It was a typical first day back from RNR. The crew was anxious, as was I. Time off is pleasant and all, but I yearn to be back in the thick of things. I got my choice of assignment this time round, a rare treat. I chose a destroyer, a Thrasher that had only seen a handful of flights. We were to go into contested systems deep in dead space, off the beaten path of the war. It would seem the Amarr had been delving deeper and deeper into our territories.

We traversed the expanse to our destination without encountering a single soul. No merchant ships. No war targets. We began our sweep of the planets. Nothing.

We moved to an adjacent system. No contacts. Once again, we began scanning down the planets. A blip. No wait, nothing. Another full sweep with no results.

Third system. Maybe this one’s the charm?

Planet I. Clear. Planet II. Clear. Planet III…

15 seconds from a full analysis, a Taranis warps in on top of us. Locked and scrambled instantly. Shields already down one third. Systems seem sluggish.

I order the gunners to fire back, put up a fight. I know we have no chance. I urge the ship to start plotting a course for the nearest moon. I give the impulse for all hands evacuation.

The ship blows. My pod is intact. I align towards the locked moon. No response. My pod is scrambled. How could that happen so quickly?

A bright flash. I awake, gasping for air, in a Tribal Liberation Force cloning capsule fifteen systems away. It is quiet. The sounds of war still ring in my mind.

How did this happen? My mind instantly recalls the blip that I had disgarded as pilot error. Was it more than that? Had someone sabotaged my pod? Mutiny? Perhaps Red Shirt #5 had friends amongst the crew. Perhaps it was more? Maybe he was a spy?

I shake my head clear of the quickly forming multiple conclusions until I have at least an informed hypothesis to go on. My crew was dead.

I squeeze my eyes closed. It never gets easy losing a crew. As a capsuleer we enjoy more than just the physical isolation our pods afford us. More than immortality. We have mental walls that protect us from gazing upon the deaths of the loyal men and women under our command. We don’t hear their screams. We don’t see their bodies implode in the coldness of space, or get blown apart by enemy fire. They are the lucky ones. Their fate at least is instant. They aren’t scooped up into enemy cargo holds to be drugged into submissive slaves by our enemy.

We aren’t the ones who make the calls to loved ones, informing them of the valiant and noble deaths made by our Minmatar soldiers. The children that cry knowing their parent will never be coming home again.

I open my eyes, anger flashing before me. It’s not about the hundreds of millions in lost implants. It’s not about the months of physical training gone to waste. It’s not about another ship blown to salvage. It’s about the people. That is why we fight. That is where the heart of our people lay.

I am filled with anguish. I am consumed with rage. Remorse.

I will make things right. I swear it.