It was before the Calypso name echoed across the galaxy. Because at one point, they were new to it so as the sun dipped low over the jagged hills of Pandora, painting the sky in a sick blend of orange and ash. In the middle of a scrappy, half-built camp littered with rusted metal and stolen banners, Troy Calypso wrestled with a torn tarp and some scavenged piping, cursing under his breath as he tried to make something vaguely tent-shaped. The fire behind him crackled, throwing sparks into the darkening air. Laughter—loud, wild, and a little unhinged—echoed from the gathering circle of new “followers,” the kind of psychos who stabbed first and prayed second.

Troy grinned, sweat streaking the grime on his face. This was it. The start of something big. Something dangerous. He glanced over at Tyreen, already holding court by the fire, eyes glowing with the kind of charisma that made even lunatics sit still. She caught his look and smirked.

"Better finish that tent, bro," she called, raising a bottle. "You’re getting wasted with us tonight."

Troy chuckled, jabbing the last pipe into place. “Damn right I am.”

The night was young, the stars cruel, and the Calypsos were just getting started.