Cooperate, Survive - The Tale of Styria Cooperative.

[Wulthus]

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-”Besser.tot.als.rot and Palloesyndic.Ice, preparations completed. Proceed to docking bay number Three when ready.”

Two bomber crafts came rushing into the landing pads as soon as blast doors opened just wide enough to let them pass trough, and then plummeted onto deck disorderly.

-”Schnellere, Leute! Schnellere!”

Mere seconds after deafening hiss of the pressurization system had gone silent, ground crew flooded the bay and started to prepare hoses, power cables and embarkation ladders even before pilots, still struggling with language barrier, could finish going trough shut-down checklist.

-”Zehn Bomber pro Stude Leute!!! Schnelleren!!!”

Coordinator’s voice echoed trough the bay as he attempted to rush few freshmen pulling a hover-cart filled to the brim with ordinance. Two long minutes after the turnaround had started, pilots could finally be seen leaving cold and dark cockpits of their ships, sweating and visibly exhausted. One of them, an outlaw of Kusarian origin referred by his comrades only as “Namazu”, approached the busy coordinator, and whistled to get his attention.

-”Prep us extra ammo racks, I emptied the whole damn thing on a first salvo...”
-”We have no extra racks.” He replied, too busy to even look at his speaker. The Pilot could not utter a single word, dumbfounded by the answer. Part of him urged to rage upon the hopelessness of situation, yet his last call to arms deprived him not only of energy, but even will to do so. In fact, it deprived him of all of his energy, and the only action he could think of was taking a shower, and drinking a beer after, as a token of … a job well done. Namazu stared angrily for a few seconds at the coordinator, then made his way to the restrooms.

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-”Kuso, Koko de nani o sh*te iru no?”
Kusarian whispered to himself, seeing his sore eyes in the mirror. Good question. What in the god’s name was he doing in the middle of a war zone? He, like many others, came to the station’s assistance after receiving a sirius-wide distress message on a secure channel, established with the Leagues just a few weeks prior. But why? Was it in hopes of gaining the Unioners’ favor?

No. Principles.

Styria is a home for those who had nowhere else to go. A place of refuge of the unwelcome, just like Namazu. More than that. It is … a monument. A shining beacon in the cold, dark depths of space of human determination, solidarity and independence. A hulk in space built for those ready to rule their lives themselves, by those already in control of their fate.

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That is why the burning fire of Volksrevolution could not stand it’s existence. In their vision of the perfect world, there was no place for undesirables such as those. The fact that such folk could band together to erect something so magnificent without the guidance of any self-proclaimed moral authority was an insult. A cognitive dissonance, that had to be dealt with. And so, they used the moment of Rhineland’s weakness not to overthrow the powers keen to keep the old order, but they unleashed their fleets at a structure, with no real tactical importance, just … to make a statement. And so, half the Sirian underworld came here to make a statement, too.

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Namazu, now refreshed, unceremoniously took a free seat next to Riehl, ignoring her guests, either deliberately or by accident.

“-F*ck… Gunda, we’re running out of Novas...” Kusarian mumbled, unable to conceal clear exhaustion in his low, raspy voice. He then took a long sip from his mug of Rheinbier, and plunged it loudly onto the table.