"Alright Staff Sergeant Harper, looks like all your paperwork is kosher. You're a civilian again."
With that, I grabbed my duffel and stowed it in the cargo bay of the freighter I'd arranged a ride with. After three years with the Liberty Infantry, three years of waiting to squeeze the trigger at the Rheinland bastards over the border, my contract had drawn to a close. I walked up the boarding ramp, taking a seat in the passenger bay, and for the first time in what seemed an eternity, I exhaled. It felt odd, being on board in ship out of uniform. Relations had always been strained between Liberty and Rheinland, the amassment of forces at the border, the bold speechs, war seemed inevitable. With the exception of a few skirmishes, the heated conflict quickly turned cold, and soldiers were offered a payoff to teminate their contracts. What can I say, I made out pretty well.
I've always had a thing for weapons. After finishing school on Los Angeles, I got a job at Detroit Munitions, working on the test range. It's hard to describe the sensation the first time you feel a digit caress the trigger, that rush of adrenaline-induced empowerment. I worked there for a number of years, not lucratively, but making enough to afford a relatively comfortable existence. However, I came to the realization that making and using were vastly different sensations, and with that I enlisted.
Being a soldier ain't what it used to be. History tells us that warfare was once an intimate affair, brothers in arms huddled together, fighting the enemy in close combat, a true clash of bone and sinew. As time progressed, we made it a more detached experience, bombarding our enemies from the safety of our own land. Nowadays, the infantry, a once staple of any military, are now a small shadow of their once glory, only put into play after the grand naval battles play out in vacuum. No more must the individuals rush for the objective, now beasts of alloy and plasma do the dirty work, leaving the footsoldier to sweep up the mess. It was these thoughts that led to the idea, rather the decision, to go out, and see what I could make of myself.
The fat severence bonus happened to be a means to an end.
So, here I was, packed into the bay of a freighter, leaving from Battleship Gettysburg, having finished my out processing. I was civilian again, my personal sovereignty renewed. My path was by no means set, I had toyed with the idea of visiting Dublin, a suggestion made by a friend I had served with, Timothy O'Dell, a lower enlisted boy I had the pleasure of training. "Dublin," I murmured to no one in particular. "Seems nice."
After landing on Califronia Minor, I rented a room for a week of so, to give me some time to adjust, and to shop. Being a civilian has its advantages and its drawbacks. Civies can only purchase certain ships, certain equipment, and can only go certain places. After deliberation, I decided upon a Charon heavy fighter, enough protection and power to keep me from trouble, and, hell, I liked its lines. I ran across a bulletin stating that light arms were needed in Bretonia, given my history at Detroit, I figurd I could arrange a decent trade route to stay comfortable, and get in some sightseeing to boot. Maybe I'd find O'Dell, or at least a decent piece of tail. Having decided my next move, I headed to the port, and prepped for launch. California Minor had been nice, I even leased a place, a place to fall back to if need be. I was off...
After travelling the stars for awhile, I came to some conclusion. Going it alone, was damned near impossible, too much political static to get anything done. Everyone was fighting on behalf of other people for whatever superficial reasons fit their ends. I had already grown tired of the status quo, and it was in that spirit that it became obvious, I wanted a group without a group, a fellowship that ignored the political drama, where men could join under a common banner, whether Bretonian, Kusarian, Libertonian, or Rheinlander, as long as they put their brothers first. The last thing I wanted was another faction, another self-absorbed, self-obsessed banner.
Anyone could join, so long as they respected their fellow fighter pilot, and proved loyalty to the club. The club would rise above politics, Faction, house affiliation wouldn't matter, only loyalty to the club, your new brothers.
A few nights passed. I laid in my rack, mulling over the idea, that idea that had rooted itself in the base of my skull, echoing itself in my consciousness. It had been...difficult, trying to find someone, anyone else, that shared my sentiment. Sadly, my search seemed to be in vain. A bottle or two of Sidewinder Fang had coursed through me, and I felt it fan the flames. I would go out and try again. Maybe this time, someone would listen.
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