Chapter 2 part 2

When Crew Names Outshine The Galaxies

When Crew Names Eclipse the Cosmos

…I suppose it’s pointless to define them now, but just in case some lone wanderer is drifting through the void with their comms shattered, whispering to the stars, “Guild crews? Like those old military squadrons…?” Let me set the record straight. There are distinctions, after all.

Crews are the lifeblood of the Guild’s structure—tight-knit (or occasionally sprawling) bands of guildmates united by common ambitions, complementary talents, or sometimes just the ability to endure one another’s eccentricities. Two people can register as a crew, or two dozen. Once formed, they unlock specialized missions and can even list their own contracts under the crew’s banner.

Picture the ancient starfaring legends of Earth—commanders, navigators, mechanics, healers, all woven into a single unit. That’s the basic idea, though out here in the lawless fringes, things are rarely so neatly arranged. Crews in these sectors tend to be… singular in focus.

Warriors cluster with warriors. Snipers band with snipers. It’s pragmatic, especially for hunt-and-strike operations where seamless teamwork means the difference between breathing and suffocating in the void. Engineers and medics, though? They seldom fly solo. Without someone watching their backs in a firefight, their odds plummet. Not that such crews can’t exist—I’ve just never known one to survive past its first major skirmish.

And those roles they flaunt? Don’t mistake them for some Guild-mandated hierarchy. No, it’s all self-assigned. Your fighting style is whatever you decide it is—usually dictated by your weapon of choice and how quick you are to throw a punch. Obviously, nobody’s dumb enough to declare themselves a “pirate” outright—imagine outlaws broadcasting their profession? The galaxy would collapse into chaos.

But enough preamble. Let me introduce you to the crews making waves aboard Station Baldr.

Stellar Shield

The undisputed titans of Baldr’s mercenary scene—a hardened collective of battle-forged specialists. Last tally put them at twenty strong, but they recruit so often I’ve lost count. Their armory reads like a museum of war: crackling energy spears, shimmering force-blades, deflector arrays, and enough reinforced exo-suits to outfit a small army. They specialize in purging pirate infestations and neutralizing threats near the station.

Their edge? A squadron of razor-fast attack craft that delivers them to their targets before most crews finish pre-flight checks. That speed keeps them drowning in contracts. The catch? Upkeep. Fueling those ships and repairing battered gear drains credits faster than a black hole swallows light. 

Most of their ranks are veterans—like Julio, ex-Lunatran naval corps. They’ve got that disciplined, armor-clad swagger. Me? I’ll stick to lighter attire. I like my lungs uncompressed.

Blade of the Void

Second only to Stellar Shield, this crew is the go-to for spacers who find the former too rigid. They’re bigger—thirty-plus last I checked—but less a single fist and more a web of allied freelancers. Members rarely deploy en masse; instead, they operate in shifting cells, trading favors and backup. Burger runs with this lot.

Their gear’s a patchwork quilt: some favor energy cutlasses, others plasma rifles, a few tinker with gadgets, and a handful are pure sharpshooters. The only uniformity is their emblem stitched onto their flight suits. But with numbers like theirs, cliques form, then fracture. It’s like those bloated guilds from vintage sim-games—all pomp, no purpose. Not my scene.

Diana

Now here’s an anomaly. Diana is a dazzling, women-dominated crew of roughly twelve, mostly sharpshooters and tech-wizards with a scant few frontline brawlers. By all logic, they should’ve been picked apart by now, yet they thrive. They’re famed for surgical long-range strikes and high-stakes contracts from the velvet-gloved elites in the station’s upper tiers.

Don’t let their glamorous, idol-like aesthetic fool you—cross them, and you’ll be sucking vacuum before your neurons register the insult. Rumor says they’ve got one man in their ranks, but I’ve yet to spot him. I once misgendered a member, and let’s just say the icy glares haven’t stopped. Joining them? I value my kneecaps.

Baldr Security Force

The station’s largest crew, but don’t expect frontline glory. They’re sentinels, not soldiers—protecting cargo lanes, VIPs, and hab-block corridors. Their roster’s packed with career spacers, semi-retired brawlers, and folks who prefer steady pay over adrenaline. Doctor Healer patches them up when needed.

Respectable? Absolutely. But guarding freighters while some bean-counter nitpicks your posture? No thanks. I’d rather stalk crystalline predators through asteroid fields and feast on something that didn’t come from a synthesizer.

Beyond these, there’s a kaleidoscope of micro-crews—tight friend-groups with names so melodramatic they’d make a holoscriptwriter blush. "Void Reaper’s Kiss." "Eventide’s Maw." I stifle a grin every time I hear one. The optimism of Outer Rim kids is… charming.

And speaking of the Rim…

As the hydroponic farms cycle toward dormancy, the annual migration begins. Wide-eyed hopefuls from the farthest orbital slums flood our docks, hungry for guild insignias and tales of glory.

"What’re you gawking at?"

"Me? You’re the one eyeballing me."

They arrive in waves—bright-faced, restless, and smelling of recycled colony air. Cast off by families who can’t feed extra mouths, they’re shoved toward the guild’s meat-grinder. 

The hangar thrums with their nervous energy. Registration queues snake into infinity. Fights erupt daily. Mirai’s grinding her teeth raw processing their files, while I savor my faux-milk. Divine. Truly divine.

"You got a problem!?"

"You wanna make it a problem!?"

"ANY BRAWLING GETS YOU JETTISONED. NO WARNINGS."

No discipline. No chill. But that spark in their eyes? Almost nostalgic. Colony kids are cut from the same hyperactive cloth, and this season tests the guild’s sanity. We can’t refuse them—the guild’s an endless war for warm bodies. So we endure.

"Check out that fossil."

"Silverglint glow."

"Think he’s Solflare-born?"

Ah. An audience. A trio of rookies swaggers over, ignoring the line. Cute.

"What do you want, hatchlings?"

"Pfft. Only Bronze-class?"

"We’ll lap you before the next cycle, old man!"

"By all means, try. The climb’s brutal—hope your egos are shockproof. And for the record, I’m Lunatran-sector born."

"Yeah, but you’ve got Solflare in you, right?"

"…Not wrong. Also, registration’s closed."

"WHAT!?"

"We were next!"

"HAH?"

Fools. Every last one of them. You can always spot the rookies from the border sectors—they have the same wide-eyed look and the same bad habits. Living out on the edge of charted space softens people. They’re used to open skies and time to spare, not the grind of structured fleet life. It’s no wonder they’re floundering.

They’re practically still hatchlings, really. I try to be patient. In the beginning, at least. But their chaos, their noise—it stacks up fast. There are limits to what I’ll tolerate. If they cross the wrong line, they’ll find themselves ejected into the void without ceremony. Until then, though? I can’t help but be drawn to that unfiltered optimism of theirs.

“Okay! This is the beginning! We’re going to carve our names across the stars!”

“Woohoo, let’s go!”

“We’re unstoppable!”

I won’t pretend I don’t enjoy the absurdity of the names they pick for their units. Each title more over-the-top than the last, drenched in wild ambition and sheer lack of shame. It’s turned into a bit of a pastime for me. I keep track of their ridiculous crew names, tucking them away for future mockery once the initial excitement wears off.

Author's Note:

Ah, welcome back, dear reader! I see you've survived another round of cosmic chaos and crew conundrums. Let's dive right into the latest escapades of our beloved Galaxia Narwhal—aka the man who can turn a simple crew introduction into a full-blown celebration of station life's eccentricities.

First off, let me just say, if you thought playing dress-up as a galactic tyrant was easy, try navigating the labyrinth of guild crews. From the hardened veterans of Stellar Shield to the patchwork freelancers of Blade of the Void, and the dazzling sharpshooters of Diana, it's a veritable smorgasbord of mercenary mayhem. And let's not forget the ever-optimistic rookies, fresh from the Rim, ready to carve their names across the stars with crew names that would make a holoscriptwriter blush.

But amidst all the laughter and crew camaraderie, there's a sobering truth. Life out here in the void isn't easy. It's a constant battle against chaos, noise, and the cold, unfeeling expanse of space. Yet, these folks keep going, day after day, with a resilience that would put a black hole to shame.

So here's to the crews, the rookies, the kebabs, the ale, and the kebabs. May your crew names be ever melodramatic, your victories ever in your favor, and your optimism ever unfiltered.

And remember, if you ever find yourself in need of a good laugh or a heartwarming tale of triumph against the odds, just tune in to the next chapter of "When Crew Names Eclipse the Cosmos." Trust me, it's going to be out of this world.

Until next time, stay snarky and keep reaching for the stars!