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Frank McLynn lay on his bed in a drunken stupor, his bottle of the finest molly whiskey sat on the bedside table next to his battered trilby hat. He was running out of money, and that means booze and synth as well.

He sat up, his head spinning, he reached for his bottle and missed. He collapsed back onto the bed, lost in thoughts of the war. It was good times for a merc back then. Business was everywhere, and his company were lauded as heros.

Known as McLynn Security Inc, they worked mainly for the bretonian government and a few bretonian companies. Frank had been a wealthy man, his company was renowned for its competance. They were often hired by the police to curb Corsair interdiction into Bretonia, and had helped put down a Molly attack or two.

During the Nomad War, they were brought in to bolster the Bretonian ranks against the infected Rhienland fleet. The fight was vicious and nasty, and McLynn's men were severly reduced in number. The surviving few were financially rewarded by the Bretonian government. Although it cost his company many men. The Nomad War made Frank a rich man, but at the cost of many of his closest friends.

Frank grunted to himself and pushed the thought to the back of his mind, thought were generally safer there. "No need to dwell on it Frank" he muttered to himself.
He stood up unsteadily and looked at himself in the mirror. He wasn't the sharp and vigourous man he once was, wrinkles softened his face now, and the booze was filling out his cheeks more than he would like.

"You need a shave old man" His own voice rang lonely in his head.

His lifestyle hadn't been great over the last few years. He retired early in 812 AS, moving to Planet Curacao, the relaxed life seemed perfect for him, but it didn't quite turn out that way. Frank was a man of many vices, gambling, drinking and women. Curacao had opportunites for all of these and he indulged in them. His money was dwindling and he was lonely after all these years.


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The company he started, with it's illustrious history and reputation, had folded after he retired. The remianing members, although skilled fighter pilots, weren't businessmen, they failed to get the contracts needed, and eventualy decided to call it a day. The remaining members went their own ways, a few paying visits to Frank on Curacao from time to time. Nearly all ended up broke or desitute.

Frank awake with a start one day, his comm alarm going off. He dragged himself out of bed, stumbled blearily over to the screen and answered. The video comm flickered into life

" Frank McLynn?" Came an officious sounding voice.
"Yeh? What you want?" He muttered through his hangover back at the blurred image on the screen.
"Frank. This is Alan Grenville, I'm representing the security division of Planetform Inc. We have need of your services."
Frank let out a small chuckle that swiftly turned into a cough
"I'm outta that business, how did you get this number anyway?"
"I have my contacts Frank, besides we need the best for this, and I assure you, it will be worth your while. I have some rather good funding for this job."

Frank, who was about to switch the comm-screen off, paused.

"How much we talking here?"
"Enough."
"How many men would I need and whats the job"

Frank's vision, now clearing a little saw the small thin featured man on the comm-screen 'God, what a weasel' he though to himself. The man looked nervous.

"Well Frank. How many of your old boys can you get in contact with, we have a shipment of very important... ermm... materials, we need transporting through some dangerous territory, and we don't have the manpower to do this ourselves"
"What abut the BAF or the police? They got the men, ask them, not me. I'm out of that business now."
"We'd rather not do that, the ermmm... Materials are not something we want them to know about, and your company worked for us in the past."
"I get you. So you want me to call in my old boys, most of whom have retired as well, ressurect an old company, which has folded and I left behind, in order to keep secrets from the Bretonian government?"
"Ermmm, in a word... Yes."

Thoughts raced through Frank's mind, the man on the comm screen looked intently at his face.

'Just like the old days Frank, get back into it... go on... just the one job....
ARE YOU INSANE!?!? You're old, unfit, out of practice. Hell, you haven't flown that old Hussar in months....
But damnit Old Man, It'd be just like the old days, you haven't seen Angus in years, get back in the cockpit, it'll do you some good, besides it's only some escort job, what could go wrong?'

Franks face cleared.

"I'll do it" He said suddenly "I'm gunna make a few calls."
"Hmm, I thought you might say that Frank. I took the liberty of arranging some time for us to talk face to face, the specifics of this are a little... complex... We will be meeting on waterloo station in three days time. 3.40 NL time. I expect you to be presentable."
"Yeh, don't worry about it, I'll be there."

Angus McBain sat at the end of the bar. Gazing upon his 9th or 10th shot of whiskey, he'd lost count by now, but what did it matter.. He could still feel pain in his bones. Pain from old war wounds received courtesy of the Nomad Wars. Seems like ages ago.

Angus was born in the Dublin system. Eldest son of honest hard working parents who mined gold for BMM.
He too followed in their footsteps at a young age, but it didn't take long to learn that this life style was not for him. He longed for adventure, thrills & excitement. Even at a young age he knew he had to get out of the mines & find a source to feed his appetite for adrenaline. Thus when he had pocketed enough gold he had stolen from the mines, saved up every credit he could, he went off to purchase a ship. He found a used, battle worn Cavalier. It was a flying pile of junk, but it was his & was his ticket out of the mines.
He didn't say a word to his family, just grabbed his stuff, returned to the hanger where his new ship was docked & left off for adventure.

Angus's first grand adventure was learning how to pilot a light fighter. Being a miner, he had no previous skills or knowledge of ship controls & the like. On a few occasions he had come close to killing himself trying to learn the ropes. By the time he had mastered some skills, his ship was nothing more than welded hull plates and loose bolts. The ship served him well in his studies, but was far from being a ship worthy of any use other than spare parts. A new ship he needed, the credits for one, he lacked.

Although , all the time spent hanging around the shipyards, the docks & the bars, he had learned one thing, Piracy was easy money, or so he thought.
Thus Angus began his fund raising by pirating the gold shipments of freighters his parents had worked so hard all their lives to fill. Basically bluffing his way most the time as his ships guns were worn to the point that they would explode if he were ever to fire them.

Then it happened, Someone called his bluff. An older man in a far superior fighter, signs of battle upon it, yet in excellent shape. A Hussar, very well equipped by the looks of it & he was sure that ships guns had absolutely no problems firing & tearing him & his ship to pieces.
Laughter filled the comm device in Angus's cockpit after he broadcasted his demands of money to the Hussar Fighter nose to nose with his barely in one piece Cavalier. Embarrassed & full of rage of the pilots mocking his attempts to pirate him, Angus yelled into his comm device "Pay up old man! Or I'll blast you & your ship into dust!!" again laughter filled the comms channel & the Hussar pilot replied "Son, *laughter* if you can get those old guns of your to fire with out exploding, I'd be willing to pay you double"

Feelings of shame replace those of rage, He knew the older pilot in the Hussar was right & could have taken him out in a whim. All he could muster up the courage to say in response was " Sorry sir, you may pass" He began to throttle up his engines & leave the area of his disgrace when the comm became active again. "Wait a minute youngin, You have nerve I'll give ye that, Follow me, let me buy you a drink, I got a business proposal for you"
Curious, Angus follows the man, A few drinks & long conversations, He agrees to join Frank McLynn and his mercenary company of McLynn Security Inc.

Many battles they fought. Then the interdiction with Bretonia & the Corsairs began.
The conflict with the Corsairs gave him some fame & notoriety. As did it to many of the MC-23 Mercenaries, enough so that when the Nomad wars began, Bretonia once again asked McLynn & his Merc's to aid them in their struggles. Forgiving all past crimes & paying them handsomely. Enough in fact, it made most of the pilots rich. Rich enough McLynn himself retired.

Not ready to call it quits, Angus & a few of the MC-23 tried to keep the company running, yet their lack of business skills resulted in it's failure. Then being shunned & exiled from Bretonia, their governments way of hiding the truth about the Nomad conflict, He wasted all his previous earnings on women & whiskey. Numerous failed business ventures left Angus about as poor as when he first started out those few years ago. He would find work escorting some freighters or doing odd low paying mercenary jobs here & there, just enough to keep his fighter up & going & to buy his whiskey.

"Ahh... The good ole days" He pondered while tipping up the shot of the Best Molly spirits the bar could offer.
"Mr McBain?" a younger man asked, holding a messaging transmitter.
"Aye, that would be me"
"You have a communication from a Mr McLynn. "
Holy hell! he thought.. he's still alive??
"Well give me that device boy, If that old war hawk is still breathing, I best be seeing what he has in mind"