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An unusual sight on New London, the rain stopped pouring down for a few minutes.

"Hmm, things might giet crowded furr tonight" The thoughts came from Jeremy Carmichael. The new owner of the building the he soon named after Lord Nelson's Arms.

As he was watching the military zone an electric somewhat alarming sqweak, came from the military zone. It indicated that the second dayshift was done. A few early patrons turned around as well whilst Jeremy stepped away from the windows.

"Come on let's get everything reedy naw!" His whispers were a bit nervous as the day of the opening, a thursday, was not a very big success. Today it was friday and most were looking at a long weekend. It was Queen Carina's name day after all.

The two doormen outside could be heard speaking but inside it was only heard as mumble. Two patrons turned around as they saw the bottom half of the windows turn dark.

Before they could flinch a quartermaster pushed open the door... with a lot of effort.

"Blimy she needs oil!.. ahem ... after you miss!" As he pushed his back against the door. A young female lieutenant from the Engineers corps came in and gave the wooden staircase and plastered ceiling a proper look.

"Mm, very traditional. But I quite like it!" As she gave the people behind the solid oak bar an approving nod.

"Hah would you look at that!" said an Ensign as he pointed to the midieval cannon in the left corner.
"Well I'm surre that old thing can shoet bettarr then yuu!" said his Lieutenant Commander.

The mood was set

Group after group came into the pub, to Jeremies content.
"Yes!" He said and turned his left hand to a fist as he turned to his niece and nephew behind the bar who both smiled in return. It had been a while since they had seen their uncle this happy.

The big three waiters came in for the first orders as suddenly some ruckus started at the entry.

"Allright now! Coming through! Step aside lads!"
It was commodore Eddie Carr with three men carrying his exuberant big marlin model through the door. He was holding the big wooden plaquette as he stopped and gave Carmichael a kind nod.
"There's ... not any room." The paintings from the Napoleonic era covered each wall of the first floor. A bit dissapointed the Commodore took a step back and looked at the staircase.

"Can ai help yuu uhmm... C-Commodore" as he looked up and frowned, hiding the rest of his body behind his serving tray.

"Yess I would like to decorate a part of your fine establishment for the Merchant Navy... to make them feel at home you see." He smirked. "But it seems there is no room.." as he started to look a bit serious

"Aah! eeh ... yes! There is ruum! Up the stairs to yuur left hand saiede past the upstairrs baar and all teh weey back in teh corrner." Jeremy explained in relief.

"Excellent fine chap!" As he tapped the shoulder of Carmichael.
"Allright you heard the man! Up the stairs we go!"

Carrs men got moving up the stairs as the last one stumbled one the first few steps
"Careful!!!!" He shouted and followed his detail as he gave Jeremy a final nod.

To Jeremies' left hand side a few corporals were chuckling over their empty beers and the scene in front of them.
"erh hmm" As Jeremy scraped his throat the corporals startled thinking it was still the commodore.
"Anotherr one for teh laddies, eh?"

Out of good habit the corporals nodded yes and Jeremy dissapeared behind his bar.

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This unstoppable force kept her on a horrific downward spiral, the light was slowly fading out of her perception, looking up ached more every day and clinging to something bright and green became a task too tedious with every loop. It was almost as if life had given up on her, as if luck and happiness purposefully avoided her acquaintance, devilishly inciting her to end the process herself. However, it was like in certain primitive, non-fully immersed videogames from the 21st century on earth hundreds of years ago: The more painful and terrible a streak of losses and defeats you suffered, the more you were oddly encouraged to continue trying, constantly reassuring yourself that so much bad luck and despair couldn't possibly go on forever and that there just must be a light at the end of the tunnel. During such a period of time, one was driven by disappointment and the weirdly perverted optimism that grew with every setback. And so was Layla, the utterly tragic, most unexpected and yet so strangely romantic event of Johnny's suicide by crashing his pride and assertiveness, his old Templar, into the planet being the most recent and by far most punching setback ever to be endured by poor, young Layla Clay.

Not by far over her tremendous grief, Layla one evening stepped into the new-ishly smelling tavern "Lord Nelson's Arms". New-ish as in it didn't smell like a room which had been a watering hole for a lifetime and subsequently possessed that certain smell every bar inevitably impropriated after a while. On top of all these serious personal issues she had had to deal with, or rather, as a result of them, she had also suffered status within the ranks of the Armed Forces. Two demotions within several months for not showing up for shifts and meetings as well as overall disinterestedness and occasional offensive behaviour, that was simply way too much at a time.

Though being an avid as well as experienced attender and lurker of bars, pubs and taverns, Layla acted rather unconventional upon entering Lord Nelson's Arms by simply sitting at the closest table and laying her head on the folded arms resting on the table surface, staring ahead, not giving a **** about anything that happened around her.

Layla was just glad she found another cozy lair.

A man in a trenchcoat and Armed Forces cap walked in.
He hung it up near the entrance to let it dry. Slowly he turned and walked to the first table he could find.

Whispers came left and right as he looked at the table in front of him. Taken from scenes of another funeral he attended. "Isn't that..." - "Who? ... in here"

Carmichael nervously tapped Ella, his niece, her shoulder. "Get dewn therre and offer him a ... an ele or sumthing... goo!"
She galantly hopped towards his table. "Can I get yu anithingk sar?"
Bloom slowly looked up and gave a warm smile. "Just a pint please"
There was no question about it now, they recognised him as he quickly concluded from the nervous faces and ruckus around him.
"Hmm plan failed, I thought an unbarred jacket would do..." he mumbled.

His pint arrived sooner then anticipated. "There yu goe sar" Ella took a step back and held her plate vertically in front of her.
Just as she was about to ask who he was... Carmicheal intervened: "Ellah!" signaling with his right arm to get back behind the counter.
Bloom frowned at her as he was taking his frist sip. She gave him a short bow, on the edge of tumbling over and returned to the counter.
His eyes followed her as she went back, stopping at what seemed to be an Armed Forces officer. She was looking down at the table contrary to the many pairs of eyes who were following his every move.
"At least someone that doesn't care" he gently said in relief.

Layla Clay... He remembered the occasions he flew with her. Patrols, scrambles at Leeds, The Order incursion in Newcastle... Her and Folge saved the day then. She praised him in her report about his dodging manouvres. "Still can't fly a templar for a mile" He chuckled

He took another look at her face.
A face scarred from the atrocities it had endured. Eyes staring, bearing witness of a dampened soul. A voice, testament to a nearly scorched spirit. Was this worth it?

"This is all taking too long" he pondered. Barely even remembering his days when he was ensign, 2 years ago. It seemed like a lifetime.

"I can't even remember what she sounds like" he thought as he looked back at Layla.

It all went quiet around him as if he was about to pass out. The light stayed the same, however the sound faded. It soon made place for vibrations that could be felt throughout the entire builiding. 2 bright lights set down in front the pub. followed by clunk that resonated through the entire bottom floor.

Deidre, a young staff lieutenant pushed open the door. Quickly gazing through the crowd and stopping near Jeffs table. She stood next to him and gave him the latest.
"It ... has happened sir, protocol Lisbon is now in effect. We are ordered back to the Macduff." Her head turned down and her voice wavered.

"Stand up straight Deidre, we're leaving" He took one last sip and went for his trenchcoat. The communicator inside had 5 missed calls and 12 text messages.
He put it back in his pocket with the intention of reading it on the way.

Whilst straightening out his coat he suddenly stopped and lowered his arms as he turned to the right. "Give me a second Deidre" "But sah we-"

The scene around Laylas table went silent.
"Layla"
...
"It's time to go"
...
"They need us"

Despite her miserable state and lack of awareness, Layla recognized the face. Jeff Bloom. Back in the day, they had same ranks, they were equally green and fresh to the Armed Forces. But soon their ways parted, her slowly gaining in ranks and then falling down on the ladder again while Bloom deservedly achieved Commodore.

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Protocol Lisbon was what got her on her feet mechanically. She still had not forgotten what it meant for the safety of the country and the future well-being of its citizens. Kind of focused again, Layla decidedly followed Bloom, her superior officer, out of the pub she had only just entered a couple of minutes ago; a decision which would be seen to hold the potential of turning her life around 180 degrees in a matter of hours.

Deidre pushed her back against the door holding up her communicator in her right hand. "I have Neptune and add veteran officer, we're up in 10 secs. Acknowledge."

A loud mechanical voice stemmed from the communicator as the door fell shut.

The glasses began to sing again on the tables. Harder this time.
The lights went upwards.
An impulse booster firing overhead.

The patrons looked up distracted as the armoured freighter took off and burned away with all speed.

Yet, one by one they started reaching for their pockets as their communicators received the message. They all saw the same ...

BE TO QUARTERS | RETURN TO YOUR READY ROOM | REPORT TO YOUR STATION
THIS IS NOT A DRILL

Carmichael was Behind the bar making drinks, and Organizing The bar, Then, Hugh Darrow enters, he stopped for a bit looking around, It seemed to be the first time he enters a Bar since years, He looked Different, he have removed the mask that was keeping his old face secret, He wasn't the Hugh Darrow that people used to know by the look of it, None could recognize him, except the close ones.

He moved towards Carmichael, he looked at him and says to himself "I might regret this..But, i should give it a try.." he looks again at Carmichael saying "Put a Drink on my Tab lad.." Carmichael looks at him wondering "I haven't seen you in this Pub yet Sah...But Which Drink would you prefer?" Darrow sighs and makes an Artificial smile "anything.....give me something the lads usually drink here, Aye, i haven't been here yet..."

Darrow turns, and starts looking around waiting for his drink, and tries to gives an artificial smile to everyone, He notices a nice woman he looks at her, then turns around after receiving his drink, he looks at the Bartender and asks "Who's that woman sitting over there, chap?" Carmichael looks at Ella "That's Ella my niece...she's a Nice woman" He smirks, Hugh takes his drink and looks at it, then sighs, and finishes the drink in one sip, then stands up, and heads towards Ella "Good evening" he sounded confused a bit, Ella replys with a smile "Good evening, can i help you with something. sir?" He was about to say something when he received a message about Protocol Lisbon.

he looked at her again, Ella looked confused, Hugh replys "No, thank you Ella..." he smiles and moves toward the exit, but his masks falls on the ground but he didn't notice, Ella notices the mask, and picks it up, she looks at it, she makes a little scream, Darrow puts his hand on the place he usually puts his mask in, and realizes it's missing, He sighs, and heads back to Ella, and looks at her "May i?" Ella looked nervous, she hands Darrow the mask "B-B..But, Who..are you?" *he looks at her, and makes his first non-artificial smile "Hugh Darrow at your service..." he nods then leaves quickly, talking to himself "Protocol Lisbon is activated now, I have to get to High Command quickly...", Ella said "P-Pleasure to meet you, I..." that's when she realizes that he's gone, she sits down confused.

While Darrow is heading to the surface towards a shuttle that will take him to the High Command, he gets on board, with some colleagues, but none recognizes him, he sighs "To High Command....."

In a darker, quieter corner of the room, three men were sat. The flag officer Vance Sinker, his executive officer Denholm Desley (or Des, as he was called by friends) and Commander Arthur Thatcher were sat around the table, having a friendly chat.
"You mind telling us how the hell you survived out there?" asked Desley, eager to hear the story of how Thatcher escaped a sticky situation in space, which almost left him dead and undiscovered. Thatcher quietly decided not to tell them, just to annoy them. "Aye, tell us yer tale ye secretive bugger, so I can find out why ye were allowed so much leave." Thatcher took a long drink from his bottle of whiskey, which made Sinker raise his brow. "Those gals wont like you getting back on that stuff again..." Thatcher had a quick glance around the room, just to make sure they weren't there. Sinker smirked at this. "Hey Des, Admiral's behind you!" Desley jumped up and swung around, and then finally laughed. "Very funny mate..." He sat back down, eyeing Sinker cautiously. "Yer bloody gullible Des, you know that?" "And this is coming from the man who was slapped by ensigns when he was a lieutenant..." Sinker smirked again, recalling a memory. "Oi Des, remember when you walked out the air-lock 'cause navi told ye we were docked? We had a right laugh." Well...you can't have had all your time in the BAF without a small mistake..." Thatcher smiled."Small? Walking out of the air lock is pretty stupid..." "Officer on deck!" Desley jumped to his feet, as many others in the bar did too. Sinker chuckled. "You bloody idiot Sinker, you'll get yerself chucked if ye don't behave yerself here. No more beer for you..." Thatcher quickly grabbed the bottle, and downed it, while the other members of the bar sat down again, looking slightly annoyed with Sinkers' trick. "Very bloody funny you idiot..." Suddenly Desley stood up again. "Oi Vance, the Dreadnought's unmoored and flying into that gunboat!" Thatcher looked up, and had the same look as surprise. But Sinker didn't move. He kept his back to the window. "You novices. Ye can't trick me that easily." Suddenly there was a loud crunching sound, as the 5000 lbs of Dunkirk steel collided with a small gunboat which was moored up safely. Sinker swung around. "Aw bloody hell." Thatcher chuckled. "Isn't that the Anker..." Thatcher looked again, and then his jaw dropped. The small gunboats' side was dented, and the paint was gone along it starboard wing. But Dreadnought had finally come to a halt, undamaged. "Oh God, I just had that repainted! And I think Dreadnought may have damaged the liquor stores!" Thacher quickly got up and ran to get to the Anker, and Desley also hurried away, but Sinker sat, seemingly untroubled. "Meh, it's my holiday... Let Des take care of it..."

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