Some will tell you I am not easy to get along with. Those that get along with me will tell you that’s rubbish. Both are accurate.

I am not high maintenance, but neither am I low maintenance. I would describe myself as “set maintenance”. As you may have gathered from the many Roc’s Rules, I govern myself by my own set of ideals and rules. They don’t change. I don’t really change either. I have triggers just like anyone else. Live within them, and we’ll get along fine.

I am a soldier. I am used to following orders. My commanding officers say do, and I do. I have no problem letting someone else make the rules. Just make sure you follow them.

I had just returned from commanding a fleet recently. You may have read about it in one of my earlier journals (see For the Republic ). I yelled at the Tribal miltia for a good twenty minutes until I was hoarse in the throat. My CO didn’t approve. He said there is never a reason to yell at my troops to such a degree. He screamed this at me for twenty minutes. I stopped listening after two.

It’s simple for me really. Make the rule. Live by it. Do what you say. Please, feel free to call me on it when I am a hypocrite. I will definitely be calling you on it.

“Nobody is coming for you, Roc.” he says into my ear, sweetly, as a lover would. “Do you understand my friend? You’re all alone. You’ve got nobody but me.” I know his voice. We’re friends. I think we’re friends. Yes, we’re friends. It’s hard to focus. My mind is fluid, drifting aimlessly. My body is racked in pain, a constant searing numbness, if there is such an oxymoron.

“Tell me what they’re planning, Roc. Tell me the plans of the Tribes.” I am a Vorshud Major in the Tribal Liberation Force, proud to serve the Minmatar Republic. I have earned my rank with sweat, blood and tears; far too many of each. And yet I have no idea what he is talking about.

He stands in front of me, over me, his arms on my arms, his face smiling serenley at me, eternal patience shining from his eyes. “Do you understand what I am saying, Roc? Do you understand my words?”

“Just because I don’t care doesn’t mean I don’t understand.” I reply smugly through broken teeth in a bloodied mouth. He straightens at that comment, the joy washed from his face. That in and of itself gives me great satisfaction. Amateur.

“Sir? Major Wieler sir?” My attention snaps back to the present. My Science Officer is addressing me, an expectant look on his face. I totally missed what he said. I let the silence hang in the air for a few more moments, feigning thoughtful contemplation, hoping the quiet awkwardness will make him repeat himself. I am not disappointed.

“Sir, they need to know. The survey team’s report confirms Aura’s readings. Breathable, but hostile environment, day temperature in the negative fifties, no hostile lifeforms. No lifeforms at all. Next orders?”

“Alright. Get the other teams prepped. We’re going out there.” This whole thing is probably all one big wild goose chase. Who the hell chases a goose anyway? Still, if there’s even a small chance we succeed, it will be worth it for all of us.

Ever have a recurring nightmare you just can’t get rid of? It’s like a pestilence to your psyche, a debilitating virus you cannot cure.

My ship has been destroyed, my pod ejected. Hurtling through the void I see the frozen corpses of my crew floating by in slow motion, their last moment of horror forever etched across their faces. In unison, their eyes turn and look at me with blame and I am ashamed. My pod rattles as it comes under fire from the enemy that took my ship. Two of its three engines blow out, sending me into a spiralling pitch. Black, roiling smoke and flame erupt. I often wonder how there is smoke in space. There is no atmosphere, thus no oxygen, so how does smoke and flame even exist?

Aura is silent. My capsule continues its spin like a theme park attraction ride, well beyond the threshold of my gravity training. I puke. My pod fluid opens its mouth, eating it up, recycling it back into my system. Lovely.

My pod screams towards a planet I do not recognize. The system is governed by a red dwarf star which taints the nightmare red. How symbolic really. I know my pod is in this planet’s gravitational pull and will soon hit “re-entry”. Why is it still called that? Tens of thousands of years ago our ancestors took to the stars from Earth, and would return. It made sense back then. They left. They re-entered. But this is now. Shouldn’t it just be called entry?

The pod threatens to shake itself apart as I descend into a steep orbit, hurtling towards the surface of the unknown. The altimeter is dropping faster than my eyes can track. My external cameras show me in high definition the detailed surface of my impending doom. I can countdown the seconds until impact, until the cycle continues and my next life begins.

I awake, sweating, in my bunk. Reaching for a glass of water from my nightstand, my hands tremble. What do these dreams mean, if anything? I should’ve been born a Sebeistor. I am far too philosophical for a Brutor. My quarters feel very small suddenly, cramped, confining, maddening. I feel imprisoned. Maybe I am losing it? Maybe I never had it to begin with and am only now beginning to accept this fact.

I look in the mirror and see the face of the man I have come to accept as me. His visage brings me no peace today. He looks afraid. I glare at him in admonishment.

Re-entry. The word sloshes around in my brain. It is a key to some lock I cannot find. It has some hidden meaning; some unknown purpose. My intercom chirps. I press it.

“Major, all systems green. Holding steady orbit. Ready for re-entry on your command.”

Re-entry.