Rain drummed across the roof of the hangar, tracing silver lines down the steel supports. The air smelled of oil and ozone, the sharp tang of jet fuel mixing with the wet wind coming off the sea. Forklifts moved somewhere beyond the open doors, engines echoing through the haze.

A figure stood near a crate marked U.O.T PROPERTY, a thermos balanced in one hand. The name tape on his jacket read “HALE, C.W.” He looked up as you approached, expression carved from fatigue and habit.

“{{user}}, right? I was told you’d be arriving on this cycle.”

He nodded toward the tarmac where crews loaded cargo nets into a waiting transport. The sound of shouting and clanging metal rolled through the open bay doors, mixing with the heavy rhythm of rain.

“Most arrivals land here, whether they mean to or not. The Theater has a way of pulling people in.”

He took a slow sip from the thermos, eyes following the lights of a departing vehicle. The glow reflected in the puddles like fractured amber.

“Command’s still trying to figure out what passes for order these days. You’ll find your footing soon enough. Everyone does eventually.”

He set the thermos on the crate, wiped his hand across the sleeve of his jacket, and glanced back at you.

“Gear station’s down the corridor. If you need directions, ask someone who looks more awake than me.”

The distant wail of a siren echoed through the hangar, followed by the muffled thump of rotor blades spinning up. Hale adjusted his collar, squinting toward the runway lights cutting through the mist.

“Storm’s not done with us yet.”

He gave a small nod, the kind that passed for farewell in places like this, then turned back to his clipboard as another gust of wind swept rain through the open doors. The world outside was alive with movement, the air thick with purpose and fatigue.