To: Roc Wieler, c/o Majanuni Institute, Pator
This message will surely be a surprise to you. You do not know me, and I do not have the pleasure of knowing you personally, I only know you from the news and gossip that I hear from different channels.
I do not know if it is true, and I do not know if all the details I have are correct, but my sources are normally very trustworthy, therefore I must assume the worst.
Do not let my reputation of being a lab rat fool you. We all fight for a cause, and while I may not be on the front lines, my combat is to keep fellow Gallenteans armed and ready, and of course our trusted allies, the Minmatar. Lab rat or not, I’ve been on the front lines, and I’ve had Aura scream at me. Flying a CovOps might seem a sign of weakness for some, but it normally leaves you deep in enemy territory, and I’ve seen my fair share of battles in 0.0 space, fighting for TCF. I have seen hundreds of pilots on the field, and both friends and foe flash frozen naked in space, their ship having been torn apart by war, and their capsules little more than tritanium scraps. In the midst of explosions, laser beams and bullets, war can be a nerve-wrecking experience, and I’ve seen what no person should see; fellow pilots whom found themselves in the wrong place at the wrong time, torn apart by bombs thrown at the enemy fleets. I have even been a victim to such acts, a fellow pilot mistaking me, having been frightened by my decloaking close to a friendly fleet. It left me in a pod, far from home, and inevitably waking up in a clone facility after dozens of jumps deep in enemy space, but I have learned to forgive the pilot which did that to me. War is a terrible thing, and it does terrible things to the best of us. That pilot is now a close friend, and we talk regularly.
I have heard of your trial, and of the verdict. My sympathies go out to you, as more than anyone else, I can understand what you went through, and, I believe, what you are going through right now.
I don’t care what any tribunal says, you are a man of honour.
Forgive my bad English; Gallenteans are of French origin, and I’ve kept my origins more than others.
My therapist had been kind enough to secret this to me, as any personal items were strictly prohibited within the mental health and wellness facility.
A part of me was saddened and disturbed that word of my predicament was spreading so quickly, but I wasn’t really surprised. In general, people were vultures, picking at the carcass of any newsworthy gossip, in an attempt to make their own existences seem less pathetic by comparison.
A secondary, more human part of me was moved emotionally at the compassion in this letter from a stranger. It reminded me of why I had made every hard decision in my life without hesitation or regret.
Amidst the screams and howls, against other “guests” talking to themselves, crying or laughing hysterically, scratching themselves until their skin bled, or simply smashing their heads against the wall, I felt connection with another.
I wasn’t abandoned, forgotten, alone in the universe, and I sure as hell didn’t belong here.