The plantation had seen its better days. Tumbleweeds in all their glory blew across fields that grew nothing but dust and weeds. The house itself was small, old, and falling apart. The paint was past peeling as it had all fallen off, as well. Besides the hollow howling of the wind, the only sound was a tired radio playing. A man sat on a rocker on the front porch, radio on a small stand next to him. It was an old relic, perhaps taken from the sleeper ship when the Corsairs had abandoned ship. Still, it played, and it had only one band logged – The Eagles. The man was in his thirties and tired, of life if nothing else. The plantation had been in the familia for generations, and while they had made next to no money, they had always been able to survive. Now, as his parent's died, he knew he couldn't handle it anymore.
Two Titans came in roaring, and landed on the field. He barely looked up. Out jumped a few men, walking over.
“Amigo, we have finished the deal. The plantation is sold, here is what we got.”
He did look up then, looking at the Titans, looking at the group of men. He stood up slowly, then said: “Hermanos, we are plantation hands no longer. Our names are meaningless. Here,” he gestured to the radio, “pick your new name, and cast off the old, as a symbol to starting your new life.” The radio was halfway through Tequilla Sunrise (“It’s a hollow feeling, when it comes down to dealing friends…”), and the man then said, “I will be known as Tequilla Sunrise.”
The radio, running through all the Eagle songs on shuffle, played on while the men said who had the next song. They were poor farmers who planted in rocks no longer. They were Corsairs in the true sense of the word – they were The Eagles.
![[Image: snowwyrm2.png]](http://i284.photobucket.com/albums/ll35/Jim_Markey/Sigs/snowwyrm2.png)