A young man walked through the doors of the New London recruitment center, drenched from the rain outside. He looked to be in his late-twenties, but his eyes had the experienced look of someone who had seen both hardship and triumph. He approached the desk, removing a wide brimmed hat as he walked, and said to the recruiting officer,
"I'm looking to enlist. Names Patrick Flynn."
The officer glanced at him with boredom and replied, "That's why most people come here. Take this form"
Flynn sat down, briefly revealing that he was carrying a small handgun as he searched his coat for a pencil, and as he filled out the form he began to talk, almost to himself. "I was born on Leeds, and lived there for most of my life. Left a few years back as the mechanic on a freighter." He chuckled, "Those were good times. I traveled all of Sirius, saw wonders most don't even dream about, and became a decent shot, both on the ground and in space." His face took on dangerous light as he continued more somberly, "But Bretonia is my home, always has been. I wont let the bloody frenchies walk in here and take it from me. Not while I can still fly and fight."
He stood and handed the form to the officer, who was now looking vaguely interested, then returned to the corner and sat waiting.
