Nicotine, Valium, Vicodin, Marijuana, Ecstasy and Alcohol .....
Lh-lh-lh-lh-Lhorenzho.
Just another ordinary day with the Rebels then?
Unnamed system.
Gallente Federation.
The dimly-lit establishment was in full swing, trashy pop music filled the shabby little bar area along with toxic smoke and the smell of stale beer and synthetic cheap spirits. This seedy outpost in the deepest corner of Gallente space was kept off the main track for a reason; dark dealings and shady goings on were the norm, always a loaded pistol at hand, always a junkie slumped over in the corner, his last fix perhaps? Away from the distractions the stage show was mesmerizing, eyes transfixed to the girls at the front.
Miura sat at the table with his band of Rebels around him, six of them in total all dressed in black like some kind of narcissistic army of scumbags. Duke, Gul', Joe, Grernandez and The Judge - a nice group of guys until you accidentally knocked one of their drinks over.
Whilst the Rebels took in the delights of their surroundings and enjoyed the intoxication that was running through their blood and muddling their minds, Miura sat back in his chair slowly smoking a cigarette, an untouched glass of weak beer in front of him, oblivious to his surroundings as he browsed the document before him.
The document in question, regarding the current mental state of Rebel member Lhorenzho made for a fascinating read. The mindset of somebody with so much history intrigued the leader of the Rebels so much that he only hoped the other members had this kind of hidden backstory, some dark calling in life, something troubling them, a ticking timebomb waiting to go off, whether that be in some beat-up bar or in the throes of combat. A life on the run was what the Rebels were all about and for Miura, the more twisted and perverted these issues were then the better he felt, a volatile mixture of guys at his disposal would only keep him on his toes.
It was now getting late and Miura was expecting a delivery of frigates in a nearby system. Boot heels clipped the metal chequer plate flooring as he left the rowdiness of the bar behind him and made his way down the narrow corridors of the outpost towards the ship bays where his Rifter awaited him.
MB.
Just another ordinary day with the Rebels then?
Unnamed system.
Gallente Federation.
 |
| Girls, Girls, Rebels. |
The dimly-lit establishment was in full swing, trashy pop music filled the shabby little bar area along with toxic smoke and the smell of stale beer and synthetic cheap spirits. This seedy outpost in the deepest corner of Gallente space was kept off the main track for a reason; dark dealings and shady goings on were the norm, always a loaded pistol at hand, always a junkie slumped over in the corner, his last fix perhaps? Away from the distractions the stage show was mesmerizing, eyes transfixed to the girls at the front.
Miura sat at the table with his band of Rebels around him, six of them in total all dressed in black like some kind of narcissistic army of scumbags. Duke, Gul', Joe, Grernandez and The Judge - a nice group of guys until you accidentally knocked one of their drinks over.
Whilst the Rebels took in the delights of their surroundings and enjoyed the intoxication that was running through their blood and muddling their minds, Miura sat back in his chair slowly smoking a cigarette, an untouched glass of weak beer in front of him, oblivious to his surroundings as he browsed the document before him.
The document in question, regarding the current mental state of Rebel member Lhorenzho made for a fascinating read. The mindset of somebody with so much history intrigued the leader of the Rebels so much that he only hoped the other members had this kind of hidden backstory, some dark calling in life, something troubling them, a ticking timebomb waiting to go off, whether that be in some beat-up bar or in the throes of combat. A life on the run was what the Rebels were all about and for Miura, the more twisted and perverted these issues were then the better he felt, a volatile mixture of guys at his disposal would only keep him on his toes.
It was now getting late and Miura was expecting a delivery of frigates in a nearby system. Boot heels clipped the metal chequer plate flooring as he left the rowdiness of the bar behind him and made his way down the narrow corridors of the outpost towards the ship bays where his Rifter awaited him.
MB.
