A sight so common that even the Bruschal Traffic Controller didn't bother commenting, the rusty old humpback touched down in the crowded cargo bay. It was a far cry from the pristine docks of the Rheinland military's battleships, or the maximal efficiency layouts of Daumann or Kruger. It was a smorgasbord of ships, people and supplies that paralleled the organization that stood behind them. The Bundschuh had made great strides over the years, but their supporters tended to come from the lower classes, and supplying the men and women who fought for their country and their people was a constant challenge.
The ship was late, and as the busy men and women of the Bundschuh swarmed around the ship, unloading much needed supplies, a ragged shape in a cloak slipped out of the craft. Tripping on the last step, it seemed about to fall, before a cane, as ragged as its owner, stuck out. Wavering, the cloaked head glanced around quickly to see if this quick moment was noticed, but the movements of a frail passenger aroused no interest. Steadier now, but with the cane tapping against the rusting metal floor, the cloaked figure headed towards the bay's exit.
'¦
Passing through the hallways, the figure traced a route that he'd followed long ago. As with the cargo bay, the hallways of the old base were full of people. Pilots, worked to the bone from countless double shifts rubbed elbows with even more overworked mechanics and technicians, while a few university students, new to the revolutionary life, kept their heads high, their ideals not yet adjusted to the harsh realities the Volksfront faced.
Turning off of a busy thoroughfare, the man in the cloak found himself alone in a dusty hallway. It was a quiet place, with candles and flowers placed along the walls, memorials to the fallen workers of the revolution. Hundreds of photos dotted the walls, pictures of the young and old alike. Looking over them, the man could only sigh. Too many, he murmured.
The recruitment office on Bruschal is a barren place. There are few whom the Bundschuh would admit into their hallowed hallways without being already inducted into the revolution. It was a place for formalities and form-filling. At the hour the man arrived, it was empty, everyone else sleeping, or helping to distribute supplies from the same transport he had just arrived on.
Opening the door slowly ' a socialist revolution has no need for locks! ' the man entered the office, gazing around. Heading to the records file cabinet, he eased the drawer open and began to thumb through the folders.
'¦
Another dark shape, this one cutting a lean, muscular figure entered the threshold of the Recruitment office. He too, knew that the recruitment office was a barren zone in the busy station, but a light on had attracted his attention. Spotting an intruder, seated with his back to the door reading, this new assailant crept up slowly.
Maintenance of the living and working spaces has always been an issue on Bruschal. When the logistics officers and their tireless assistants compile the lists of tasks, it is always the maintenance of the base's defences and strained environmental systems that come first. So when our sneaking assailant stepped on the last floor panel, about to grab a hold of the reading intruder, the screech emitted was almost inevitable. What was probably more surprising to the assailant was the response this drew from his target.
The chair was pushed back immediately, right into the legs of the assailant, tipping him off balance as he lunged towards his now-very-alert prey. Another surprise, however, was delivered in the form of a cane across his nose, yielding a large crack, and pushing him on his back, causing him to lose sight of his target.
Unfortunately, for the target, his cane had been rather more essential to his locomotion than he might have preferred, and he too fell on his back. Pushing himself up into a seated position against the file cabinet, he reached for his cane, only to be interrupted by the click of an antiquated, but fully operational pistol.
'Who are you!' demanded the assailant, now more visible as a member of the Bundschuh base security force. Panting, he stood in the classic firing position ' legs spread, both arms out grabbing the weapon. The only thing preventing this image of the dutiful revolutionary from gracing the cover of the next pamphlet was the off kilter look of his nose and the stream of blood leaking from it.
Shifting with a groan that was met by another jab of the pistol in his direction, the intruder sat up further, and pulled back the hood of his cloak. The face was old, aged in the premature manner that is a hallmark of being a lifelong revolutionary. It looked upward, the face creasing in a wry smile as the intruder's hand slid the folder he'd been reading across the floor.
'Why don't you find out,' the intruder said, in a tone that betrayed how tired the brief encounter had left him but that still retained a certain dignity.
The assailant leant down slowly, keeping his pistol pointed the whole time. Flipping the cover open with a clean motion, he stood back up and read the first line out loud, slowly, 'Leutnant Josef Marks, went missing 815A.S. after combat action in the Neu Berlin System (see report 1546t), presumed K.I.A.'
'That's me,' said Marks, in the same tone that bored Neu Berlin public servants use to pick up their drycleaning. 'Now if you'll excuse me, I have an appointment to make,' he said, again reaching for his cane.
Stamping on the cane, the security officer remained defiant. 'And where would you have an appointment Herr Marks, if you are who you claim to be?'
'Why comrade,' said Marks in a patronising tone, the aged face unable to contain the amusement this encounter was clearly giving him, 'You all seem to think I'm dead. I need to enlist!'
![[Image: volksfrontsignaturesven.png]](https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-2T7lh-7bHRo/TgnxDTk83-I/AAAAAAAAABA/-JT6rTvmVXg/volksfrontsignaturesven.png)