We don't belong here 

After Magnus, Terra was like stepping into another universe. Prime and Jata gleamed under the sun, polished and perfect, full of people who still believe in better tomorrows. Politicians, students, dreamers. They looked at us — haulers, scarred mercs, ironclad grit — like we didn’t belong. They weren’t wrong. We refueled, resupplied, and left without ceremony. Terra’s for the idealists. I’m not one of them. 

Finally, Stanton. Our first sight of Crusader took my breath for a moment — a giant of clouds and storms, lit by the rings of Port Olisar. Ships everywhere. Haulers, mercs, luxury yachts, and rust-buckets all crowding the lanes. Organized chaos. Opportunity and danger side by side.

We docked. Months of drift, pirates, hustlers, and politics finally behind us. Port Olisar was a new place for me.  It wasn’t home, but it was alive. And for the first time since leaving Carteyna, I felt like I had stepped into the heart of something that mattered.

My war may be over, but I can smell another one here.