And so it has come to this.

The star cluster is awash with the blood of those whose lives have been spent by two men maneuvering fleets like pieces across a chessboard.

Only one man can come out on top: Thatcher, or Moll.

But when a victor finally emerges, what will it mean? What solace can truly be taken by those left over, those whose very lives have been wrecked by a war of unrivaled carnage?

Surely someone will be left to pick up the pieces. Someone with the vision to make all of this mean something.

For Thatcher's part, he can only do what he was made to do.

Win. At all costs.