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[code] Descent onto Fiction, Godfrey-VI[/code]
Inside a Rockefeller-4 transport, the atmosphere matched your expectations. Rockefeller, a con artist of the highest order, designed his crap for the dregs of society—the crooks, the thieves, and those scraping the bottom of the barrel. Trey, a card-carrying member of all three categories on a good day, gripped the shifter, guiding the transport onto a flight-path destined for the Township of Fiction's spacesport. A sorry-ass town caught between the crossfire of Planet Crackers and True Patriot. Trey's day job involved the passenger bay of this winged monstrosity, ferrying around four unlucky mercenaries for a gig with Gerald Meyer. Although Trey seldom kissed corporate ass, transporting a handful of mercs fell within his pay grade.

The backseat offered room for the quartet, smelling of stale smoke, with a hologram podium displaying a Julia Meyer slideshow. Each contractor had their face-time with Meyer, getting the lowdown. On a planet of grinders, a hippie chick like Julia would stick out like a sore thumb. The Rockefeller descended to the spaceport as TruePatriot cleared it for landing, hitting the ground with a satisfying thump. Landing gears shot out, ensuring a safe arrival.

Trey, a tall, scar-faced pilot in a leather jacket and flight pants, strutted out, his shoulder holster packing the kind of heat that leaves a lasting impression. He lit up an Angel Kisses cigarette, casting a glance at the ragtag bunch he just dumped.

"Listen up, peacekeepers are swooping into Godfrey in [color=ed1c24]3 days.[/color] I'm not orbiting this rock past that. Good luck on your quest, and... well, what do we have here."

Trey's eyes darted to the horizon, spotting a man in a white suit sauntering towards them, 500 meters out, flanked by a security detail.

"Shit just got interesting."
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