Atop a hill, overlooking the city of Asnio in the small nation of Borovia, sat a manor. Formerly, it served as the government building for the city, back when it had been a part of Austria-Hungary. Supposedly, it now served as the seat of power for the democratically-elected Borovian government, but that, as anyone could see, was a lie. There was no elected government, at least not anymore. The building which once stood for democracy was no a manor for the corrupt and vile. What had existed of the government had either fled to other nations, or been ground under the heel of rampant, uncontrolled capitalism. Now one man stood at the forefront of the nation, ruling with an iron fist and a stone-cold heart: The Robber Baron of Asnio. Having bought out the government, placing himself atop the proverbial throne, he had formed a massive paramilitary group, out of both loyal citizens and foreign mercenaries, armed them with military equipment, and donned them in their signature black uniforms. These Blackshirts, as they had become known, began a massive operation to ensure the populace of Borovia remains working for the Baron and his underlings, and that any dissidence or thoughts of uprising are crushed. The people of Borovia have grown increasingly discontent, and have begun what many are dubbing a 'Revolution'. This has left the Baron most displeased, and he has issued the formation of new units among the Blackshirts, drawing from all the various divisions and branches, to craft elite forces that can combat any threat in any way.

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The Robber Baron of Asnio sat at his dining table with a delicious banquet rested in front of him, his first of many for the day. Just as he was about to begin consuming the feast, a man rushed in with what seemed to be a newspaper flapping about in his hand.

"I-I'm sorry to interrupt, your greatness...b-but the newspaper has just published a story! A massive worker's strike has just been declared at one of the manufacturing districts here in the city. Workers are occupying at least five city blocks surrounding the factories, and they intend to take more. They've armed themselves, sir, with tools and weapons gathered from as far away as Prague. What would you have me order."

The Baron let out an exhausted sigh, and carefully folded up his napkin as he looked to his aide. "Send some of the new units, have them break up the strike and confiscate any weapons they find. Tell them that if they're attacked, they are allowed to use any force necessary. Have any normal divisions nearest the strike set up barricades for when the others arrive."

The aide nodded, rushing off to deliver the message. The Baron promptly returned to his meal, gorging himself on his ill-gotten morsels.

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Hauptmann Josef Fichter sat with the men of his unit, awaiting their first set of orders. Many of them had served in the Blackshirts for a bit now, having previously served during the Great War,  and had been brought together as part of the Baron's plan for quick-response teams. Others were newer to the concept of military life, and it showed. However, all that mattered now was that they were here. A radio played the news in the room with them, the current story describing an event in Berlin, of how an army of German Freikorps assaulting the capital, declaring themselves the new government.

Just then, an aide came through the door, orders in hand. With a prompt salute, he passed them off to Josef, who quickly read them over, before announcing them to his men. "We've got orders. There's a large, armed strike being held in one of the manufacturing sectors. We're going in to try and break it up. We have orders not to use force unless they attack us first, but given that some of them have military weapons, we're likely going to end up in a fight. So gather whatever gear you might need, and we'll get going. Servác, get you're truck ready, as most of us are going to need a ride. Everyone meet up with the truck once you're ready." Handing a paper of directions to the site of the strike to Servác, Josef walked with the others to the armory.