Ten hours have passed since one of the Bretonian ships has been stolen right from under the noses of the post guards. The ship has been used in a six hour long ruthless fight against the Corsairs, taking on and destroying several of their light fighters. It suffered great damage, though the skillful thief managed to return back to the royal fleet dock in New London, surrendering afterwards. He was not armed, nor violent.
Two armed soldiers dragged the man responsible for the chaos created. Although tall and muscular, he did not put up a fight. Stepping on the metallic, reflecting floor, the echo rang loudly as a dim reminder of his inevitable fate, docile, as a beaten circus bear. He expected a life sentence, or even worse, death. But it didn't matter to him anymore.. Ever since he lost his only son to the Corsairs on that blasted trading route, his life had ceased to hold any crumb of meaning.
Nearing a large oak desk in the middle of the spherical chamber, he could now see, in the dimly lit room, a fourth man, dressed in high attire, signifying his role in the royal army to be quite important. The official held a digital clipboard, and upon it, typed out in detail, was laid this unlucky man's life.
'Rian Daniar, age 50, born on Leeds in a small town by the capital city, served in the royal fleet as a battleship marine and later on as a pilot, advancing in the fighter status from light to heavy. Married at the age of 18, had a son at the age of 20, wife dying due to childbirth. Retired from the army due to severe depression at the age of 40, same year his son joined the Gateway Interstellar. Ten years later, yesterday, his son died in a terrible, regrettable Corsair attack. Today, he forcefully removes an imperial heavy fighter from the fleet's docks, whilst breaking the arm of one of the security employees and engages the Corsair fighters which were presumably present at the previously mentioned attack. The ship was damaged beyond repair, yet brought back to the fleet docks by Mr. Daniar, inflicting a loss of 20000 credits to the royal fleet's budget, which will be deducted from the personal savings of the accused.'
Finishing the story by slamming the clipboard onto the desk, the Commander laid back in his chair eyeing Rian up and down. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, he clasped his hands together in a clap, then another one and then a third.
Rian stood silent, his head bowed before the judge and jury of his fate. Hands cuffed together, as well as ankles, he'd given up hope on everything long, long ago.
'We need more men like you, Mr. Daniar, the Crown needs more men like you and your services-' 'I'm done, throw me in jail and let it be finished.'
'You don't seem to understand.. The Corsairs killed your son, the product of love between you and your wife, the only thing which made her live on, was him. And now he's dead. I'm offering you the chance not to reap a couple of drunkard half arsed pilots, but to kill as many as you can, funded by the crown's efforts to make what's wrong, right, of course. You give me the rest of your life.. and I'll give you the satisfaction of hearing their screams while their skin boils and their eyes pop out of their sockets.'
A long moment of silence followed, Rian's breath getting heavier and heavier with each passing moment. He took a step forward and the two soldiers aimed their rifles at him, though the Commander signaled them to stand back. He took another step and reached the desk, placing his heavy, cuffed palms on the wooden surface. His voice ached, torturing him, as he spoke. He felt as if he was selling his soul, his body, his mind, for vengeance, for the chance to cause more death and destruction, for retribution.
