Captain Andros Silverwing shifted his tired frame in the seat of the military Landporter that was delivering him to his ancestral home, after a week's mission had gone sour. As his eyes spied the air garage, he hoped that a cruise in one of his Airspeeders might expel the lackluster taste of the report to his disappointed C.O. Dismissing the soldiers coveting his beauties, he reclaimed possession with hands that sensuously caressed the gleaming finish on his Duotone triad in blue, burgundy and racing red. Sybaritic fingertips lightly followed the painted flames lapping up the sides of his remaining jewel-toned pets. The antigravity units adapted to his weight in the vehicle as Andros pulled himself behind the wheel, gripped it tightly and roared out of the hold at top speed, rattling anything unsecured in the garage. Making his way to the skyways, he hoped, no, he uttered a fervent, blasphemous prayer that he would meet up with the Scrappers that ruined his mission and his record. He had no intention of evening the score. He meant to put things solidly in his favor. Suddenly, Andros was no longer tired.