• TRX Certified
• Half Marathon runner
• Powerlifter
• Spin classes
• Bosu ball
• Swiss ball
• Exercise ball
• Kettlebell
• HIIT
• Tabata
• Boxing
• Taijutsu
• Cones
• Agility ladder
• Swimming
• Biking
• Hiking
• Wind Sprints
• Weight Vests
• Sauna Suits
• Bodyweight
• Stairs
• Bar Athlete
• P90X
• Insanity
• Tower 200
• High calorie nutrition plans for mass gain
• Low calorie nutrition plans for weight loss
• No carb diets
• No fat diets
• No processed foods diets
• Intermittent Fasting
• Negative training
• the list goes on and on

Damn nature, you ugly

If we examine the wild, natural world we live in, specifically the animal kingdom, there are many truths to be found. For this conversation, the truth is that animals don’t jog. Go ahead. Think of one that you’ve seen casually jogging through the wilderness. They simply don’t do it. Animals either walk or sprint. I know someone is going to mention horses trotting but that is a behaviour we have taught them, so suck it.

Going long distances is not how we are designed. Of course, the human body is an incredibly advanced machine and can adapt to all of our needs and demands, regardless of the cost. That’s how most of us got out of shape in the first place. We put crap in, and our miraculous bodies have done the best they could with what we provided. The same is true of exercise. Consider the following example:

I go running for 40km three times per week. I maintain a brisk but doable pace, knowing I will sweat off a lot of calories. All of this is true. My body says ‘hmmm, you need to be able to go a long distance. Let me shed some weight for you.’ That sounds like what we want, right? The problem is that our body sheds good and bad weight, fat and muscle. It doesn’t take a super athlete to run a marathon. Don’t kid yourself. If you’ve ever participated in, or seen pictures of, a marathon, there are a lot of out of shape people that finish the race just fine. They may not have the top times, but running a marathon isn’t something impossible if you’re out of shape.

Now consider the Olympic sprinter who trains five times per week, running high speed wind sprints of only 100 meters. Their body says ‘Geez, you need to get from here to there as quickly as possible. I need to shed weight to make you lighter, but I also need to gain muscle to help you get there faster.’ That’s what we see in nature. You don’t see flabby animals in the wild. They are already dead, killed by something in far better shape then they were.

Further consider the picture below:

The guy on the left is a marathon runner. To me, he looks sickly, tired, and not at all what I want to look like. His body has eaten his fat, yes, but it’s eaten his muscle as well, leaving him weak and without stores of energy.

The guy on the right is an Olympic sprinter. Muscular, high energy, and totally how I want to look. He embodies good health, that ideal we see in our superheroes, our action heroes, and in Hollywood. If you’re honest with yourself, you want to look like him too.

SIDE TANGENT
Now, if you’re a lady, go Google search. You’ll see the result is the same. Most ladies are afraid of heavy weights and working out properly as they don’t want to bulk up like those huge women they see in magazines (we’ll talk about magazines shortly). Stop believing the myth. You don’t have enough testosterone to bulk up. Those beasts you see? They take testosterone specifically to get big. Women get leaned and ripped working with heavy weights, shredding a lot of fat percentage.

Who owns the Fitness Magazines?

Oh Roc, you have such silly ideas. Sure, you took a picture of some sickly looking marathon runner, read a few things online, then twisted it all to suit your argument. Anyone can do that. You’re absolutely right. The fitness magazines have been doing it for decades.

Did you know that nearly every single fitness publication in North America is owned by a supplement company? Here’s a challenge for you. Pick up any fitness magazine and see if you can get through a single issue without seeing several supplement ads. Couldn’t do it could you?

Do you know why that is? Because the fitness magazines actively endorse supplements. Why do they do that? Because they are told to by their owners. People believe media. If media says you need supplements to get the body you want, then it must be true. It gets even deeper. The professional bodybuilders and fitness athletes you see in most of these magazines are sponsored by the same supplement companies that own the magazines.

“Hi. I’m Roc Wieler. I got this massive by using the new Mutant Mass by Oxymoron. Sure, my testicles dried up like raisins, and I rage sometimes when even a gentle breeze blows against me, but I got huge. You can too. For only $89.99 plus shipping, handling, taxes, and admin fees.”

Magazines will tell you cardio training is good. Magazines will tell you supplements are good. Magazines wont’ say thank you for all the mortgages you’ve paid off in your ignorance.

Gym Noobs

But Roc, all my girlfriends love the spin classes they go to! Sometimes we’ll have treadmill parties in the mornings. We’ve all seen results too! Well, ok, if I look back and am honest, nothing has really changed in my body at all. I sweat. I feel like I’m working out, but I’m not meeting my goals. WTF.

Gyms are a ripoff for the most part.

Think about this. You could meet with me in person, have a chat, pay me $100 per hour, and within the span of eight hours I could educate you on everything you need to know in order to develop and maintain a healthy lifestyle for the rest of your life. That sounds like a good deal for $800.

Yet every year millions of North Americans waste money on memberships, rarely achieving the results they desire. Some even go further and hire personal trainers through their gyms, often paying $100+ per hour for their “services”

Here’s some more lies you’ve been fed. Cardio equipment must be good because they are the busiest stations in every gym. Wrong. Want to know why they are the busiest? Because the gym has a lease to pay, salaries to pay, equipment rentals to pay, utilities to pay, the list goes on and on. I can take a group of ten people, show them how to get on a treadmill and walk/run for 30 minutes in only a few seconds. It’s easy. It’s something people think is a good warmup to their program, or their workout, or some just stay with it as their only form of exercise. The point is that within seconds I have you paying for the gym’s bills.

As I mentioned, to teach you everything I know about health would take 8 hours. If I worked at a gym that was open 24 hours and worked nonstop, that’s 3 people per day I could actually help, but then they’d leave the gym because there is nothing else for them to learn. How can I make a living as a trainer doing that?

That’s easy. I let people do whatever the hell appeals to them for an hour, not really caring about their health, their form, their progress, or whether I am meeting their needs, or even if I am growing as a trainer. I just want their money so I make them do cardio and check up on them every now and then.

I’ve gone all over the place I know. I get really enraged and passionate about so much of the shit I see in the fitness industry, but the original point was this:

Cardio takes far too long, and does not benefit you in the way you’ve been told. Stop doing it.

There are far better ways to gain muscle and burn fat, all at the same time. Some of these workouts, like Tabata, take 8 – 16 minutes, and are far more intense and beneficial short term and long term than cardio.

Right now I’m in the middle of my “Big for Fanfest” program. I workout for about 45 minutes, three times per week, and have already gained a lot of strength, about 10 lbs of muscle mass, yet lost 5% body fat. Go figure. Just over 2 hours per week and I’m seeing results like I never have before.

Do I use supplements? Yes. I use protein isolate and glutamine. Nothing else.

Do I use gym equipment? For my current program, yes. I use heavy weights and a power rack. Again, when you go the gym and look at the guys you want to look like, do you see them on the treadmill or in spin class? No, you see them lifting heavy, and there’s a reason for that.

Do I think the cardiovascular system isn’t important? Of course I thin cardio health is important. What I am bashing is the industry coined term of “cardio” that represents wasted time, money and effort robbing you of everything you went to the gym for in the first place.

Now, having said all this, there are some good gyms out there. Not one of them is a franchise. There are small, privately owned and operated facilities that focus on quality rather than quantity. If you have one near you, you’re lucky. If you’re even luckier, you’ll find one that has a really good trainer.

Stop believing the lies you’ve been fed. In this day and age, there’s no excuse for not being informed. You can achieve your goals. Just find someone willing to actually teach you how to get there.

Don’t be a lifer.

What about you Roc?

I’m always happy to help. If you want my professional services, you have some options:

• Send me an email with your before photo, and I will create your own post here on my blog and put you through my First 30 program. It’s a basic, yet hardcore approach for everyone, to test your willpower and assess your level of fitness. From there, should you survive, we can customize a program suited just for you.
• If you live in the Toronto, Ontario, Canada area, send me an email and we can arrange to get together sometime, your expense.
• If you don’t live in that area yet really want to spend some one on one time with me, drop me an email and I’d be happy to come to wherever you are, your expense.

Writing for print and writing a screenplay are two very different things.

***

INTRO:

A small Minmatar Captain’s Quarters. The vidscreen broadcasts in the background, cycling through various news channels and military comms: Incursion locations, wanted criminals with bounties on their heads, up to the minute coverage of the Empyrean War between the Minmatar and Amarr. Light from the screen spills across the metallic floor, coffee table and couch. There is a well worn ass groove in the leather of the couch. The lighting in the room flickers, indicating disrepair. A slightly metallic smell fills the air, mixed with a hint of mechanical fluids and rust.

SCENE 1:

The camera pans slows from the vidscreen, zooming outwards to encompass the table, the couch, dollying along the length of the room, refocusing on the small bunk against the wall. The audio from the vidscreen can still be heard. The bed covers are dishevelled. A small alarm clock sounds. Ambient noises can be heard in the distance. They are muted, as if behind a thick steel door. The camera zooms in beside the bed towards the lavatory door and stops.

A flush is heard. Roc Wieler steps out, a smile on his face. The audience roars and applauds. The show theme music plays.

“Twice already and not even 0600 hours.” Roc says with pride. The live studio audience is prompted to laugh. Roc is dressed in standard Tribal Liberation Force issue pants and boots. They are wrinkled and well worn. A loose fitting white tank top hangs from his muscular chest. There are a few food stains on it. He looks unkept. His bald head has stubble that extends all the way around his strong jawline, giving the appearance he hasn’t shaved in days.

He sits on the bunk and pulls out his Neocom, a small communications device. “Aura darlin, what do you have planned for me today?” he says.

A computerized, yet sensually female voice replies. “And good morning to you too, Roc.” The audience laughs. “Nothing scheduled for today. You are officially on leave.” she states.

Roc snorts derisively. “I guess miracles can happen.” The audience laughs.

He reaches down under the bunk and pulls out a duffle bag. Opening it, he pulls outs a towel, gives it a sniff, and pulls his face back quickly, his face contorting into a rude expression. The audience groans. Roc shrugs, putting the towel back in the duffle bad, zipping it up, then stands, slinging it over his shoulder. The audience laughs and groans.

“Well, time to hit the gym.” Roc says, walking towards a part of the room we haven’t seen. The distant sounds become closer as he approaches a steel door set in the far wall. Ambient sci-fi music is the soundtrack. He pushes a button. The door opens. We see a hint of what lies beyond: a massive and scenic interior cityscape of a space station. There are hundreds of people out of focus in the near distance. Personal speeders fly by overhead. The sounds are overwhelming.

BREAK TO COMMERCIAL

SCENE 2:

Muzak plays quietly in the background. Roc stands in front of a row of gym lockers, the one behind him open. He has loose and comfortable gym pants on, one leg up on a bench, tying a shoe. He is topless. He is relatively hairless, but large across the shoulders. He has a single tribal tatto that covers most of the left side of his chest. The women in the audience moan in appreciation of his chiseled physique.

Roc turns to the locker and pulls out the same tank top he was wearing earlier. The audience groans again at the same gag. The camera turns to being in the locker. Behind Roc’s head, other well built men and women can be seen in the changing room, though out of focus. The door closes to black.

CUT TO GYM FLOOR

Heavy rock music plays quietly in the background. The camera is focused into a mirror, giving the illusion we are actually looking at Roc. He is doing deep squats with a free standing weight bar, several large plates on either side. The weight is causing the bar to sag. From the squatted position, Roc pushes upwards into a stand, his face turning red, veins bulging in his head, neck, shoulders and chest. He rests a moment after the rep.

“Wooh! That’s one!” he says, then grins. Some of the audience chuckles. The camera turns from the mirror, focusing on the real Roc Wieler, specifically the plates of the weight bar. The number 45 comes into focus. The camera pans to watch Roc as he performs another deep squat. The audience ooos and aaahs as it becomes obvious there is 5 of these plates on either side of the bar, giving a total of 450 lbs. The enormity of this task is emphasized as two much taller, larger men walk by in the background, both of them with a look of shock on their face at what Roc is doing. They stop as he finishes another rep.

“Dayum! You on the juice?” one says, half jokingly. The audience chuckles.

“Sure am.” Roc replies. “Pomegranate and orange, every morning.” The audience laughs. The guy that asked the question dismisses Roc’s comment with a hand wave, then he and his buddy walk away.

“Don’t want a stupid answer don’t ask a stupid question.” Roc mumbles to himself as he starts another repetition. The audience roars and claps.

The scene cross fades to Roc in the shower, after his workout. 70s style porn music plays. He is completely naked, his butt exposed. The ladies in the audience oooh and ahhh. He is covered in soap later, and the wetness makes him look he even sexier. He slowly turns towards the camera as it pans down his body.

BREAK FOR COMMERCIAL

SCENE 3:

The camera is set far for a distant shot. More of the hustle and bustle of the busy space station can be seen as the camera slowly zooms in on a small cafe patio. Roc slowly comes into focus. He is eating a table food of healthy looking foods, complete with two glasses of water, some type of milkshake, and a beer, which he takes a drink of. The audience laughs. It is a very busy cafe and there appears to be no available seating aside from the second chair at Roc’s patio table.

The camera turns to a tall, beautiful, dark haired woman. Fashion catwalk music plays. Her hair is shoulder length and flowing freely. She wears a shiny, tight blue bodysuit that covers her fully, but exposes every sensual part of a woman a man could hope to see in public. She wears high heel boots, and walks with confidence. The male members of the audience moan and whistle. A man can be seen staring back as he passes her, walking into a wall. The audience laughs. The woman holds a small tray in her hands, She stops, looking around confused, spotting the seat at Roc’s table. She smiles her best smile and walks over, leaning down over Roc, her cleavage fully exposed.

“Excuse me, but is anyone sitting here?” she asks Roc.

Roc doesn’t change his body posture, but he lowers his shades enough for the audience to see that he is talking to her breasts. The audience laughs.

“Yeah. You.” he says.

The lady smiles and sits down.

“My name is Malaena.” she says, her voice filled with flirtation.

“Roc.” he replies.

“I bet you are.” she mumbles, taking a quick sip from the straw of her drink. The audience erupts in catcalls and hollers.

Roc takes a drink of his beer, his meal nearly finished. She raises an eyebrow.

“A bit early to be drinking?” she asks playfully.

“It’s noon somewhere, darlin.” he replies, downing the beer. The audience roars and laughs.

“Touche.” she replies,her pouty lower lip held slightly open by the straw. Her eyes smolder at Roc.

“I’d like that.” Roc mumbles to himself. The audience chuckles.

“Pardon me?” she asks.

“Just saying it’s nice to have the company of a beautiful woman for a little bit. Makes the day that much better.” Roc replies, a boyish grin on his face. He raises his arms behind his head, showing off his biceps.

She stares at his arms, then looks back at him. Her smiles grows wider.

“If that’s a true statement, how much of your day can I make better for you?” she says, leaning forward again, her cleavage exposed.

The scene pauses for a moment.

“Cheque please!” Roc yells, summoning a waiter as quickly as possible. The audience laughs. He quickly pays the bill, stands, and offers his arm. She stands and accepts, and they begin to walk away, both of them smiling.

BREAK FOR COMMERCIAL

SCENE 4:

The camera and music mimic the intro scene, panning from the Minmatar Quarters vidscreen slowly across the coffee table and couch. The only difference is that this time there are loud sounds of a couple having aggressive sex. The name Roc is moaned a few times. The audience ooohs and aaahs in rising pitch.

There is a slightly startled scream, then a loud thud. The camera finishes panning, focusing on the beautiful woman from before collapsed on the floor by the bunk, a sheet wrapped around her enough not to expose any private parts. Roc is laying on his side on the bed, the sheet barely covering his hips. He still has his sunglasses on.

“You need a bigger bed.” The woman says, grinning. The audience laughs.

“Or a softer floor.” Roc replies, throwing the sheet to the side and diving at the woman on the floor. Their lips meet. The audience roars. The scene fades black though the sex sounds continue.

The scene fades up. They are collapsed in the far corner of the room, interwined. The sheet is in the middle of the floor. The light flickers. Both are breathing heavily. The woman looks at her watch.

“We’ve been at this for nearly four hours.” she says with disbelief.

Roc smiles. “Good.” he begins. “That means we’ve got time for more.” They both smile. The audience ooohs and ahhhh. Roc leans in and they kiss again, passionately.

SCENE FADE TO BLACK

Inched was a relative term, and I had quickly come to remember how much I detested civilian class vessels. It had been a long time since I had worked with a private corporation, and it was proving tiresome already.

My primary responsibility was to identify, redefine and implement every process within the corporation, from accounting to project management, to pilot training, and everything in between.

I liked it to individually sorting and labelling every individual hair on a human head, figuring out the purpose and importance of each strand, removing the ones that were gray or with split ends, then moving on. Unfortunately, I had to include every single hair in my work before I could pull them all together into a tight, strong braid. I was a corporate stylist. I chuckled at the analogy.

“We’re almost there, sir.” Donovan said cheerily. I wanted to say he was a decent pilot, but given my experience, let’s just say he’s a pilot. I wanted to be nice, but a spade was a spade.

“This is shuttle GC-101-8A requesting route clearance and authorization.” I said over the comm to the traffic controller tower; standard protocol for all civilian ships. Space was a dangerous place, as I well knew, and civilian lanes were limited to the safest passages away from any pirate or capsuleer activity, usually.

“Permission granted, shuttle GC-101-8A. Fly safe.” the controller replied.

“Alright Donovan, I know you’ve been itching for this, so show me what she can do.” I said.

In my review of corp assets I had quickly come to realize that of the hundreds of junk heaps lining the hangars for parts and scrap, there were only three or four ships that were flight ready. Of those few, Donovan had been boasting about this particular shuttle from the beginning.

“You’ll see. She’s fast, sir. Just like I said.” Donovan said, eyes beaming.

We slowly eased into the slowest of the commuter lanes, and I cringed for fear of collision as proximity alarms blared continuously throughout the pilot cabin. I sat down in the co-pilot’s seat and strapped myself in, but as casually as possible so as not to undermine Donovan’s confidence in his ship.

“We’re approaching full velocity, sir.” Donovan said, his boyish grin spread wide across his face. I looked at the dashboard sensors. We were moving at 80 m/s. I sighed audibly.

The shine in Donovan’s eyes evaporated instantly with my carelessness, but I no longer cared. How was I supposed to make us profitable when our processes, our equipment, was all junk?

“Alright, get over it. Show me what she can do in warp.” I said.

Instantly, he was a twelve year old boy again, eager to please. “You won’t be disappointed, sir. This is where she really shines.”

We’d been through this same routine on every other flight we’d been on as we inventoried our hangars. And every single time I had foolishly allowed myself to get excited, only to be filled with disappointment afterwards.

“Coordinates verified. Ready to enter warp on your mark, sir.” Donovan said. I was impressed. If anything, they had started to at least learn some proper terminology.

“Mark.” I said flatly and felt the weak yet familiar sensation of warp. I looked at the dashboard sensors once again. We had achieved our maximum warp velocity quickly: 0.06 AU. Seriously.

“Does that actually qualify as warp?” I asked Donovan, though I doubt he heard me. It felt as though the entire ship was going to shake apart, and I quickly raised the volume of my voice to be heard.

“Abort warp!” I yelled.

Donovan reacted quickly and dropped us out of warp. The familiar emptiness of space greeted us. How many times had I lost myself in thought against this same backdrop? Too many to recall.

We quickly pulled up our coordinates. A quick micro-jump should take us back to the civilian lanes, and we could be back to the corp within an hour.

“Alright, lay it in.” I said, anxious to get back.

“No can do, sir.” Donovan said, pointing to a blinking indicator on the dashboard. “We’ve fried the warp core.”

I didn’t react. At all. No expression. No movement. No breathing. I simply froze. The idea of being trapped out here for one second longer than I needed to be was not something I was ready to endure.

“Well, we won’t get any closer just sitting here.” I finally said. “Let’s slow boat it.”

Nearly twenty hours later, we arrived back at corporate HQ. I left without saying goodbye to anyone, and enjoyed a long, hot shower.

Aura informed me I had one missed call. Nobody ever called.

“Replay message.” I said while lathering up.

“I’m in trouble. I didn’t know who else to call. Get back to me.” a smooth, unmistakable voice said to me. The sound of her once again sent shivers up and down my spine, but the urgency and brevity of the message raised my concern.

What had Mynxee gotten into this time?

I’ve been part of DV501 for nearly three years now. It’s a well paying gig, and the work isn’t that bad. The guys enjoy ribbing me, as I am still the new guy, but all in all, they’re pretty solid; there when you need them most.

The job itself is interesting. I work with clones, or more specifically, the clones of the empyreans. Capsuleers are well aware of the science behind their immortality, knowing when they expire within their piloting pod that through the miracle of Jovian science, they will be “reborn” instantly across the galaxy to a new clone, their memory intact, provided they’ve kept their medical fees paid.

There have been occasions where a pod pilot has let their payments lapse, and been quite vehement as to how unfair it is that when comparing their neural logs to the current log can see they’ve lost some skills. Not my problem. I’m not the one that cheaped out on the clone upgrade. You would figure with the astronomical amounts of isk eggers can potentially earn, they would never let their insurance default. Yet they do.

Thankfully, that’s not my department within the Zainou Corporation, the second largest clone manufacturer in New Eden.

My job specifically is garbage collection. Yeah, sounds glorious, I know. Someone has to do it, and honestly, like I said, the pay is probably better than anything I could earn planet side, and my family needs the boost in social standing. We’re of lower middle class caste, but hopefully with my work, my children will live a better life. Isn’t that the hope of every parent?

I suppose beyond that, every father can only hope to imbue a sense of right and wrong, an ethical code of morality into his children as well, and that brings me to the point of this personal log.

The call came in three hours ago. I’d like to say I was the first one called, but that was never the case. Seniority had its privileges, and I often got the crap assignments. This time, however, the first collection team had been engaged and destroyed upon entering the Amamake system, an act strictly forbidden by the Concord mandate. A retaliatory fleet arrived within moments, eradicating the offenders, Concord leaving as quickly as they had arrived.

A lot of good friends were on that ship. I’ll miss them when the job is done.

Once the area was cleared, I was sent out with the newest hires. I was the commander of a second string unit now, not exactly how I wanted to receive my promotion.

Let me dig in to the specifics of my role for a moment. You see, the Jovians left us many incredible pieces of scientific wonder, most of which are still vastly unknown to us. We know how to operate them, and even a few, how to repair, but for the most part we just sit and watch the machinations of a greater race at work. Specifically, as I said, I deal with clones. More specifically, I deal with the moment of death. When all goes well, and a pod pilot is connected to the Aura network through their pod’s neural interface, the entirety of their memory is uploaded to a fresh clone body. They are briefly examined, given a bill of clean health and motor function, then released to return to their duties. That job is an entire two clearance levels above mine, and it took a lot for me to pass all the screenings just to get this job.

As I’ve eluded to, occasionally things go wrong. It doesn’t happen often, but when it does, we need to be there, like we are today. Occasionally, the neural transmission fires as it should at the moment of death, but the body revives. I’ve seen it, and not just in capsuleers. There are thousands of cases across the universe where a loved one expires, only to be resuscitated, or to regain consciousness on their own, even though their heart and brain activity has ceased. Sometimes this results in permanent damage, neurological and physical, and sometimes it doesn’t.

The risk with an immortal pilot of course is the sheer power at their command. Should one’s mental condition be degraded, they could easily turn on the galaxy, reaping untold destruction upon millions of innocents.

My job, in a nutshell, is to kill capsuleers. Well, that’s not accurate. My job is to make sure they’re actually dead when the cloning system detects anomalies. We have complete immunity to our actions, and in fact, enjoy the full protection offered by Concord.

Most of the time it’s just a bug in the system we don’t understand, or at least we think it’s a bug. Sometimes, we find a pilot still alive in their pod. We quickly check the records to make sure the active clone is indeed alive and has passed a clean bill of health, then we destroy the pod.

I am not a murderer. Technically, that clone was supposed to already be dead. We’re just keeping the natural order of things.

I’ll admit, the first few times were hard, but thankfully we’re great at rationalizing our actions, desensitizing ourselves to the abnormal and making it every day.

I’m really just spewing thoughts now, which is unlike me. If you asked the guys, well, when they were alive, they’d tell you I’m not one for words. It’s not that I’m shy; I just don’t have much to say. Funny how my voice has found strength in writing.

Right now I’m sitting onboard the Onslaught, a Sleipnir class Command ship, piloted by retired Colonel Roc Wieler. I’d never heard of the man before today to be honest. I will never forget him after this.

When we arrived at the scene of the battle, the carnage was everywhere. Already, the scavengers were picking apart the wrecks, trying to claim what valuables they could, and we left them alone. I doubt they even knew we were there.

We had entered the system silently, and quickly found the pod of Col. Wieler, right where his death was recorded. Unfortunately, due to the demise of the first response crew, we weren’t the only ones there. As I’ve come to learn, the Colonel himself is quite sentimental about a ring he wears, and makes a point of recovering it every time he dies. His salvage team had already recovered his corpse by the time we had arrived.

The problem, if it isn’t evident by now, is that he wasn’t dead.

We broke silence, an imperative rarely executed, and informed the good Colonel that he would relinquish the corpse, and the pod, immediately to Zainou, and cited him the appropriate Concord declaration and bylaw by which he must abide.

He promptly told me to go to hell.

I repeated the warning, letting him know that failure to comply would result in the arrival of a Concord enforcement fleet, and that he and his crew would be destroyed without mercy.

That resulted in the electronic systems of my ship being scrambled, and the ship’s crew, along with myself, being taken captive aboard his ship.

Fortunately, I knew the situation would resolve quickly. We had strict protocols, and if I wasn’t heard from within the next fifteen minutes, the enforcement fleet would be deployed to whatever location the Colonel was currently at, provided he was still in Empire space.

I sit alone right now, outside of the infirmary, waiting for any of the inevitable conclusions to this tale. Either I will be killed, and the Colonel will be killed in kind, or we will be released, at which point I will give the order to have the Colonel destroyed.

Two clones of the same pilot simply cannot be allowed to exist. That is ingrained into our heads every single moment of our training.

The infirmary doors hiss open, and the Colonel invites me in. He has a sadness to him.

I see his clone, laying on an examination table, motionless.

“Verify his death.” The Colonel says without emotion.

Using my own portable equipment, I do so. The clone is indeed expired. I notice the ring missing from the corpse’s hand. I stare wide-eyed at the man before me, his arms crossed, watching me do my examination. What kind of man is capable of such an act? Is it strength? Ruthlessness? What kind of morality would allow a man to kill himself? What rationalization, what burden must he bear?

I open my mouth to ask, then think better of it. There are some things better left unknown I decide.

He nods once at me, then begins to leave. “You’ve nothing to report here.” he says gruffly, but his voice wavers at the end. I notice the ring on his finger, but do not ask.

I remain silent, returning to my ship with my crew.

MISSION LOG
AMAMAKE SYSTEM
HEIMATAR REGION

— BEGIN —

As of 13:02 hours, clone Tau of pilot Roc Wieler has been destroyed without incident.

— END TRANSMISSION —

1. OOC: The first goes to my very talented brother in law, Atif-i. He’s a local, in demand DJ, and his music and style is very modern and unique. I’ve learned much from his personal tips as well as just listening to his phenomenal tracks. You should do the same by clicking THIS link.
2. The second thank you goes out to Algoriddim software, the makers of some fine DJ software. Specifically, I purchased their popular DJAY app for my iPad2, and have learned a lot just by playing around. A large part of that learning experience has gone into this latest album.

Speaking of which, that is what this post is about, my upcoming album; my FIFTH album. It amazes me every single time. What often starts off one single melody line I hum in my head inevitably turns into more. One day I may be swayed to put together a B Side album, containing all the tracks that end up on my virtual editing room floor.

The album is entitled Mendre: After Hours Vol. 1 Anthems, and is just that. Twelve tracks of heart pounding club anthems, with my own personal style, mixed live in DJay, then remastered within my digital audio suite. They are the songs that make you get up from wherever your sitting and move your ass to the dance floor. They are the songs that make you sweat. They are the songs that make you enjoy being alive.

And if the sweating part doesn’t bother you, they are the songs you run to, the songs you workout to, the songs you have Brutor style sex to. The beat is constant throughout the entire album, and they are easy to mix into other tracks with lots of lead-in and lead-out for your pleasure.

I’m in the final stages of production, mastering the audio levels to be consistent across all tracks, making sure that everything is being heard the way it should be.

My aim is to have it released before Fanfest.

There will be site badges available soon, and as always, I appreciate your support in promoting my efforts. My fans have been the greatest, and for that, you get the biggest note of appreciation of all.

DOWNLOAD HIGH REZ VERSION HERE

“Reykjavik, I am in you.”

Come March 19th, those will be the words I utter.

Exciting news, I’m going to Fanfest 2012.

I had looked into creating a donation site to try to raise money from my fans, my friends, EVE players, and really anyone that wanted to give me some money to go to Fanfest. Unfortunately, it was one of those scenarios where I would’ve had to spend money to potentially make money, and while I’m all for that, things have been tight as of late, and Fanfest hasn’t been high on the priority list.

My loving wife, the incredibly talented, ambitious, beautiful, personable, supportive, caring, kind, generous Farah the Iqbal surprised me only yesterday with an itinerary for Fanfest 2012.

I’m still smiling.

As the title of this post indicates, I’ll be staying at the Arnarhvoll hotel, minutes away from Harpa, the new location of Fanfest. I know already that a few CCPers are excited to see me attending, and a few that are already cringing in their cubicles at CCP, wrought with fear.

Hopefully I’ll be able to get some swag together, as is a Fanfest tradition. No promises.

Hopefully, Reykjavik will be stocked up on beer and cigars.

Hopefully, I’ll see you there.

One particular Friday I was in the company of a very special lady whom happened to notice a new restaurant had opened on the promenade of the station we were in. I often prefer buffets due to the sheer volume of food I consume, but buffets are often lacking in quality, and there is definitely something to be said for a quality meal, though it usually has a quality cost attached.

“What the hell.” I said. “Could be fun.”

The restaurant itself had a nice feel about it; nothing that made it memorable decor wise, but it felt familiar, like many other restaurants I had been in and enjoyed. We were politely greeted, notified of a thirty minute wait time, and were directed to the bar to wait.

Generally, I hate waiting for food. I get hungry every few hours, and when Roc hungry, Roc mad; and when Roc mad, Roc smash.

We sidled up to the bar, and waited to be noticed by either of the female bartenders. It was typical to have attractive bartenders in an establishment, as it enticed us foolish men to spend more time and money there simply to be around beautiful women. It’s a smart business strategy, appealing to our stupidity.

Sadly, the bartender that finally noticed us was none too sociable. My date and I almost felt as though we were disturbing her by being there. She made it clear she had better things to do then serve us, as we weren’t drinking that particular evening, and were merely interested in appetizers. I’m sure bigger tips were to be had, and that is the sentiment she exuded through her very pores.

My date cautiously asked me if I wanted to stay, knowing how I get about customer service, and wanting to avoid a scene. I would have no qualms about up and leaving, but not before letting everyone in the restaurant know why.

I smiled warmly at my lady, and let her know that it was a wonderful evening, and I wasn’t going to let one snotty bartender ruin that.

We looked over appetizers, and originally had decided on a baked potato stick concoction smothered in cheeses and a fatty unclean meat product. We asked the bartender if we could substitute the disgusting meat for a healthier choice, something leaner. She looked at us as though we had just asked her to orbit the neighbouring moon in a jetpack, and I could feel the vein in my forehead pulsating, my bitch meter almost full.

“I’ll have to check with the kitchen.” she said, turning and leaving before we could reply.

“You do that.” I said with smugness to the empty air. It didn’t sound as insulting or snide when nobody was around to hear it.

A few minutes later she returned and informed us that indeed a substitution could be made, but with a hefty surcharge.

“I see.” I began, taking a deep breath. “If we simply asked for it to be removed, there would be no deduction in price, correct?” She nodded. “Yet because we want one thing to be substituted with another, there is an extra charge. Do you see where the logic is failing me?” She started daggers at me, and my lady became uncomfortable, knowing I wouldn’t back down once I got going on a logic tangent.

“You can speak to the owner if you wish.” she said without any enthusiasm whatsoever.

“Yes, I’d like that. I’d like that a lot.” I replied, already forming my diatribe for the owner. I had decided we would be leaving. I had no patience for non-accommodating service personnel. While I try to be respectful to everyone, you will quickly get what you give with me. It’s not my fault you may be having a bad day; you’re my first impression of the business you represent. Remember that, because I certainly will.

It wasn’t long after that the owner came and greeted us personally. She was remarkably friendly, and held a familiar quality about her. I’m not sure if that was her “thing” to disarm potentially hostile guests, but whether genuine or not, it worked like a charm, and I was diffused.

She explained that the substitute meat would be a much larger portion, and that sadly healthier meat was at a premium in the market currently, and she simply couldn’t afford to do a straight product swap, absorbing the cost herself.

It made sense, and that was all I needed.

We cancelled the order, and were escorted to a nice booth by the owner herself.

Our server was a small, cute Achura, in training apparently, but full of confidence, charm and ability.

Something I had come to set as a standard for testing the quality of food in restaurants was to order two particular items: calamari and burgers. Calamari are often a challenge to get right; they can turn out rubbery if undercooked, or too crispy if overcooked. That, and my lady loves them. Burgers were my specialty; the balance and blend of tastes, the tenderness of the meat, cooked properly but not charred, not undercooked and bloody. It should be something simple, but too many places I have been couldn’t produce a good burger, which was often indicative of other issues like rushing through orders, not paying attention to product quality, lack of skilled chefs, etc, etc.

There was a lot of fun date conversation, and the owner returned often to our table, engaging us directly about our lives, not once turning the dialogue into a business pitch, apology, schmooze, or anything one might expect.

We got talking about my career, my recipes, my unique philosophies on life, and she actually asked me to give an honest critique of my experience at her restaurant. I warned her I wouldn’t hold back. She welcomed it, and hopefully as she is reading this now, is getting exactly what was promised.

The calamari was fantastic, perhaps the best I’d ever had. The burger was a close second. My date, on the other hand, had ordered fajitas, which were typically ordinary; not a single good, nor bad, thing about them. They simply were.

A pleasant surprise was the free dessert that arrived. Neither myself nor my date are dessert eaters, but hey, I’ll take free any day! The dessert was interesting, and didn’t taste bad, but it’s hard for me to give me an honest appraisal as I have nothing to compare it to.

Pricing? For what the fajitas were, I found them overpriced. The rest was exceptional value for the food quality.

Service? Aside from the bitchy bartender, whom I hope reads this as well, the service was top notch. I suppose I shouldn’t complain really. The place is called Crabby Joe’s, and the first taste of it I experienced was definitely crabby.

We will be going again, probably this Friday night. In fact, we may even bring friends, which is rare for us; not because we don’t have friends, but because we don’t really think highly enough of most food places to take people we like there.

So Crabby Joe’s, you did ok in my books. Overall I’d give a 7.5/10.

I look forward to seeing you again. By you, I mean all the staff except the bitchy bartender.

It had been four months I had gone without a fulltime contract. Sure, I had done some side work along the way, a few missions, some training courses, etc, but not having a steady income had started to weigh on me. Keeping my small fleet of fits operational was a costly thing, and steady cashflow was imperative.

Of course, the universe revealed itself as it often does. There were no bites on my CV for the first few months, but as soon as I tentatively accepted the offer from this corporation, a half dozen other offers came to the table. It’s like relationships; when you’re single, nobody wants you but as soon as you’re in a relationship, you’re attractive to everyone. It’s the irony of life really.

She gestured for me to walk with her to the hangar, which we did. I was already thinking about the task I had been hired for: training a new fleet, defining their processes from start to finish. That wouldn’t be so bad. They had wanted someone with previous military experience. My guess was that the discipline and uniformity that came with military command was something of value, and something I could provide in abundance.

I met the single pilot the corporation had under its employ. I was a little underwhelmed, having worked up the idea of a new fleet in my mind, so to see a lone pilot that was responsible for all company flights was a bit of a shock. Make no mistake, he was very likeable, though young, and eager to establish himself with me. We spoke for a few hours, me mostly trying to get the lay of the land, so to speak, and him sharing everything he had learned in his career as a pilot.

When I was finished with him, I spoke with the CEO. That is where the real shock began. My understanding had been that I would be Flight Controller, training pilots. Period. Obviously I would be responsible for vetting and hiring new pilots, which wasn’t part of the original discussion, but I was ok with that. Then the CEO went on to explain how given my extensive military processes experience, he wanted me to redefine all internal processes from Account Management to Business Strategies to Flight Control, and more…

I think we’re going to need a new chat about money though I’m hesitant. Given the humour of the universe, I’ll lose this opportunity if I push for more money (our original haggle on my fee already pushing them to their upper limits), and once I’m on the market again, the market of course, won’t be interested.

We’ll see how things go. I’m liking the team I’ve met so far. The people always make it or break it.

Either way, it’s good to be back in the saddle again.

I sat in the waiting area, looking at the other pod pilots, listening to a muzak version of “A Jita Welcome”, which really sounded awful to me, but I suppose was flattering to already be redone as a soothing piece to pass the time.

There was minor small talk amongst the waiting patients, but generally I wasn’t interested in the lives of other immortals; it was typically the same rhetoric about killboards, uberness and how awesome they were in every way. I couldn’t really hear them over the sound of how bad ass I am.

“Roc Wieler, the physician will see you.” the comely receptionist said, inviting me to longer wait in a private room. Finally, the doctor was available to see me.

“So, what seems to be the problem today?” he began, as they always do.

“Embarassingly, I have this intermittent and completely random pain in my big toe. When it happens, I can’t even walk. There’s no consistency to it, nothing I can isolate to cause it to happen, but it’s annoying as hell, and inconvenient to be immobilized by such a stupid thing.” I explained.

“I see.” he said, as they always do. “Could be any number of regular ailments, but typically you capsuleers aren’t susceptible to those things. Maybe you’ve a faulty clone.”

Lovely, I thought to myself.

“Let’s order up some tests.” he said, as they always do.

Several hours later, XRays, bone scans, CT Scans and other tests all revealed nothing conclusive.

“Well, I suppose it could be arthritis, in which case you’ll just have to cope with it.” he said, as they always do. “Not much can be done. I wouldn’t worry too much about it. In your line of work, you’re sure to be in a fresh clone soon anyway. I’d just check with your med techs to verify it’s not something being copied into your duplicates.”

I didn’t like that answer. I had no intentions of dying again soon, and certainly didn’t want to have to “cope” with something that had proven enough of a hindrance to me to seek medical advice, something I did reluctantly in the best of scenarios.

“Well, is there something I can do in the meantime?” I implored.

“Of course. I could prescribe some drugs to help reduce inflammation and numb the pain, but you’re best bet is stay off the foot.” he said. “I see here that you’re physically active. That will have to be on indefinite hiatus to give yourself time to heal; 6 – 8 weeks then we’ll meet again.”

Yeah, that wasn’t going to happen.

“Not one for drugs, doc.” I said, memories of Vitoc and other substances I’d endured having developed within me a hatred for all things unnatural. “There any natural remedies I can try?”

The doctor sighed, looking around as if checking to see if he was being spied upon, then leaned in close as if to tell me a wondrous secret.

“Look,” he began. “I shouldn’t be telling you this, but I will.” he said with a conspiratorial twinkle in his eyes. “Legally, diseases can only be treated with drugs. To prescribe anything else could actually result in me going to jail.”

“You’re shitting me.” I said, curious as to the rationale for his conspiracy theory.

“Regrettably, I wish that were the case. You see, there are many natural remedies for pretty much anything that ails you. The problem is, they can’t be patented, as they are natural. Chribba Pharmaceuticals, and a few of the other lager pharma companies literally have agreements in place with the Concord Drug Administration. While you would think drugs would be effectual and beneficial to the public they are meant to serve, they often have side effects worse than the current ailment, but the pharma companies and the CDA aren’t looking out for the public; they’re in it to protect stockholders, which means showing a profit, being in the black. Simply put, curing disease isn’t profitable, so they don’t want to do it.”

I wanted to pick apart his theory, but quickly recalling my own experiences, I couldn’t help but come to the same conclusion. Pharma companies were businesses, and all businesses wanted to profit. Eliminating your customer base resulted in the extinction of your companies, and knowing some of the mega corporations, and the trillions of isk they made, that would never happen. As with many things, it was all politics and back room deals.

“Give a quick search on GalNet.” he said. “You’ll find any number of natural solutions there that will help you out.” He paused for a moment. “You’re lucky really.” he said, letting the statement hang in the air.

“Oh?” I asked, prompting him to continue.

“Definitely. Just had a pilot in here who picked up a nasty parasite during a recon mission to a nullsec world. It literally incubates in the testicles, and by the time it’s ready to gestate, it’s too late. Within a matter of minutes, the testes swell up to the size of melons, then literally hatch from the inside out, the parasites exploding onto the flesh of the host, eating as they go. Intermittent toe pain really doesn’t seem that bad now, does it?” he said with a grin.

“Yeah, I’m good.” I said, the colour drained from my face.

For example, some of my long term readers might remember this post DYNAMIC LANDSCAPES. TL;DR? RTS style AI working towards goals from a random objective pool.

We all have ideas. 

For years, I’ve approached companies like Sony Online Entertainment with my ideas. I was a day one Star Wars Galaxies vet (RIP), and very active in the community there, so figured my voice might get heard. It didn’t of course. Heck, I even managed to get a small contract from Lucasarts and still couldn’t get my voice heard.

So, being Canadian, I tried to approach an up and coming Canadian Gaming House called Bioware. They had one or two good games at the time, but of course, my voice wasn’t heard.

Over the years I’ve made contacts with various game companies like Electronic Arts, CCP, and others, but the result is always the same:

Nobody wants to hear your ideas. Ideas are a dime a dozen. Create your idea into a working prototype, then show us.

It’s like every client I’ve ever dealt with. They need to see it to get it. So I’ve built several prototypes over my career in the hopes of maybe one day seeing my own game design ideas realized. So far, no luck.

I’d even thought of going on my own, getting some venture capital backing, and produce my vision that way. I acquired very practical experience about Venture Capitalism during that time, and just how much work is involved in getting someone else to invest money in you. Needless to say, that avenue didn’t work out for me either.

Nowadays, things are different. There is a little website called Kickstarter.com. This wonderful little website basically allows you to pitch your idea, maybe even showcase your prototype, and if people are interested, they’ll invest some money in you. If enough people are interested, you will have a cash pool in which to pursue your business. Simple, effective, smart, and just one of the many things I love about the way technology has caused a shift in the way people think.

So, let’s get down to the nitty gritty.

If you’re here at my blog, chances are you know I’m a fiction writer. I enjoy good writing, especially good science fiction. I won’t tell you my favourite authors, as we all have our opinions, and this thread isn’t meant to start a discussion on whom is the better writer, but the point is that I enjoy good writing.

So what is good writing to me? It’s in the details, the author’s ability to drag me into their vision, allowing me to feel as if I’m part of their lore. The story has to move, it can’t be stagnant with too much detail, or move so quickly that I really don’t feel a part of it. To find this balance is a challenge for sure. I’ve read some series that could’ve been done in one book instead of ten, had they removed a lot of the unnecessary details. I’ve read other books that should’ve been expanded into a series, adding more details to flesh out their world a little more, to make me believe it exists.

This is what I enjoy most about Star Wars, Eve Online, and even can appreciate about Star Trek, though I’m not a fan. They all have extensive universes that are very well fleshed out, giving me an extensive guideline as to what I can, and cannot, do in my own fictional writing within those universes.

Take Roc for example. CCP has created such a vast tapestry for New Eden, that not only do I know all the cultural and historical histories of the Minmatar, but I know about current events through the RP RSS feeds, I know about politics, I know about the Brutor Tribe, I know about the current war efforts; I know a lot of things.

I know that Roc can die outside of his pod. I know much about the lore of pods, and capsuleers. I know a lot about Roc.

But it is also difficult to maintain lore. The more extensive it becomes, the more writers become involved, the greater the chance of inconsistencies being introduced. As readers, as players, we’re quick to jump all over that kind of thing.

For example, in Tony G’s latest novel, Templar One, there are a couple of things that irk me personally: one scientific character refers to the fibonacci patterns on the floor of a Sleeper station. How would anyone from the timeline of New Eden know what the hell a fibonacci sequence is? They wouldn’t, but it’s not critical to anything, and doesn’t really break the story. It simply breaks my suspension of disbelief in the lore of New Eden, and I find that bothersome.

Another example, also from Templare One, is Empress Sarum Jamyl talking with a character about fame and power, about being known internationally … really? Your fame and power extends internationally, your majesty? What about the millions of lives you mentioned earlier, and your vast empire of planets? Ugh. Little things. Don’t get me wrong, I’m really enjoying Templar One. I’m just trying to make a point.

But I am seriously digressing on what my intended topic was.

Basically, my aim is to create a science fiction MMO. But I’m going to forgo having any backstory. I refuse to create such a rich lore for my universe. In fact, my game isn’t going to have any features either, as I refuse to have my efforts criticized from players that are never satisfied.

Essentially, it’s going to be nothing but a login screen with a lengthy queue, and then a text based chat engine, without emoticons. What will make it really sexy is the name restricting algorithm I have nearly perfected. Take a look at the screenshot below:

That’s right. This entire post was crap simply to make the point that players are idiots. The amount of time, money and effort some of these game companies spend creating their universes, and we decide the best roleplay name we can come up with is Hugh Wang (yes, I’m looking at you Rens local).

Seriously, it’s pathetic, says the guy named Roc Wieler. But at least I came up with a backstory for my name!

The least we can do to respect these universes is take two or three minutes to create a suitable name. I mean, EVE Online even has a random surname generator!

Or try this:

• merge your first and last name – Mine is Marcus Dickinson, so Mardic. Not perfect, but not bad.
• change the vowels in your first name – Morcis, that’s pretty cool.
• change the order of your name – Sucram, hahah, ok that’s not much better.
• use a random name generator

Did that really take ANY effort? No. So please, next time you join a game, don’t be an idiot. Think of an actual sci-fi sounding name and give my facepalming a break. My forehead grows sore.

Instead, I’m simply going to talk about our great Eve community, and why Eve is dead.

53,981 visits were logged to my humble blog on Dec 24th and Dec 25th of this year.

Those were the two days I gave away my four previous Eve Online inspired albums, as well as a bonus Christmas album. I can’t tell you the statistics on how many downloads there were, but I can tell you my dropbox died in 13 minutes, resulting in a 3 day account suspension. There was such a volume that I had to send out a cry for help to my fans, which resulted in two unlimited bandwidth servers being made available in short order, as well as a premium Rapidshare account. That seemed to satisfy the hungered lust of the Eve players.

Since then, I’ve done searches on torrent sites and other music sharing platforms, and now see my music everywhere: over two year’s worth of personal effort out there for the masses to enjoy.

I have no regrets about that. I’m glad it’s being listened to.

So how is Eve dead? It’s not. It’s a sarcastic title. Eve is very much alive.

Almost 54,000 visits to one small Eve fansite, only advertised via my Twitter account and the EVE Online Facebook page. That’s frickin insane if you think about it from a ratio perspective. If there are roughly 350,000 players, and 54,000 are interested enough in all things Eve to find out about my giveaway, that’s nearly 20% of the entire Eve playerbase! Eve has the most active and fanatical community I’ve ever seen! I mean seriously! If ever there had been that many purchases of my music from iTunes, Zune, Amazon, or any of the other 30 digital distributors I am promoted on, I could’ve had my mortgage paid off by now and focused on everything Roc Wieler full time, but noooo, you greedy bastards decided $10 per album to support someone creating custom music for you was just too much, and instead devoured it only when it was free!

I kid, but still, geez…

I’m just rambling now, so I guess I’ll wrap this up with what I could’ve TL;DR from the beginning:

Happy New Year, from me to all of you. I’m proud to share New Eden with each of you.

PS. Because of the giveaway, one Eve player commissioned me to do a theme for the Caldari State Protectorate, the capsuleer military division of the Caldari State. I successfully completed the commission yesterday, and have been given permission to share it with all of you. Enjoy!

PPS. If you want to help me out and know any professional gaming or film companies looking for a music composer, send them my way.

“We are the State, and we have claimed our long-lost homeland. Now we are at war; united, whole and full of fire and purpose. The State calls you, capsuleer, for it needs your strength and your leadership to fend off the encroaching Gallente menace. The State will not fall. Join us. Fight. Conquer.” —State Protectorate corporate description

CLICK HERE to download the Caldari State Protectorate theme.

PPPS. And just as I was saving this post, my email rang. WordPress sent me my ANNUAL BLOG REPORT. It seems to not include the last week or so of activity, which is unfortunate, but I figure we’ll include the report, just for fun!

So, I relied on my instincts, my routines and habits, to get me through the day. That is to say, I was at the gym.

I was just winding down on the final week of my current workout program; a grueling six weeks of body shredding goodness, which had been quite effective, but incredibly draining, mentally and physically.

That’s when I first saw Malcolm come into the gym. Of course, I didn’t know his name then, but I would never forget him.

He pushed forward in his motorized chair towards the squat bar. He was dark skinned, even for a Brutor, his tribal markings faded, but there was still a glint of life in his eyes which intrigued me. I was walking a lap in between 100m wind sprints, and saw him struggling with something in the front carry basket on his chair.

“Need a hand old timer?” I asked, a friendly smirk on my face.

He smiled warmly, asking if I could get his exercise gloves from a bag buried at the bottom of his basket. He told me how he struggled getting his gloves on as he no longer had any feeling in his hands, then laughed.

I found his gloves and helped him get them on, which was quite the struggle as his hands were gnarled and lifeless, his fingers more like claws than anything, stiff and unyielding. I was afraid of snapping them as I tried to delicately get them through the appropriate finger holes.

All the while, Malcolm and I chatted, as I was genuinely curious about his story.

“I served in the TLF a few years back, gunner 1st class.” He beamed with pride at both his membership in the Tribal Liberation Force, the capsuleer assault force of the Minmatar Militia, and his privileged rank; his lack of pod pilot control receptacles made it obvious he wasn’t of my kind.

“We were engaged in a firefight out in Auga, Amarr forces everywhere. We had been baited good. I had signed up for service like so many from my district, the lure of unlimited wealth outweighing the certainty of death. Times were tough, still are tough; how could I say no to that?”

I nodded in agreement as I continued to fidget with his gloves.

“Our pilot issued the ‘abandon ship’ protocol, those damned klaxons blaring mercilessly in our ears. We did as we had been trained to do, and made our way to the escape pods. I was halfway down my egress corridor when the bulkhead blew, taking my entire gunnery team with it. In the blink of an eye I lost a dozen good men and women, but there wasn’t even time for it to register before the debris hit me, severing me just below the waist.”

He pointed down at his chair, at the stumps where his legs used to be.

“The entire corridor decompressed around me, and I thought for certain I was going to be crushed into oblivion, then and there. Cliched as it sounds, my life flashed before my eyes: falling in love, proposing, marriage, children, grandchildren, all of it. More than anything I was saddened I would never get to see any of my family again. I couldn’t even think about how much money they would be paid at my death; I wanted to live.”

He looked at me again, a smoldering fire in his eyes, and once again I nodded, urging him to continue as I struggled to get his thumbs into the gloves.

“I couldn’t tell you what happened after that. Couldn’t even tell you how much time passed before the salvage team found me. I reckon they were looking for intact ship parts; I just happened to be a coincidence, but who am I to complain? I’m still around.”

He smiled.

I liked this man. He had heart.

“Took me a long while to recover. I was mighty depressed. Not so much that I had lost my legs, but because I hadn’t died, my family got squat. No payout, and of course, had I read the fine print I would’ve noticed that there was no money for injury only. They would’ve been better off had I died, in that sense. Ah well, such is life I suppose.”

I wish I could say his story was unique but I knew better. Even amongst my own colleagues, many didn’t even recognize their ship crews,  much less care about their well being. They were an unseen and disposable commodity, like any other ship component, except cheaper to replace.

“Look, I’ve just finished warming up.” I lied. “Mind if I work in with you?” I asked.

Malcolm smiled. “It would be my honour, Colonel Wieler.”

I smiled back to him. He was a humble, grateful man, with a good heart. I wanted to surround myself with more people like that, people that don’t forget what’s important in life: family, friends, and looking at the very best in everything.

We had a decent time of it, and when finished, I spoke out to him, “Same time tomorrow?”

“Yes sir.” was the reply.

Indeed. I was going to spend my time getting to know this man, learning from him, sharing war stories with him. I was going to find out his full name, his rank before he was discharged, and make sure his family was taken care of for the rest of their lives, as his own captain should’ve done.

Good people are hard to find. Treasure those you do.