"To Your Good Fortune in Liberty, Sir"

[Zephyranthes]

It had only been some days since the man now known as William Faulke had escaped from the hands of the Liberty Security Force and into the protection of the Battlegroup Auxesia. Instead of the warm comfort of his luxurious studio apartment back in New Boston, he had to share a barracks with his former enemies onboard a populous Hellfire Legion installation in the dreaded Vespucci system. If he recalled the control tower correctly, the station was known as America Base. The thought of being surrounded by Legion personnel did not inspire confidence or calm in the fugitive. In the back of his mind, he could not shake the feeling that someone was going to stab him in this place. Out of the many groups that would like to obtain custody of an LSF agent, even an ex one, Hellfire Legion was near the top of the board. He settled uneasily into his bunk, thinking he would be too nervous to fall asleep. But the fatigue of the battle from before, with his constant downing of Outcast snubcraft from one of the Eidolon's various gun emplacements, had worn him down to the point of letting his eyelids close.

---

"Come on, Norm! You got it! Don't let this goddamn bastard do ya in like that! Show him age don't matter none!"

A fist came flying at Norman's face from out of nowhere, and with a heavy blow, he fell down. Dazed for a moment, he regained his senses and scanned around him to see where he was. It was the old boxing club where he had suffered many a hit and dealt many a hand. His opponent was a tall, dark-skinned man whose eyes shone with greed like the hungry eyes of a falcon. Around him were a dozen or more faces jeering, smiling, snarling, gasping, and a multitude of other expressions. Two of his brothers, Charlie and Ryan, watched from behind him, with the former's face livid with anger, and the latter's mortified with fear. And lastly, in the middle of the ring stood the referee and that oh so familiar action of counting.

"1...! 2...! 3...!," he yelled, throwing a finger at his face for each number. With each number, the twin emotions of despair and determination dueled within Norman, clashing like two knights jousting at a tourney. On the floor lay a small, growing pool of blood. With great effort, he began to push himself up, spitting out a loose canine that pierced his left cheek's gums. He didn't need it anymore.

"6...! 7...!," shouted the referee as he continued his crusade of counting. Norman was pushed further, and raised his leg, then the other, and stood up once more. He hunched over, returning to that familiar stance he had always counted on to deliver him to victory. With his hands raised and his eyes burning with fury, he was prepared to turn the tide of the match.

"NORMAN! YOU BETTER DECK HIM BEFORE I COME OVA' THERE AND DO THE GODDAMN JOB MYSELF! YOU'RE THIRTEEN ALREADY, HE AIN'T GOT THAT YOUTH ADVANTAGE!," boomed Charlie, swigging his bottle of whiskey and grabbing onto the ropes like a madman. Norman heeded his brother's drunken words with a quick left jab to the opponent's face, followed by a right hook in the same direction. Not expecting the young O'Brien to still have some fight left in him, the hits managed to connect, and the opponent, once seeming victorious, was suddenly on the defense. Norman sensed his offense growing, and spat in the man's face, before giving him a cross to his temple, taking him down for a brief moment. Certain that he had won, Norman let himself relax, taking some steps back, and even taking his eyes off his opponent for a brief moment to smile at his brothers. But a heavy blow to the back of the head sent him tumbling into the turnbuckle, knocking him out cold.

By the time he had come to, everyone was surrounding the other man, showering him with praise and prize money. Despondent, Norman couldn't help but let some tears fall for letting victory so easily escape him. The bruises and broken teeth began to pulsate with pain, and the cuts he sustained had their blood soon stream down his face and sting his eyes. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Charlie and Ryan come over to him, with both of them sharing the look of concern usually given to a child by his loving parents. Ryan, who had not spoken at all, looked at Norman in the eyes and grabbed his shoulders gently.

"Listen, kid... There'll always be otha' fights in life. And while winnin' feels good, it ain't everythin'. The most important thing is that you get back up when ya knocked down. It's hard, it hurts... But don't let anyone catch ya lyin' down when you still got some fight in ya," he whispered, helping him up and supporting him with the help of Charlie. Together, they walked out of the ring as brothers. Norman closed his eyes, tired of fighting in that ring that he would grow familiar with over the next few years.

---

The next time he opened his eyes, before him sat the long azure seas of Gran Canaria. With a cloth jacket draped across his shoulders and an Avenger sitting next to him over a sand dune. His head still hurt from the ordeal yesterday, and as a precaution a bottle of painkillers and a large bottle of water lay on the wing of the former LSF vessel. Norman had already taken some in the motel room, but he kept them with him, just in case. With a sigh, he climbed into the cockpit of the scarred vessel and placed a hand upon the consoles and controls, rubbing them slowly.

"I know we didn't know each other for long, but... I'm hoping the time was nice. I need to do one thing before I leave, and that's killing Norman O'Brien. The LSF can't know that I'm still around, although may find out anyways... I'm sorry."

He pats the cockpit controls once more, before hopping out of it and reaching inside the cargo hold. Inside was a laser rifle and a collection of shaped charges. He climbed up onto the top wing of the Avenger, leaning against it and taking aim with his rifle at the cockpit. With a pull of the trigger, a flurry of laser fire beamed throughout the cockpit. Sparks and explosions consumed it whole as he unloaded the entire magazine, leaving nothing but a charred wreck where the cockpit used to be. He tossed his old LSF uniform inside the scorched compartment and began to lay the explosives around the hull. When finished, he gathered his possessions and took cover behind a hill far away from the fighter. With a sigh, Norman saluted his beloved Avenger, before finally using a remote detonator to give it one last, fiery sendoff. William then walked away, leaving behind his last companion from the past.

---

Every morning was easier than the last for William. At least this time, he was able to rest for the proper amount of time. He was unsure if it was the quality of the bedding used by the Hellfire Legion or simply a growing comfort with his newfound comrades. The smell of a traditional Libertonian breakfast broke off whatever train of thought had settled in his head, and William dressed himself in the flight suit typical of an Auxesia pilot. The ring had changed, but the need to keep fighting would always be with him.