“So you’ve been keeping a journal; Roc’s Ramblings, very clever.” she said as she slipped the volume across the desk towards me. “You’ve been making good progress these last few months. How does that make you feel?” she asked.

“I feel good.” I replied without hesitation.

“That’s fantastic. You didn’t pause to form the answer you think I wish to hear; you didn’t have any sarcasm. That’s a long way from when we first met wouldn’t you agree?”. I remembered that day well.

—

“You have got to be kidding me.” I barked at Cytral, the CEO of Freeform Industries. “You want me to see a bloody shrink? Do I look like I need a voodoo doctor to you?” The ire in my voice was beginning to rise. I had zero interest in seeing a pyschologist. I didn’t need someone repeating everything I said in the form of a question, and charging the company an outrageous amount for it. If I wanted to express what was on my mind, trust me, you’d know it. If I didn’t, then what damn business was it of anyone else’s?

“Roc, take it easy. It’s a standard corporate policy for pod pilots. We’ve found that a counselling session after cloning has really taken the strain off of our pilots. It helps make the experience a little less traumatic.” 

“Tell them to grow some balls.” I harumped.

“Look Roc, just do it to set an example ok? You’ve got a lot of potential in this company, but you need to start being more than some hotshot Amarr mass murderer in the war. We need you to be a leader.”

“I thought killing Amarr was setting an example.” I could tell from the look in Cytral’s eyes that I wasn’t going to win this argument. He knew my sarcasm too well by now. “Besides,” I added, “What makes you think I even want to be a leader?”.

“Fine. If this is the way you want it, don’t say I didn’t try. Roc Wieler, report to mandatory post cloning trauma counselling immediately. It is standard corporate policy and failure to comply will result in your termination from this corporation, as per section 3.11, paragraph C of the company code of standards, which you signed upon commencement of your employment within the corporation.”

Jesus Cy, I was just pushing your buttons, I thought to myself.

“Alright, alright, I’ll go.” I waved my hands in mock surrender, and headed to the voodoo doctor.

I didn’t have to wait long; she was expecting me, and graciously welcomed me to join her in a comfortably decorated, cozy office. She was obviously Caldari, the close cropped, military style haircut, the pale skin, the ugliness; it was hard to mistake her for anything else. She extended her hand palm upwards, gesturing for me to take a seat on a comfortably oversized chair. The leather finish squeaked as I worked my way into it, allowing the plushness to surround and soothe me. She put on her glasses, then briefly flipped through a folder. I waited impatiently for her to say something; every second reminding me what a complete and utter waste of time this was.

“How do you feel?” she asked out of nowhere.

“Pardon me?” I replied, caught offguard. She removed her glasses, placing them on her desk in front of her, then closed the file folder. She looked me straight in the eyes, despite me wearing sunglasses; something not a lot of people can do.

“Would you please remove your sunglasses. It helps me to engage in conversations eye to eye.” I took my sunglasses off in my pod. I didn’t wear them when sleeping. I sometimes removed them when working out, or during sex; sometimes. That was about it. I was about to tell her to go to hell, but my brain got the better of me. I knew that I had to play the game; that I would have to comply, do as she asked, tell her what she wanted to hear to get out of here. Not being here was my primary objective. Realizing that, it was just another mission, and I would do whatever had to be done to quickly and efficiently succeed at my mission. I removed my sunglasses.

“Thank you.” she said melodically. Damned head rapists all had the same voice; soothing, smooth, relaxing, completely fake. “How do you feel?” she repeated.

I already felt trapped. I played out the scenarios in my head. Regardless of how I answered, it would lead to more questions, and regardless of how I answered those, it would lead to more questions until she extracted what information she was after, helped me come to some epiphany, then finally released me from her evil grasp to get back to my job. She interrupted my thoughts.

“It’s not true you know, what they say.” She had me intrigued. My eyebrow raised involuntarily, questioning what she was referring to. I wouldn’t bite. I didn’t care. “We’re not out to get you. We want to help. There’s no right or wrong answer, no turning whatever you say back on you in the future, no string of answers to get you out of here any sooner.” She was surprisingly perceptive. “So please, Roc, just tell me how you feel, and we’ll go from there.”

“Tired.” I replied.

“That’s a good start, thank you. Why do you feel tired?” Oh bloody hell. Here we go already with repeating what I say in the form of a question. It’s like walking through a minefield, except with a brain prober every step lands you on a mine, yet you don’t die; you just keep walking forward into more glorious misery and pain.

“Been a long day.” I really didn’t want to be here. We both knew it.

“We’re both adults here, so let’s be blunt. Instead of making me ‘play shrink’ and use my ‘tricks’ to get answers out of you, like I would a child, why not try offering better explanations so we can both get on with our day? Hmm?” 

Did she just call me a child? What kind of quack insults her patients? I think I was actually starting to like her a little.

“It’s a strain piloting a heavy assault cruiser; tires you physically and mentally. Worrying about your crew, worrying about your ship, worrying about whether you will succeed in your mission or end up in the cloner; there’s stress all around. Been doing this day in and day out since before the war. It wears you down is all.” Chew on that. You wanted answers; you got them.

“Yes, I hear that from many capsuleers. I don’t envy the burden you bear.” 

Burden? What burden? Being a capsuleer is a gift; an honour; an obligation of duty. It isn’t a burden in the least, it’s a privilege. I was going to interject, but she continued.

“The mind is a fragile and beautiful machine, its full capabilities still unknown. It allows us to fly starships; it is solely responsible for every great achievement in all of our histories, and yet understanding our own minds is something we neglect to explore. Our greatest conquest is inwards, yet man has always focused his goal seeking outwards. Master your mind, and you master everything.”

Cut. Print. Gay.

“Yeah, we’re done.” I said, rising from the chair. “You want to talk about the ‘inner cosmos’, go right ahead. Me? I’ve got a job to do, people to kill. I haven’t the time nor desire to sit here listening to you ramble on about a spiritualistic justification of career self importance. I got podded; it happens. My body’s fine. My mind’s fine. I want to go see how many of my crew made it out alive, what was salvaged from the ship, make any next of kin notifications I need to make, then head to the tattoo shop and get some ink on my face. Have a nice day.”

I turned and stormed towards the lobby. I knew I was going to hear about this from Cy. I really didn’t care at the time. I was fuming angry. Who the hell did this woman think she was, poking at me like some junior science experiment? I’ve bedded women who talked less and enjoyed my company more. I didn’t need her analysis to understand my own mind.

I slammed the door on the way out, to emphasize my point, and headed about my business.

—

“Yeah, probably not my best first impression.” I offered.

“You still hold onto a lot of anger, Roc. You use it to drive you. It fuels you in battle; it strengthens your core beliefs; it gives you strength. But it also weakens you. It makes you predictable. It can be used against you.”

I contemplated her words, looking for flaws in her logic.

“You’re an asshole.” she said bluntly.

What did she just call me? I could feel my hands balling into fists, the throbbing of the vein on my forehead. Then I realized what she was doing, and calmed myself. I still had much to learn.

“Nice try, doc.” I smirked at her. “But I see what you did there.” She smiled back. She wasn’t as ugly to me as she used to be. She hadn’t changed at all; maybe I had.

“Very good. We need to find out why you’re so angry, so volatile. To do that, we’re going to explore what makes you happy. Tell me, what makes you happy Roc?”

I gave it some thought, but didn’t hesitate in my answer. I just went with my gut, the first answer that came to mind. “Killing Amarr.” was my obvious reply.

“Let’s set some parameters to the question. There are no Amarr. There is nobody else at all. There is nothing in this universe except for you. What makes Roc happy, all on his own?”

I furrowed my brow, inwardly concentrating. What did make me happy? What did I like to do that was solely based on me and me alone? I struggled, searching for an answer that refused to surface. The realization was both startling and revealing. I wasn’t happy.

“I …” I began.

“Go on.” She encouraged.

“I don’t know what makes me happy. I’ve never given it much thought. There’s always been something else that required my attention more; my entire life. I’ve always been the one to get things done, the shoulder to cry on, the one who had to be strong. I don’t know what makes me happy.”

“Then that is where we’ll look next. What about the journal writing? Have you enjoyed that?” I thought about that, the daily journal I keep. It did actually make me happy. I enjoyed writing my memoirs, my thoughts on life, my introspections into self. I enjoyed it immensely.

“Yes actually. I do enjoy writing. Very much so.”

“Then keep with the journal. Keep writing. And how did it make you feel releasing it for public consumption?”

I was nervous at first. I don’t know why. It’s not like I knew the trillions and trillions of citizens of New Eden. It’s not like I cared what any of them thought of my writing. I was doing it for me; doing it because it was recommended by my psychologist. But that had changed; I liked my audience. I enjoyed their comments. I felt good when they had positive feedback. I felt a connection with them. I had actually started reading more of the public feeds available around New Eden, had started becoming a more active member of this galactic society. And good things had been happening to me since I started writing. Promotions at work and in the militia; popularity with my own people; a taste of fame, unwanted as it was; and recognition. I felt good when I thought about my journal. I felt happy.

“You know, doc. I’m glad I have an audience. I appreciate them.”

She smiled again. “We’re done for today. I want you to find other things that make you, and you alone, happy. Bring some unbridled joy into your life, Roc. You deserve it. No matter what argument you have against that, you deserve happiness. Go be happy.”

And with that, we were done our session.