The Last Nova. A dark, dingy bar where lowlifes, mercenaries and those pledged to The Crimson Fleet come to drink away their miseries. Scarlet red engulfs the entire room, suggesting that the pirate faction doesn’t dare use any other color for fear of treachery, or some other psychotic reason that I’m sure a therapist could make thousands from. Some generic metal music plays in the background, shouting barely distinguishable words. In the middle of all of this is Jett Johnson who necks the remnants of his whiskey. That was his seventh glass, and probably won’t be his last. A lot has happened. There’s no turning back now.
Rewinding to the moment we previously left off, our leading man had just successfully infiltrated the Crimson Fleet on behalf of the UC System Defense. It wasn’t a path he expected to go down but after being caught red-handed with a boatload of the illegal hallucinogenic Aurora (remember when Jett licked a guy’s earlobe—ahhh, those were the days) he had little choice.
“When you sign up with the Crimson Fleet, you’re in it for the long haul. No one quits, no
