The brilliant blue color of the Crow shone before the men out beyond the transparent metal windows on the station. Errant small little bits of rock and dust floated on past the viewport. And not far from the office, far down below, sat a large ship. When viewed from above, the almost square shaped frame of the transport looked battered and broken. Missing hull panels and sections burnt black by laser fire glittered in the blue light before them. Small repair drones crawled across the Raba’s hull, occasionally flying back to a nearby Samura transport which loomed just out of arm’s length from the station.

The Nogitsune had been crippled two days before the fateful convoy had departed, grounding Mr. Shiro’s personal ship. But the Nogitsune was undergoing repairs at Yokohama. In a truly peculiar twist of fate, if the Nogitsune had not been attacked some days prior, it may have been outright destroyed. Of the half dozen transports the Hogosha had dedicated to the operation, a single one returned, badly damaged. This transport here. The lone survivor. Mr. Shiro was hardly about to thank the terrorists who damaged his ship however.

The Hogosha had been pressured by the government. Normally they were content to let their smuggling operations play out at their own pace. The police and office of intelligence cared little for the artifact trade. Such treasures and art pieces were scientific curiosities at best, and collectors pieces at worst. But something had changed. What it was, Mr. Shiro couldn’t guess. But suddenly, the dynamic shifted. A frustrating paradigm shift, something that cost the Syndicates millions of credits in ships and supplies. A trail of wreckage was left from Omicron Gamma to New Tokyo with little to show for it.

The middle aged Kusari man took a slow sip of his sake as he carefully watched the repair drones crawling over the distant hull. Behind him, the argument continued. Mr. Shiro’s eyes drifted from the wrecked hulk below to the warm reflection upon the transparent metal viewport. His tired eyes settled on the towering man as he continued to shout out his train of profanities at Shiro’s agent. The much smaller, younger man, clad in his crisp suit, had a fiery passion that rarely presented itself on display tonight.

His two subordinates immediately ceased their argument. The Hogosha man turned around, glancing between the two men before he stepped up, placing his glass upon his desk. Wordlessly he walked between the two, his shoes clacking quietly across the wood floor of his private office. Finally he stopped, coming to a rest before a glass case displaying numerous relics and artifacts from his private collection. Similar archeological finds are now lost to the void. Along with dozens of men and millions of credits worth of equipment.

His agent quickly stood to attention, bowing quietly. The Corsair meanwhile shouted back, hardly content with Mr. Shiro’s response.