"Kalashnikov's", Zvezdny Gorodok

[Spear]

Lt Commander Vasiliy Prutko drained his vodka and sighed, these last few days had been difficult. The loss of Jan Ricthofen had plunged the young revolutionary into a black depression. He spent too much time these days in the bar instead of where he belonged, in the cockpit of his fighter.

He glanced around at the six pilots around the table and raised his glass in a toast "Kapitan Jan Ricthofen!"

"Kapitan Jan Ricthofen" the small company echoed, then they all drank.

"I often think of our martyrs and when I do my heart is joyous, to have known and served with them, for just a moment it seems I can touch their greatness, feel their drive and passion, for they were the best of humanity" Prutko poured another round for his friends as they sat in melancholy.

---

=LSF=

[Koolmo]

Eugen lay on the floor, staring out the viewport at the slowly spinning stars. Every thristy seconds or so, his left hand would raise the cigarette to his lips, then his right would pour another ounce of vodka down his throat. Other than that, he was practically motionless, his chest rising and falling, and his eyes blinking once in a long time. He heard Vasiliy, but nothing seemed to register through the haze in his mind. All he saw was the stars, spinning slowly above his head.

"I wonder what it feels like, out there? Is it cold? Can you tell you're dying?"

A while later, the bar seemed to quiet even more. Eugen heard someone moving to the jukebox, and setting a song, but didn't care who it was, or why. It wasn't until he heard the song that his eyes twitched, and he tried to sit up.

[i]"Who did that? And uuugh..."

Tried. As soon as his head left the deck, a wave of nausea hit him, and he lolled back onto the ground. Soon, a pair of black, gloved hands lifted him by the front of his medal-bedecked uniform, and placed him gently in a chair.

Masked face unreadable, Totenkopt sat in the chair across from him, and passed him a new bottle, and a lit cigarette. The one he'd been pulling on had been out for a while, apparently.

"Comradez. I thou' you'wa on patro'?" Slurred Eugen

The masked face seemed to smile, and the terrible voice sounded almost gentle as Totenkopt spoke. "Eugen man, I've known him for a long, long time. Almost my entire life. He went as he lived, in a blaze of glory. The only reason I put that song on is because it's about what you were thinking about. Now, let's remember the way he would have wanted us to! With Techno, damnit!"

Eugen broke out into a great laugh as the ridiculous notion of Jan dancing around to the noise coming from the jukebox, and promptly threw up on himself.

---

<span style="color:#FFFF00">&quot;General Solo, is your strike team assembled?&quot;
&quot;Barely, they're pretty drunk.&quot; </span>
SCRA Recruiting--SCRA Feedback--SCRA Message Dump--SCRA Faction Status

I can picture in my mind a world without war, a world without hate. And I can picture us attacking that world, because they'd never expect it.

[Othman]

Almost ten months had befallen since Baranovs last visit to Kalashnikov, when he repeatedly shot an Outcast spy at his chest in front of a hazy crowd. Several assignments and dense paperwork had taken him away for a while.

With much more burden than ever, Baranov advanced towards one of the barmaids, apparently intrigued by her laying eyes on him from the very moment he stepped in the bar.

A rare beauty my eyes have ever seen in months. Dorogaya, skazhi mne kak tebya zovut.

Tangerine sir. Answered the young woman, carefully preparing the commodore a Smirnoff Caipiroska, which was famed to be his favourite. Despite lots of changes in his life, Baranovs drinking habits remained the same.

This obviously wasnt her real name and Baranov knew it, but they kept smirking at each other with passion and trance began lifting the atmosphere up once again.

---

On the uncharted lagoons of anguish, I sail with a canoe made of my sins.

[Koolmo]

Eugen sat as his old table, bottle in one hand, cigar in the other. Across from him sat Major Marcel Bigeard. Where Eugen flaunted his heroism, Marcel hid his. Bigeard wore the black undress uniform of a Sirius Coalition Marine Private, with his unit flashes sewn on the sleeves, and the silver sickle of a Major pinned on one collar, with the dagger of the Sirius Coalition Marine Commando on the other. From his heavy issued belt hung a stiletto knife, and a tachyon pistol with two spare power packs.

Eugen, on the other hand, was decked out in the height of the current fashion for the Sirius Coalition's Fighter Corps. Midnight black uniform, with the edges in silver, including the three bars of a Commander on both sleeves, and the chainmail hanging off his right shoulder. On his left breast hung his medals, including the 'Hero of the Revolution' three times over, as well as a host of other medals and campaign medals. From his tooled leather belt hung a massive .65 caliber pistol, slung low on his right hip.

"So, Eugen. I hear you know something about this next op?"

"Who told you that then?" replied Eugen cautiously, swigging from his bottle."

"Oh, you know. Just hear it through the grapevine. Anyways, I know it involves me and the boys. The Maidstone is almost done refit, so we should all right, but I want details!"

"Well Comrade, as you know, if I told you this, I'd have to kill you... But we've been living off borrowed time for a while now, so I suppose I'll just pretend someone else told you. So, here's the skinny..."

As the two leant together, Eugen's stabbing finger drawing diagrams and making points in the spilt booze on the table, another man was drowning his sorrows nearby. Captain Emmanuel Goldstein had poured nearly a litre of Vodka down his throat in the last half an hour, and showed no signs of slowing down. As he refilled his glass, and lit a cigarette with shaking fingers, his gaze slipped to the medal hanging askew on his chest. Hero of the Revolution it read. Hero. A flash of light from an overhead light caught the surface of the decoration, and sent his mind spiraling back.

Dozens of Defense Wing snubfighters exploding around them, they raced towards the heart of the corsair atack group. The Marx was too far away, the fleets were all taking the war to the enemy, the Coalition People's Warship Vladimir Lenin was the only thing between the innocents of the Coalition and the Corsair fleet. A pair of cruisers, half a dozen gunboats, and a wing of bombers and fighters had accompanied the Osiris into Omega 52, shredding the Defence Wing into tatters. Those brave pilots lived long enough to kill the gunboats, the Revolution patrols took out both cruisers, and the par of Storm gunboats remaining on station shredded the pack of titans.

As they closed in for the kill, swooping towards the Osiris as a large, disciplined mass, it's guns opened up. Flack turrets shredded fighters and bombers, missiles swept in and punched holes in the sides of already battered gunboats, and suddenly, Emmanuel Goldstein and the crew of the CPW Vladimir Lenin were the only ones left. Emmanuel had known a kind of madness then, a euphoria he'd not had in a long time. Locking the controls in, leaving no way for the ship to be diverted, he'd ordered the automated gun systems to fire until the bitter end, and gave the order to abandon ship.

From his escape pod, he'd watched as his baby, the Typhoon he'd nurtured from the ground up, slam into the Corsair Flagship at flank speed. Watched as the reactor blew, as he'd instructed it, turning the already battered Osiris into a graveyard of floating scrap. Watched the rescue tugs come out, and pick up his crew. Watched a man in an orange flightsuit haul him, weighlessly, into the tug. Watched as the blackness cornered his mind, and sent it fleeing away.

He'd never expected to live after scuttling his own ship to take out a larger one. Never expected to not only retain his rank, but be called a Hero! They were giving him the latest ship out of the yards, the CPW Lithuania. A strange name, he thought, but then again, what isn't strange around here?

---

<span style="color:#FFFF00">&quot;General Solo, is your strike team assembled?&quot;
&quot;Barely, they're pretty drunk.&quot; </span>
SCRA Recruiting--SCRA Feedback--SCRA Message Dump--SCRA Faction Status

I can picture in my mind a world without war, a world without hate. And I can picture us attacking that world, because they'd never expect it.

[cobraSting]

Sub-Lieutenant Ymir Molotov sat down at the bar. Shaking his head, he signalled the waitress for a drink.

"What'll it be," the waitress asked with a smirk.

"Something that is guaranteed to kill me," Ymir replied.

The waitress sat down next to him, hir smirk changing into a sympathetic smile. "Rough day?"

"Drink first."

Frowning, the waitress got up with a huff and left. Ymir just rolled his eyes and rested his head on the bar. With all the excitement he had just gone through, he needed something to knock him out painlessly for a few days.

[Doc Holliday]

Wanting to make good of his Visa by the Coalition leadership, Ambassador John Henry "Doc" Holliday prepared to meet his escort to Kalashnikov's Bar. Before he released the lock to the base, he turned to his lovely wife who stood at his right, smiling as she always did, dressed today in a red and white kimono. Doc himself dressed in his Ambassador's robes.
"You sure you're ready for this, Dahlin?" he asked her.
"Hai," she nodded, full of life. With that, he released the lock.

Greeting them was a well built man in a dress uniform with silver pipings and a high and tight haircut. With him were two guards dressed in fatigues and assault rifles. They were very intimidating to look at with their stern faces.
"Greetings, Mr. Ambassador," spoke the commander as they shook hands, "we have been expecting you. I trust you had a safe flight."
"Jump holes are always a good deal bumpy but all went well," Doc replied.
"And it is nice to meet you too, Mrs. Holliday. Konnichiwa," greeting her also with a kiss of her hand.
"Domo arigato, Commander," she replied.
"Please," continued the Commander, "let's have a seat."

The Commander, Doc and Midori sat at a table under the guard of the two soldiers.
"I hear rumors that you have some great vodka here," stated Doc.
"Oh, it's no rumor, Comrade, it is true. It is not great vodka, it is the best vodka," said the Commander.
"Well, then, Comrade, I think I will try some, over the rocks," stated Doc.
"And how about you, Mrs. Holliday, what will you have?" inquired the Commander.
"I have the same," she answered, "but with tonic. I do not drink as hard as he does."

While the drinks were being made, the staff Doc's shuttle began unloading some cases. Wine, Klingon Blood wine and tobacco were off loaded by the ship's waitstaff and turned over to some workers in orange coveralls.
"I thought you may like some of this," Doc said to the Commander. "Gallic wine is quite good as is the tobacco. Both are also hard to come by being the hostility of the Gallic Crown towards everyone. Still, I can get more later if you like. The Blood wine is made exclusively by some associates of mine. It is very strong so consider yourself warned."

The cases were delivered to a store room, some of which was put into stock. Some of the pilots took to the tobacco and began rolling cigarettes. The Commander himself was most pleased by the gifts which put a smile on his face. As the drinks were being served, a group of Coalition Marines came through, armed and ready. They stopped to speak with the Commander.

"We are off, Sir," the captain said, noticing a Zoner Ambassador sitting at the table by his Commander.
"Very well, Captain. You can brief me when you return," replied the captain. The troops left with the Captain saluting his commander.

For the most part, the Ambassador's first visit was small talk. The Commander took an interest in his medical back round and how he made his way to Sirius. As they chatted and eventually dined, the atmosphere became more at ease.

---

[MFE]Med Force One | Tales of Recovery|Med Force Enterprises

[cobraSting]

<poke>

Ymir Molotov twitched in his sleep.

<pokepokepoke>

He waved one of his arms, trying to swat off the offender.

<pokepokepokepokepokepokepoke>

He jolted awake and screamed: "WHAT THE HELL DO YOU WANT?"

The waitress said "Sorry. I was worried that you died or something and I wanted to make sure you were ok."

Ymir groaned at the concerned, sympathetic look in her eyes. Sighing, he decided he might as well order some food. "Roasted chicken. No bones. Extra barbecue sauce."

Once again, the waitress lost her sympathetic look. "Fine," she said curtly, before walking off without looking back, missing that Ymir had already fallen asleep again.

[Sarawr!?]

Katya walked into the bar, straightening out her uniform's jacket as she walked through the door, looking around briefly only to find that the bar was almost completely empty, save for the bartender and an automated waiter in the back of the room.

Katya let out a soft sigh and walked over to the jukebox, whacking it gently on the right side so that it started playing, she let out a soft, happy sigh and headed toward the seats by the window.

"Ah...an old favorite song, barkeep give me a bottle of the strongest vodka you have in stock, and make it quick, I'm desperately thirsty!"

As Katya received her drink she pounded it back quickly, laughing happily and leaning back in her chair.

"Good music...Good Vodka! I don't know why I stopped coming to this bar!"

---

[LN] Recruitment | Rachel Baker Bio

[cobraSting]

Ymir Molotov walks into the bar. Not noticing much, he rushes up to the barkeep and says:

"Infestation out of hand. I need the spray."

The barkeep merely smirks and passes a spray of Arachnicide to Ymir, who quickly walks out with it.

[arvg]

Sub-Lieutenant Katz poured himself a cup of coffee from the end of the bar, sighing as he glanced up at the tall windows, out over the Omega-52 system. It had taken quite a bit, from the moment he'd been recruited through Kusari space, all the way down through Bretonia, just to reach that place.

No one appeared up yet, which wasn't surprising, pre-dawn patrols for the next month. His reward for being 'late' for muster. Not exactly his finest hour, but at least he'd managed to get his hands on some Kusari food supplies on the way. That had saved him from spending time in the stockade... or worse, the other side of an airlock.

The woman working the bar smiled at him as she fiddled with the jukebox, her choice surprised him a little. Watching her unscrew a bottle of Irish Cream she produced from a safe hiding space behind a hundred and ten different varieties of vodka that composed much of the bar's liquor selection.

"Do you need something to keep you warm before you head off to patrol Siberia?" she offered, a little too suggestively.

Katz sighed as he sipped his coffee, fumbling through his pockets for his cigarettes "Nyet," he murmured, shaking his head. "Spaciba."

"Your Russian is improving," she observed. "how many more days of Dawn patrols now?"

"A lot more if I take that drink," Katz said, nodding to the bottle she was waggling at him. "Any chance of breakfast before I go?"

She nodded, placing the order for rice pudding, which was the second part of Katz's punishment. That he had to eat rice with every meal until he completed his dawn patrols and learned not to P*ss the Commissar off.

He took his mug and made his way over to a table under the windows, sinking into it and thumbing through a warn copy of Trotsky he carried with him to breakfast each morning.

---