Sheffield Station's bar was bustling today. With Monday came new contracts, and many bounty hunters were eager to collect. The sound of Sirian chatter was dizzying, as patrons knocked back drinks while discussing their recent marks and forging new partnerships. In the corner of the bar sat a lone Gallic, dressed in a black duster jacket, black shirt, black trousers, and black boots to match. He wasn't here to make friends—quite the opposite. His hatred for Sirians was one of the few things keeping him alive.

He lazily scrolled through his datapad for work. A contract on a Molly pilot suddenly caught his eye. For a Sirian criminal, she was quite fetching: blonde, green-eyed, with distinct features and nice lips. And at twenty thousand credits, it wasn’t a terrible bounty. The only downside? He’d have to fly into the heart of Dublin to collect. He sighed before accepting the contract and turning off the datapad. His reflection stared back at him from the glossy black screen like a ghost. His brown eyes were dulled, their shine long gone, surrounded by dark circles that begged him to sleep more. His messy black hair was unkempt. The lack of effort he put into his appearance was palpable, a testament to his dwindling pride. A man lacking purpose. Where had the years gone?

He rose from his table and hurried toward the docking bay. As he approached the door, a plump man in a BHG uniform blocked his path, his bulk filling the doorway.
"Well, if it isn’t our resident ex-GRN pilot!" the man bellowed in a nasally Bretonian accent, his words laced with a lisp. Spittle flew from his lips as he spoke.
"Do I know you?" the Gallic replied, his eyes darting to the door to make it clear he wasn’t interested in this interaction.
"No, but I sure know you. Luc LeMarsh, ex-GRN, ex-MRG, ex-Freelancer, and now a fellow dog for the Bounty Hunters Guild after being caught by the BIS for war crimes," he replied with a shit-eating grin.
Luc rolled his eyes. Another Sirian 'fan'.
"Yes, I’m popular. Can I go now?"
"My brother was on Leeds when it was glassed."
"I’m sorry to hear that. Did he make it out alive?"
"What do you think?"
"I think you should seek psychological help—and probably lose some weight. Sirian food is so utterly stuffed with sugar that a Gallic diet might do you some good."

The man went to throw a punch, but Luc was used to these shenanigans. He sidestepped, watching as the man fell to the floor, landing with a marshmallow-like plop.
"I really don’t have time or patience for this. Send a missive to the new government if you feel like you’re owed something." He quickly hurried out the door before the rest of the bar began to notice. As he left, he turned his head to smile at the crumpled figure on the ground.
"Au revoir."

The truth was, Luc would have loved to swing back. He reveled in confrontation, especially against Sirians—just like in the old days. But when you’re a dog on the BHG’s leash, you no longer have the luxury of acting freely.

As Luc reached the docking bay, he entered his Sabre, a Sirian ship. How he would have loved to be back in his Lynx. But when the BIS caught him on Gran Canaria, they took it away. Sirian engineering couldn’t hold a candle to anything from Gallia. Adjusting to the controls had been a process. Worst of all, the Guild had outfitted this ship with engines designed to mimic those of his mortal enemies—the Council—with no option for alternatives. Sirian humor was utterly lost on him.

He fired up the engines and prepared to depart. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted the plump man from earlier, flanked by several station staff, entering the hangar. A singular fat finger pointed toward his ship from the entrance. Time to get out of here before any more trouble, Luc thought. With that, the Sabre lifted off the ground and departed for space. Its destination: Dublin.

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