Port Olisar

After months of drifting from system to system, we finally made it. A hauling ship is so much different than being on a bustling warship.  

Stanton.

Crusader filled the viewport first — a giant of clouds, swirling storms filling the skies. Hanging above it, like a chain of beads strung across the black, were the rings of Port Olisar. The comms chatter was nonstop, ships of every size begging for docking clearance, haulers stacked nose to tail, mercs buzzing in patrol craft, sleek yachts sliding through lanes like they owned the place. Organized chaos.

The approach alone was enough to keep me tense and and we manned all the turrets. You knowever know what can happen even a high sec area.  We threaded past Cutlasses running hot, a Carrack under escort, even a 600i drifting too close to traffic lanes. The ironclad rattled as we made our burn. This is an old station. There aren't any airlock,  strictly landing pads, and they were packed.  Our landing gear caught with a satisfying thud. Months of running from Carteyna, months of stations, pirates, hustlers, and politics — and here we were, finally tied into the heart of Stanton.

Port Olisar wasn’t home. It smelled of fuel, recycled air, and too many bodies in too little space. Vendors shouted from kiosks, crews bargained over cargo, mercs advertised their guns for hire. It was loud, crowded, alive. Exactly what I needed.

I walked those decks with my rifle slung, watching everything. A few pickpockets in the crowd, smugglers huddled in corners, security pretending not to see too much. This wasn’t peace, not by a long shot. But it wasn’t war either. It was survival — raw, honest survival.

And for the first time in years, I felt like I belonged.