A man of about 28 years sits dozing in the cockpit of an Alliance long-range fighter, his arms crossed. His 6’3” broad shouldered and large-built frame pushes the capacity limit of the seat. His hair is longer than it has ever been, just starting to come down over his ears and brushing down on his shoulders in, seemingly, uncontrolled waves of dark ashen blonde. His eyes, however, will remain a mystery for the moment, as they are closed. The cold black of space fills the space the man is sitting in, reflecting on the mirrored surface of the cockpit’s polymer bubble. One of the myriad of lights on the console switches for green to a blinking red. A soft beeping pierces the oppressive silence. Nothing stirs. Or at least nothing noticed right away. The man’s eyes twitch in their sockets before slowly opening to reveal gunmetal grey eyes. He sighs and flips a switch beneath the blinking red light, turning it to amber and silencing the alarm. He takes the stick into his left hand and pitches it slightly to the left. Thrusters rotate his craft slightly, revealing the terminal divide of a small moon. He squints, wishing his shades hadn’t gotten busted on Whitefall when one of the local color decided he didn’t like no preacher man in his bar. He reached onto the dashboard of the craft and fished out a black insert for a notched preacher’s collar. Much like the grey one he was wearing at the moment. He keyed in a sequence of numbers on a pad to his right and let the computer send his landing request. His right hand hovered over the pad. Another green light, this time over the keypad lit up with a ding as the coordinates for his landing zone appeared. His clearance, it seems, was still good. For the moment at least. He pressed a sequence of buttons and flipped the toggle beside his thrust control. His engines began their slow warm up process and light began to fill his cockpit as his systems began to turn on. He popped his knuckles and pushed the throttle forward to its maximum in one swift motion