My crew really was getting out of hand as of late. I was trying the gentler, more patient approach as recommended from some fellow Liberation Force Fleet Commanders. They aren’t Brutor, nor Matari for that matter. Not all of them at least. Kind and nice doesn’t always work with us. Sometimes you just need to knuckle up and splinter some skulls. 

“Why do you even take public transport? You have a personal hangar full of ships worth more than they could ever dream of earning in a lifetime!” He grabbed his stomach and doubled over, his own amusement uncontainable. 

“Seriously, Colonel Roc Wieler, ‘hero’ of the Republic, taking the magrail across Matar with the common people.” He slapped his knee repeatedly, mimicking that he was close to wetting himself. They didn’t even hear my grunt of displeasure.

“That is exactly why I do it.” I said with menace in my voice. It was a tone used when challenging another Brutor for position within the tribe. Or in my case, the alpha male warning the young ones to settle down or someone would die. 

“They are common people, just like us. They are the reason we fight. We are all Matari. How can you be so blind? So ignorant?” I let the last question drip off my lips with disdain, seeing how far they would push it. I didn’t blink. I slowly took my sunglasses off so they could clearly see the sincerity and intensity in my gaze. They both backed down.

“It seems to me, you both need to be reminded of how very common you are.” I pointed one finger at the blade commander. “You’ll be polishing the latrines until I get back, with your toothbrush, and I will be eating off of those floors, so they better be spotless.” He opened his mouth to sass me, but I growled under my breath and he promptly shut the hell up.

“And you,” I moved my finger to point at the mid level mechanic beside him. “You will be cleaning the entire engine room until not a drop of grease remains where it shouldn’t.” He had no fight. He didn’t even have bark.

I saluted them both, waiting for their quick return salute. “Dismissed” I said with disgust, releasing them from my presence.

That incident had bothered me all the way to the surface of our homeworld. I was in a much better mood now though. I had just spent the last few hours shopping, and was sitting on the magtrain from downtown to the eastern suburbs. 

I made some interesting discoveries about this thing they call the “commute”. Just thinking of the name makes me chuckle, as I am constantly yelling at my pilots during combat “COMM! MUTE!”, and honestly as I look around, I can see it applies here too. People are crammed in like sardines in a can two sizes two small yet nobody says a word.

Of course, the other meaning of the word commute was first used in my life when I was much younger and in trouble with law. The judge “commuted” my sentence, meaning it mysteriously vanished. I could see how doing this commute every day would be like a sentence; how you could vanish into the faceless crowd.

I also discovered mag trains weren’t built by brutors. They were built by some miraculous race of engineers whom couldn’t have weighed more than 120 lbs, or been taller than 5’2″, not to mention they had never been to a gym in their lives, nor wore a jacket. I mean, I’m not huge by Brutor standards, I’m a runt 6’1″, 220 lbs. I am broad across the shoulders, and wearing my insulated flight jacket isn’t helping; my shoulders are crunched up as bet they can yet still I am spilling over into the seats on either side of me.

And yet they do this everyday, just sitting there, plugged into audio devices, reading the dailies, some just sleeping, their heads bobbing back and forth like a children’s toy. And how is it not a single person snores? They go about their trip completely unaware of anything around them, not a care in the world.

I wish I could experience that.

And why will nobody look me in the eye? Or anyone else for that matter? With this many people around, where exactly are you supposed to look? Ah, the advertisers got it covered. There are small video monitors on all the upper walls of the magtrain. Smart.

It was right about then I got the urge to go to the washroom, and by urge, I meant it was happening right now one way or the other.

“Excuse me, pardon me” I tried to say politely in my bassy voice, as I forcefully shouldered my way down the aisle towards the incar restroom. Again, these magical engineers really need an ass stomping. I could barely fit down the aisle sideways, or inside the half width door to the lavatory.

I looked down at the small hole. How was I supposed to sit there? Where would I hang my jacket? Shit. Literally.

At first, I decided to make the herculean effort of holding it and just relieve the pressure on my bladder. One quick shake of the train midstream quickly stopped that exercise. I HAD to go.

Without going into detail, I finally worked it out. 

A few more apologies, and I had made my way back to my seat, only to discover someone had sat there in my stead. Didn’t really surprise me any. Nor did the fact they wouldn’t make eye contact. So I decided to stare. That’s right, stare. 

As a child I learned it’s important to always be dominant. My buddies and I used to hang out at the local malls, just staring down people. Never blinking, never looking away, no matter who it was. The best part was, once you got the hang of it, 99% of the time you would  “win”, and that other 1% percent, you were glad you had your buddies with you. My mother used to slap me silly for the fights we would get in.

I kept staring. The train jostled again, and a woman bumped up against me, making that “sucking” sound with her lips, as she looked in disdain at my jacket. By the planet’s standards, it was late summer, and nobody was wearing an outdoor jacket except me. Granted, I spend a lot of time in space, and tend to feel cold most of the time without it. Just a habit I suppose.

I switched to staring at the woman instead. I felt a childlike immaturity and glee to my actions. There was a certain freedom to be experienced by just losing yourself in the commute I discovered. You were just another nameless worker on their way home. You could be exhausted and let your guard down. You could find comfort crammed up against everyone else with their body odour. You could simply be.

In the end, that is why I take public transport. It reminds me of who I am. Not some hotshot pod jockey, too big for his own britches. I am a Matari, like so many others, who just wants to make a difference.

It felt good to be reminded of my place in the grand scheme of things, and as the doors opened at my stop, I was at peace, at least until someone yelled “Look! It’s Roc Wieler! Can I have your autograph?” The crowd quickly turned my way. I scoured the direction the voice had come from, but they had ‘commuted’ and were just a nameless face in the crowd.

I really need to have something done about these commercials.

We all remember our first time…

For me, it was 30 months ago, almost to the day, that my true destiny began. I was working as a freelance shuttle pilot back then, and was damned proud of it. Having the skill to fly any sized ship required a great deal of proficiency, and I seemed to take to it with a shine.

I had even applied for capsuleer training. After several months, I was accepted. It was the most intensive training I had ever undergone. The physical demands were exhaustive, even to a Brutor, while the mental stresses left me clutching my skull some nights. Even my emotions would escape me at times, leaving me curled up in a ball on my dorm room floor, weeping. That particular experience happened after I was fitted for a pod.

It was my first assignment. I was given a brand new Reaper class ship, and assigned an escort duty of some low ranking diplomat across seven high security systems. I accepted with great enthusiasm of course, thankful to be moving forward in my life. I had come from a hard upbringing, but had made myself into the man I am today through consistent effort, strong self belief, and natural abilities I thank God for everyday. 

Thirty seven minutes later, we were ready to depart. 

It was an expectedly boring trip. Just the same, I wanted to make an impression with my passenger, who could potentially refer me to better paying gigs. I wanted a Rapier Covert Ops vessel, and those weren’t cheap.

We were two uneventful systems away from our destination system. Still nothing. There was the usual local traffic in each system, but nothing of note. I could see them out there, other capsuleers, in their magnificent ships. I wanted to touch them, be like them, be recognized by them. They were so close. So close. Close.

I was too slow on the uptake back then. A frigate was hurtling towards us at a velocity I couldn’t escape. I did my best to react, but I froze up. I didn’t know what to do. This was completely unexpected. I finally managed to get the guns online, but it was too late.

I was tumbling through space in my pod. My ship was destroyed, my passenger killed. I hadn’t even been able to give the warning call to abandon the small craft. I had failed.

I watched Concord warp into the exact point of our engagement, and quickly destroy my attacker. That gave me no joy at the time. I was too busy trying to figure out what to do. We had done pod training of course, but I couldn’t remember where I was supposed to go or how I was supposed to get there.

After ninety seconds of mental debate with myself, the proximity alarm sounded. The same class of frigate was within attack range. I saw the autocannons firing in quick succession. I was boned.

My essence was painfully torn from myself. My soul forcefully torn from its shell. I screamed until I went hoarse, and even then, continued to scream in silence for four additional minutes.

The first time hurt like hell.

It always saddens me when I have to fire one of my crew. With the heavy losses the Minmatar have been sustaining lately, it’s just not practical to keep drafting civilians into duty. I’ve been hiring from my own pocket.

I am pretty demanding as a commander, but I am just as demanding of myself, if not moreso. Still, it’s never easy having that one on one conversation, where you know emotions will run high, and no positive will come from it.

“But, but this is all I have! I swear I can improve, Commander!” We’d been at this for ten minutes already. He was a likeable enough fellow, but reviewing his file I could see he’d already been given numerous opportunities to improve his performance, and he hadn’t.”

“Look son,” I said sympathetically, “I just need to know that every single member of my crew is of the same top caliber. I’m not saying this to hurt you, but I just don’t think you’re cut out for this line of work.”

He bit his quavering lower lip for a few moments before he couldn’t contain himself anymore and the tears burst free.

“But I really have nothing else; no girl, no family, nobody to go back to. This is it!” 

I learned long ago that it’s important to balance out your life. Never rely on just one or two things. I mean, if you think about it in that context, losing one thing in your life means you’re now 50% empty. I try to fill my life with as many things as possible. That way, if there is loss, it’s not as impactful.

“What about friends? Or hobbies? Any other interests or skills? Religion? School? I’m sure there are plenty of things that you are passionate about.”

He sobbed quietly, shaking his head. 

“Well what about politics? Or sports? Anything?”

At the mention of sports, his eyes lit up momentarily, before glazing over subdued once again. I seized the moment.

“You know, I don’t tell many of the crew this, but I’m a bear racer.” The room became deafly quiet. His eyes bugged out of his head, his jaw reaching as far as possible towards the floor.

Bear racing was a common practice thousands of years ago, but outlawed in recent times. Nevertheless, it wasn’t difficult to find an illegal bear race among any of the Brutor Tribes. There’s just something about grabbing a hand full of fur, and inflicting your will against that of the beast that is a bear. It gave me a thrill second only to the feeling of ship combat.

And the term Bear Racing is really just a technicality. More often than not, the crowds that come to these events could care less about the race. They are more interested in the brutality of how the racers struggle to reach the finish line. Hand to hand combat, unmuzzled bears, it all adds to the thrill of the sport. I was already starting to daydream.

Back to the present.

“You ever been to a bear race?” He shook his head violently in the negative. “Tell ya what,” I began. “I’m gonna take you to my next race ok? Introduce you to my bear. If he likes you, maybe I’ll hire you to feed and clean up after him. How’s that sound?”

With the amount of excessive nodding he did, I was astonished his neck didn’t snap. I patted him on the shoulder, telling him I would be in touch, and again, to keep his chin up. We all have a potential to fill.

As he left, I realized I forgot to mention what happened to my last bearkeeper…

You know, hard as it is on the mind to adjust to being in the heat of combat, then suddenly waking up in a cloning chamber, I have discovered another side effect that made itself painfully aware to me today… forgetfulness.

Let me try to break it down for you.

As part of my daily exercise regimen, I engage in some good cardio, some free weights, and some machines, to push my body to greater limits and to keep me in peak condition. As anyone who works out will tell you, it takes time, consistency, and discipline. Working out is not an easy thing.

Recently, I have engaged in a new program for muscle gain. That’s a good thing. The ache the next morning of sore muscles trying to repair themselves, the promise of greater strength and better physical appearance, it’s all attractive to those of us who do this to ourselves.

But then I got podded.

It’s happened before; it will happen again. But my mind forgot something very important. This is a new body. So what did I do? I went to the gym of course. I did a fantastic leg workout at the same intensity I had before. That was my mistake.

Now it’s four days later and I can hardly walk. I look worse than had I been anally raped by a group of Amarr priests. It hurts to sit. It hurts to bend. It hurts to walk. It pretty much hurts to do anything.

My body isn’t the same as it used to be. Next time I clone, I’d better remember that.

Some random day. Some random location. Some random woman, on some random bench. I sat there also, though we had never met before. I had never actually seen her before, and wouldn’t have noticed had she not been crying.

It was a busy spot apparently, as the crowds passed us by in both directions, not a soul so much as paying attention to her distress. That is how I came to be sitting here. I am not the type of person to simply ignore and walk by.

She was sobbing into her communication device, talking to someone on the other end. She was shaking, her face swollen from the tears, her voice hoarse from the screaming and crying. Yet still, I just sat there.

I wanted to help. Truly. 

What was I to say? “It’s ok?” I don’t know her situation. Do I offer to help? What could I possibly do to actually make things better. Do I offer to listen if she wants to talk about it? Why would she want to talk to me? These, and a thousand more questions entered my mind, none with a solid answer.

I felt very inadequate.

My own day thus far had not been much better. My commanding officer had barked at me all morning until I finally told him where he could stick his opinions, then stormed out of the military complex to get some fresh air. I started my day getting a sound tongue lashing from the CEO of the corporation I belong to. I didn’t get much sleep last night either, out late on recon patrol.

I ran more scenarios through my head. She could just tell me to get lost. How would I react to that? Would I feel angry? What right did I really have to feel angry at that? Would I feel rejected, trying to offer help only to be turned down flat? She might think I was trying to hit on her. Do I look like that kind of sleaze?  I was becoming annoyed; not with her, but with myself. 

It reminded me of the vids for charities you see so often. “Please give generously” they always say. Do we actually give because we care about whatever the charity represents? I often wonder. If we really cared, wouldn’t we give of our time? Wouldn’t we tangibly help? Giving money is the easiest fix I think. It doesn’t cost us our time, nor sweat, nor effort. Just write the cheque and make the guilt go away. 

We give for ourselves. Seriously. That feeling of doing “right”. It makes us feel less condemned. We aren’t one of those horrible people that does nothing, even though in fact, that is exactly what we are doing. It’s the very minimum we could do. Why do you think the charities ask for our money? They know we won’t give anything more.

I didn’t need the rejection and self condemnation today. I was already getting myself worked up over the “what ifs”. We do that to ourselves a lot too. I sighed audibly, then stood up from the bench, and continued on my way. She would be ok, right? I mean, are we really that vain that we believe people won’t be ok if we don’t intervene? I couldn’t stop the thoughts from hammering me.

It wasn’t my most shining moment. Maybe I should’ve helped. Maybe I’m a selfish bastard for worrying more about myself.

Maybe I’m just like everyone else.