm and scorched his stump. A blue electromagnetic field shimmered faintly around his body, protecting him from the flames that wreathed around him as he pulled items from the burning wreckage. A fitting end to a disastrous operation. Skiraja was a JTF planet engulfed in famine after they revolted against the Federation, who proceeded to blockade the system. The Arrowhead had been hijacking the merchant craft that had been smuggling food to Skiraja, and selling their goods for quadruple the price. Needless to say, they weren't popular among either faction. Their latest venture had been to steal from a convoy heading towards an orphanage, deep within the mountains. Unfortunately, they'd somehow manage to unite the locals and the Federation against them. The convoy had been a trap: armed corvettes intercepted the Arrowhead, and a SAM positioned outside of the orphanage ([i]Just ourgoddamn luck[/i], Drake thought) had blown his precious ship out of the sky. They'd escaped from the corvettes so far, but their crash site would be a beacon for hostile attention. "The one f[i]u[/i]cking thing more [i]pathetic[/i] than robbing a bunch of helpless orphans," he screamed, "is to [i]fail[/i] to rob a bunch of helpless orphans! F[i]u[/i]ck!" He strapped the coilgun to his bandoleer, and straightened his jacket. There was a time to get pissed off at his crew, but that time wasn't now. "Spread out. Grab anything you can salvage and get your asses into the woods. We're gonna need a plan to get off this rock." [spoiler]Open. Duh. [/spoiler]

Ya boy Garin was sprawled out across a couch, sipping from a glass of 173-year-old wine.