Low hanging clouds crowded the bustling heart of Manhattan. A steady unending drizzle brought with it a constantly flowing trail of misery for many. At least for one this seemed to be true, if it wasn't for most.
That was the perspective of the bar patrons, at least. They couldn't really tell that the weather had nothing to do with what was crushing Vesta Antarius' normally upbeat spirit. The thin man, of average height slumped into the bar with a depressingly dreary look on his face. He slouched into the first available seat available at the bar. In a down-toned Bretonian accent he ordered a whisky. Irish whiskey, to be exact. On the rocks.
He sat at the bar with his head resting in his hand. He sipped his whiskey quietly while his fingers stroked his mustache and the small triangular patch of hair beneath his lip. His green eyes focused intently on the bar top as though there was a whole world resting there that only he could see. Occasionally he muttered something about the 'feckin' navy,' or the 'Ageira bastards.'
No one in the bar seemed to pay much notice. The Cockpit Lounge was a semi-classy dive bar, mostly visited by moderately successful transport pilots, freelancers, and the occasional bounty hunter or mercenary. Vesta came here on occasion to hear stories of adventurers from the black. For Vesta, the lives these men and women led were exciting. Even the relatively dull stories usually fascinated him. Tonight was a particularly lively night. An annual economic conference was being held here in the Manhattan capital this weekend. People from all across Liberty came for it. It wasn't just the political and business representatives that came to attend, but the usual gathering of protesters as well. They came from all walks of life, all with a different complaint about government policies and the Liberty Navy's enforcement of said policies.
With such a diverse group from all around the republic converging on the city, the bar was teeming with an equally diverse mix of pilots. None of it seemed to matter to Vesta though. He had little interest in the varied stories available for his palette that evening. The other patrons paid him little mind, either. He was just another melancholy customer stumbling in on a particularly melancholy evening. His grey, semi-formal frock didn't attract much attention, nor did the pin on his left breast, marking him as a DSE employee.
Vesta almost forgot he was wearing it. He pulled it off and stared at it for a moment as he ordered another whiskey. The pin was a small metallic thing depicting DSE's corporate emblem. Some brilliant artist in the graphics department must have dreamt up this little gem long ago, Vesta thought to himself. He wondered what kind of career that man had with the company. He realized it probably wasn't much of a career at all. They probably managed to drain every last shred of conviction from the poor sob until he couldn't take it anymore. Vesta imagined the down-trodden artist marching out the door, fed up with pouring his heart into such a corrupt and soulless world. Meanwhile, the company was just satisfied that there was one less pension they would have to pay out down the road. That had to be the way it happened. Vesta couldn't possibly be the first person to do something like that. He realized his analogy was ridiculous. DSE didn't hire full-time graphic artists. He needed another whiskey.
After finishing his drink, Vesta stood up. He glanced across the bar at the variety of people there, almost all of them pilots. He held the DSE pin up in the air and shouted.
'Excuse me! Does anyboday here want this symbol of Liberty hypocrisy? It dose'n fit me anymore and Ah'd like to pass it on to someone who wants the loathsome thing. Ah'll gladly part with it for a glass of whiskey would anyone care to oblige.'
Vesta was not normally a heavy drinker, nor was he prone to outbursts. But perhaps change was good. Perhaps it was time to move past the years of discontent and frustration with the soulless corporations, the corrupt Liberty Navy, and their political puppets. It was time to discard the old way and find something new. But first, he needed another whiskey'¦
"No greater sorrow than to recall in our misery, a time when we were happy."
![[Image: 350px-Petyr_Baelish.png]](http://awoiaf.westeros.org/images/thumb/1/19/Petyr_Baelish.png/350px-Petyr_Baelish.png)