<div style="text-align: center"><b><span style="font-size: 22px"><span class="fixed-color" style="color:crimson">It has been forty years since the end of the Cylon War. Peace has spread throughout the Twelve Colonies over the intervening period, with the Cylon threat fading to a distant memory spoken of by aging veterans. The Colonial military has continued to develop, but few think that there will ever be a need for the new battlestars and Vipers. But, if the Cylons ever were to return, they would face technology the likes of which they never anticipated. With hardened computer systems that were unhackable, how could the Colonial Fleet ever loose? It was that very hubris that served to be the doom of not only them, but seemingly humanity itself...</span></span></b><span style="font-size: 22px"><span class="fixed-color" style="color:crimson"></span></span><span class="fixed-color" style="color:crimson"></span><br/>
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<span style="font-size: 15px"><i><span class="fixed-color" style="color:gold">Battlestar Vallhala, located between Helios Delta and Helios Gamma, en route to Scorpion Fleet Shipyards </span></i><span class="fixed-color" style="color:gold"></span></span><span class="fixed-color" style="color:gold"></span><br/>
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<span style="font-size: 18px">The void drifted by, uncaring of the passage of the old warhorse that plodded along slowly through it. The Battlestar Valhalla was on it's final voyage, one that should be marked with triumphant fanfare. But instead the old battleship was facing a shameful end, being broken up for scrap at the very shipyards where it was created. At one time the ship had been spotless, a shining example of the strength of the Twelve Colonies. Decades had passed since then and with each passing year the Valhalla had been neglected more and more. Updates were put off, just enough maintenance was done to keep it flying, the most skilled members of it's crew reassigned while the dregs of the fleet had been shipped off to rot just like the ship they were assigned to had been left too. The once glorious ship, one that had fended off Cylon raiders and Basestars, was going to have a torpid send off, her skeleton crew barely enough to get her to her destination.<br/>
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Valhalla's crew meandered about on their ship, seeing to their assignments as they should, preparing their ship for it's ignoble end. Already the ship had been emptied of most of the fuel, ammunition and food that would be needed for her normal operations. The Vipers that had once flown from it's decks were mostly gone, save for those that were not deemed fit enough to fly. There were only enough Raptors aboard to help ferry the last of the crew away in a few trips. In short most of those aboard who had served on the Valhalla for some time saw the ship as dead already, a zombie that was lumbering along, leading a false life with no purpose. Little did all of those aboard the vessel know that a purpose was being born for them, just as millions of the people they had sworn to protect died.<br/>
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Aboard the Valhalla none knew yet that the attacks had just begun. On the Colonies a massive assault had commenced. The Colonial Fleet was faced with an assault the likes of which they had never expected. All of this was occurring with those aboard the old vessel not yet knowing, unaware that their destiny was about to change. For those aboard the Valhalla would represent humanity's last hope...</span><br/>​</div>