A clear and starry sky shines over the salt-scattered parking lot outside of the Little Dipper, Kepler's

requisite dive bar and late-night grill.

This establishment once catered to the scientists of the Greenbank Telescope, who sought leisure

after a long shift of watching the heavens.

Today it plays home to a far-seedier clientele, a group that favors its own name for the

bar, the Hornet's Nest.

A trio bearing the Hornet insignia stands watch over the entrance to the bar, harshly

critiquing one another's motorbikes while catching a smoke in the chill, February air.

One Hornet, the largest among them, tells a joke to foul and convoluted to repeat, his

smaller subordinate bellows out a hearty laugh.

The third though, is distracted by a figure approaching them from across the parking lot.

This Hornet boss, known as Hollis, is transfixed as the figure enters the bar, their footsteps

crunching through the half-melted slurry that forms a moat around the front door.

It is 117 am, their associates uproarious laughter fades into the background.

A silence floods Hollis's mind.

Their face goes hot and numb.

Their heart beat loud and erratic.

They are not startled by the screams coming from within the bar, in some way they expected

them.

A bloody body smashes through the window beside them, toppling over the parked bikes outside.

Hollis charges against the tide of fleeing patrons.

Their lieutenant Keith lay unconscious and trampled on the floor.

...