No regrets.

[Narcotic]

A man at his late twenties was sitting at the empty bar table of the ironically called "Lounge Rouge". He did not seem to care for the missing bartender and customers at all. Which however was a rather rare sight, as the bar on the former flagship "I Blame The Parents" used to be crowded with rookies and assorted criminals from all over Liberty. The man was sipping on his ale as he held his temples. Inbetween his fingers a few grey hears were springing out, making the man a decade older. He stared dreamily outside of the panorama windows, trying to spot something of interest. As his eyes held onto a particularly bright yellow star, he began talking to his find.

Ya' know, this ain't the end, but the beginning of a new era. I should be glad 'bout it. The last fresh start we had wasn't quite as cheering, so it could only get better anyways. I remember, three years ago, when I heard news of Moka's disappearing, together with half our fleet and rookies, it came as suprise, and I wasn't prepared at all. Ya' know, I wasn't a born leader figure, and never wanted to be. Sylpheed would've been the right choice. Yet he wasn't there, and the stars have chosen me instead. Screw you for that.

He abruptly faced away from the blinking star, as if its light hurt his eyes. He stood up and aimlessly wandered around the deserted lounge.

I'm just a less dumb Rogue, promoting other less dumb Rogues. That was my job, and hell I'm glad it's over. The feel of power is indeed a great one, but also more exhausting than a prison break at Sugarland. Responsibilities, duties and douchebags, it's not what I had applied for. Sanity is a gift from the stars, but it shouldn't obligate one to be in the lead of insanity. Though, I regret nothing. Looking back, I'm convinced that I've done well. The puppets I've abused for the face of the temporary crimebosses were well chosen. Even though in total they counted almost more fingers I have. I felt lucky, that I didn't had to suffer under the disadvantages of fame, while I holding the levers with an iron grip. Still, it was an easy one to let them off, once I heard of my relief. He had returned.

Clyde stopped in front of a picture on the wall. It showed a group of persons on the bridge of a Liberty Dreadnought. He chuckled like a child.

Nonsense. In the end it doesn't really matter, does it? I'll stay a proud Rogue, no matter what I've done, who I've been or what will be. New days will come, and old days will be remembered. And nobody will be blamed, but the mothers... and their parents.

With a middle finger shown to the yellow star, and a sarcastic "Thanks for the talk, pisser." he returns to the bridge of his Scylla.

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