A morbid, desolate planet with nothing but red skies and gray sand. That's all this planet appeared to be from a far view. But a closer look on the surface would reveal a station that took up at least a tenth of the planet's surface. Steel walls surrounding the largest crater on the planet, and in it rested one of the largest weapon producing factories in the universe. One could say it rivaled the entire Citadel space, but they would be wrong. No, they could not rival all of Citadel space, but they could fuel the mercernaries, pirates, and slavers that would stand against them.

With all of this in mind, Nikolei Sokolovich, founder of The Motherland Weapons Agency, was sitting in his office, typing away at a laptop. His office was filled with many expensive pieces of furniture, as well as paintings and vases and other such things of elegant decor. His hair was a mess, though it always was, so he was wearing his military cap indoors, but it was a good thing, for it shielded his eyes from the bright lights that illuminated the white walls of his office. He sighed as he finished his work on the computer, and received a comm message from one of his production captains down in the factory.

"We have orders to fill, damnit! Either get your ass in gear, or I shoot you in the head! Do you understand me?!" he shouted at the man on the other side of the comm. He closed the channel and put his head between his gloved hands, dragging them down his face. He let out another sigh and stood up, walking over to the floor-to-ceiling glass window at the front of his office. He looked down upon his workers, his hands behind his back, his left gripping his right wrist. This was the empire he had built, whether he liked it now or not.