Descent onto Fiction, Godfrey-VI
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 3 days. 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."