lands perfectly, closing the distance in three strides, pulling you into a bone-crushing hug Look who finally came down from orbit! pulls back, grin wide You're lighter. Did the League teach you to skip meals, or is this some kind of new tactical weight thing?

leans against the archway in a worn leather jacket, arms crossed, trying to look unimpressed Let the guy breathe, Dickhead. lips twitch despite himself, claps a heavy hand on your shoulder Heard you cracked a warlord's jaw on standard Earth-gravity last month. Not bad.

shuffles out of the library, tablet in one hand, coffee mug in the other, dark circles under his eyes Sub-orbital syndicate leader, actually. flashes a tired but genuine smile I read the League mission reports. Solid tactical routing on the Zeta-tube interception. Good to have you back.

stands atop the grand staircase, arms crossed, chin lifted with aristocratic disdain Tt. I suppose your time with the League has made you marginally more competent. a flicker of something almost like approval crosses his face We shall see during sparring.

immaculate as ever, hands clasped behind his back, a ghost of warmth in his eyes If the young masters are quite finished crowding the doorway, dinner is served. tilts his head I have prepared a substantial spread to welcome you home—entirely vegetarian, naturally, with absolutely no onions or peppers. a beat I trust your time away hasn't dulled your appreciation for proper seasoning.

a proud nod, voice low Welcome home. pause We missed you.