A single droplet of blood dispersing in the water caught my attention. Its dance in the clear liquid was mesmerizing as it twisted and angled its way into oblivion, neatly avoiding the floating bits of shaving foam. My submerged hand shook in the sink, the coarse stubble from my head pulled free from the straight edged razor blade by the tension of the water.

I looked in the mirror, gently sliding my other hand along the contours of my head. Pulling away from my skull I saw a trickle of blood across my palm. A repressed memory from a separate lifetime flooded to the surface of my mind unbeckoned, unwelcomed.

—

I lift my hand and see a trickle of blood across my palm.

“Good fight, dog.” Master Cho says to me, though I hear disgust in his voice more than pride.

Our relationship had changed lately. He had been spending more of his time with the young boys, and while I felt jealous and somewhat neglected, I was also happy to be away from his beatings.

Ironically, it was those same abuses that had developed the mindset I now possessed; that enabled me to endure a beatdown in the slave arena and still stand afterward. My mind knew how to act when in shock. My body knew how to push aside the overwhelming rush of adrenaline, to subdue the fight or flight instinct, to a degree, and do what needed to be done to ensure I survived.

I put my fingers to my lips and taste the metallic tinge of my life’s essence. My head throbs, though I doubt it is from the injury I sustained in my last fight. Vitoc is still running through my nervous system, poisoning me until I die or get just enough antidote to keep me productive for another day or two. It is how the cowardly Amarr have always controlled us until they break our wills; how they indoctrinate us to their bullshit.

“Three” has been working on an herbal treatment for Vitoc dependency, a method that will completely eliminate the need for the drug at all. That would certainly change things around here. Unfortunately, every one of his volunteers has died from the concoctions, and fewer slaves are stepping forward for his tests. ‘Better to live with dependency than to not live at all’, they say.

“Rest up. You have another fight in ten minutes.” This time, Master Cho sounds genuinely excited, though I don’t think it’s for my continued survival. I’m sure he has a heavy wager on my death.

I have come to realize he has given up on me, and that our relationship will never be as idealistic as I had envisioned it to be when younger. He knows I won’t be turned. And though Amarrian Law prevents the outright killing of slaves without provocation, it’s easy to generate any valid enough reason in the eyes of the regional magistrate. “My slave gave me a dirty look. He had to be put down.” “He smelled of more filth than usual.” “He was breathing too often.” You get the idea.

Through sheer coincidence and greed, the spontaneous murder of slaves had become increasingly rare. Instead, the Amarrians had figured out they could profit from slave deaths through gladiatorial games. Lovely.

So once per week all the “rebellious” slaves were gathered up and pitted one against another, until a single champion of the day remained. His/her reward? To live for another week until the next combatant games, assuming they didn’t piss off their master by breathing too often in the meantime.

I had watched many friends from my caste die in the arena, which was nothing more than a glorified cesspool.

As Master Cho continues to speak I can only fantasize about what I would do to him in that arena if given the  opportunity.

My head throbs again, the Vitoc ravaging my body. My vision starts to blur. I need another shot of antidote soon, if Master Cho is even willing to give it to me this time. He’s been withholding it more and more recently, but I refuse to die.

“309, you’re up.” the guard says, gesturing towards me.

I hate that we are nothing more than livestock to them. I have a name; a name I have earned; a name given to me by my brothers and sisters.

—

“He fights like a rabid dog!” Serene said, as she easily dodged my sluggish attack. “All bark, no bite!” she teased as I missed another swing at her head.

“Enough.” said Three, whom ironically had kept his slave number as his name, a badge of honour as to how long he had endured the atrocity of Amarrian slavery.

“Do you remember your name, son?” Three asked. I shook my head back and forth. I couldn’t remember anything about my childhood. I didn’t know if I had parents anymore. I didn’t know if I had siblings. All I could remember was this wretched life. A feral glean sparkled in my eye, a burning hatred.

I was snatched up from behind in a full nelson by Tiny; lifted completely off the ground. I hadn’t even see the monstrous brute coming. Everyone laughed.

I hated them.

“He don’t give up. Give him that.” Tiny said as I thrashed about, trying to get free from the man tree. I kicked my heel upwards into Tiny’s genitalia, and as he dropped me instantly, bending over to grab himself, I smashed my elbow as hard as I could into the side of his skull. Disoriented, he fell onto his ass, much to everyone’s amusement.

“He is tenacious.” Three commented philosophically. “Hmmm” he muttered absently, stroking his beard.

“There is a legend of a far off planet in another galaxy, from whence all life in New Eden supposedly originated millions of years ago, though what is truth and what is not is anyone’s guess anymore. And on this planet there were animals bred for fighting; proud, aggressive, vicious beasts that were known to conquer foes many times their size. I believe the most legendary of those beasts was called the ‘Rottweiler’, a short, heavily muscled, majestic dog. Do you like this name?”

From the ground behind me, Tiny chimed in. “He’s solid like a rock. I’ll give him that.” As per usual, Tiny’s brain had missed the conversation entirely.

“Rott Wieler, not Rock Wieler, Tiny.” Three corrected with patience.

I smiled. It was a good name.

As I said, I hated them. Then they became my family.

—

“309, front and center!” the guard snaps, and I realize I have drifted. The following minutes are the usual cacophony of noise and anticipation. I tune it out, focusing inwardly on the fight to follow. I am physically exhausted, mentally drained, Vitoc threatening to overwhelm me with every step.

I hate the Amarr for doing this to me. The Vitoc, having to fight other Matari. I detest them in every way.

Their very essence is a blight on civilization, and one day I will make them pay for their wicked ways.

God isn’t with them. There is no Amarrian God, only fat and corrupt slavers creating rationalizations for their immorality so they can sleep at night with a clean conscience.

My heart races. My hands flex. I spit on the ground, ready to enter the arena.

The massive cell doors open, and I step forward into blinding light. When my eyes adjust, I can see my opponent on the other side of the arena, waiting for me, his look of shock and remorse almost as transparent as mine.

It is Tiny.

—

The straight edge blade scraped across the thin skin of my skull once more. I rinsed my head, double checking in the mirror to make sure I hadn’t missed any spots. It was good.

I toweled off, got dressed, and reported for duty.

Today more Amarr were going to die.

For Tiny, my brother, my friend. I salute you.

Arguably, those who perform above and beyond the call of duty are rewarded with rank and recognition. To a lesser degree, I could attest to this.

I had flown with many Valkear Generals in the war, from General Sasawong to General Fist, both very capable leaders and pilots. Each day it seemed the Republic was awarding its highest honour and rank to more and more pilots. It remained to be seen if this was a prudent move or a scenario where there would be “too many chiefs, not enough indians.”

There always needs to be a balance. Too many in charge and you get too many conflicting ideas, resulting in chaos. Too few in charge and poor decisions can be executed, resulting in chaos.

The mandate of the Tribal Liberation Force was to fight chaos, not create it.

I’d done my fair share of fleet command. I’d killed the enemy, captured military complexes, derailed aggressive designs against us, even led our forces into Old Man Star as a demonstration of unwavering commitment to our beliefs.

I’d been harsh and crass as a wing commander; I’d been supportive and led by example. I’d yelled. I’d screamed. I’d gone hoarse giving orders. I’d flown with squads that have needed little in the way of command and resigned myself to calling targets, letting my teams work as an experienced unit together.

Through it all, there had been two constant feedbacks I received:

1. Was an honour to fly with you, Colonel.
2. Why haven’t they made you a General yet?

I had wondered if either comment had been meant in seriousness, or just as friendly jest, and in the end not given it much thought.

Recently, that changed, as I had the privilege to fly with one of the Republic’s most promising new heroes, Valkear General Eran Mintor.

Eran Mintor had been a dynamo for the Tribal Liberation Force. His consistent pushes into hostile territory, his quick organization of resources to secure our defences, his natural ease and demeanour with leadership; it’s no wonder pilots were flocking to his banner, myself included.

I had no ego about command. If there was someone capable of getting things done, let me lend my hand to support them.

I had been flying under Mintor’s command for several hours, producing significant results, routing the Amarr wherever they were encountered. He was an impressive man.

We quickly found ourselves engaged in idle chat about command styles, politics on Pator, my personal life (which came up far too often in conversation with superiors), and eventually why I wasn’t a General yet. Ugh.

“No interest.” was my initial reply to the last question.

“What do you mean ‘No Interest’? It’s the highest honour a pilot can achieve within the Republic. To be decorated as a Valkear General is something of import, Roc.” Eran replied.

I didn’t want to argue with him. I didn’t know him that well. I wasn’t going to preach my stance at him, yet I wasn’t willing to let him dictate his to me.

“If it happens, it happens.” I replied casually, trying not to sound defensive. “Given my recent kill record, though, I don’t see it happening anytime soon.”

“If you were out on the front lines more often, Colonel, maybe it would happen sooner than you think.” Eran replied.

I noticed I was grinding my teeth.

How was I to explain that a shiny piece of tin didn’t make a lick of difference at the end of the day? That the Republic had other, more important issues to deal with internally regardless of the war with the Amarr? That if the war were to end today with Matari victory, we might find ourselves in a far worse situation as a people without this distraction from the real problems?

The answer was I couldn’t. I wouldn’t be the one to shine the harsh light of reality onto this young and rising star. I wouldn’t be the one to let bitterness and regret spill out from me infecting others.

“You’re right, General. I’ll request more rotations in my schedule. Can’t win this war from a dock!” I lied.

He laughed heartily. “That’s the spirit, pilot! Now, let’s clean up here and see what we can find in Ardar!”

Eran Mintor reminded me of myself when I was naive, not to say he was. As I mentioned, I didn’t know him very well at the time.

And maybe he was right. Maybe my own disgruntlement was getting the best of me. Maybe it was time for me to retire and leave the fight to those with greater passion for it, though that sentiment didn’t sit well with me.

I was a firm believer in seeing things through personally to ensure they were done right. It’s not that the universe revolved around me, but mine sure did. My life’s mission was to serve the Republic. Thus far, that had been through fighting in the war.

Perhaps there was a more effective way for me to fight?

It has been said that bitterness rots the soul. If there is truth in that, isn’t it a self-fulfilling prophecy? Think about it, if you’re bitter, and this causes the soul to rot, won’t that make you even more bitter, causing more soul rot? Vicious cycle.

It’s one of the reasons I could never buy into the concept of God. Every teacher/philosopher/holy leader has never been able to produce anything more than vague, common sense answers, fortune cookie platitudes that offer neither specific relative insight or individual direction. Religious answers tend to be “for the flock” as a whole, though the collection plate seems to find its way to each and every congregation member.

But this memoir today isn’t to rant about the various battles I’ve had with religious organizations and figureheads over the decades; no. Today’s entry is in response to a long lost letter I once had received, then lost; only to rediscover this morning by chance.

I was organizing my foot locker, given to me back in my days of basic training for the Tribal Liberation Force, making sure my old officer’s dress formals were still in good condition, though I doubt I could fit into them anymore. It had been a long time since I wore the uniform of the TLF, and I had been feeling nostalgic as of late. While sorting through the various other contents of the trunk, a thin sheet of flimsiplast fell out to the floor, to lay at my feet, beckoning my interest. With genuine curiousity, I read it.

Dear Colonel Wieler,

I’ve been a fan of your exploits for quite some time now. You are a hero to the Republic, to humanity, to me.

I think the Senate was foolish and short-sighted to reject your nomination for a seat on the council, but I think they prefer you on the frontlines where there’s more chance you won’t return to friendly space. You’re too much of an activist for their liking, my friend. You actually want to accomplish things, to produce forward thiking with tangible results. While idealistic and naive, it’s admirable, and I write this in support of your efforts.

Do not give up. Do not give in. Keep at it. I’m not the only one in this universe that believes in you. There are more of each us day taking up your cause. Do not let your bitterness consume you.

On a personal note, if I may be so familiar with you, why are you so bitter? You have everything anyone could dream of, and then some. Be happy in all that you have done. Life is too short.

With appreciation,
Minmatar Loyalist

It’s interesting what we skim over when reading, retaining only the parts that stick out to us, and usually within the last few lines of copy.

Why was I bitter? Did that question even need to be addressed? Was there ever really any doubt?

At the time, the Republic had been engaged in a war for over a decade against the Amarr Empire, failing to make any lasting headway. And instead of the Senate pooling its resources into a stronger military initiative, they actually granted asylum to some ex-communicated, brain washed Matari whom started preaching Amarrian dogma throughout the cities of Pator? There’s a good choice, Shakor.

In addition to political inadequacies and self-preservation, the larger corporation were more concerned with potential profit loss than with understanding that the fate of their businesses at all hung in the balance of whom prevailed in these military engagements. Mega corporations continued to build up their capsuleer staffing requirements, using them as flight escorts and glorified mercenary enforcers, while planets were stripped of their populations having not a single pod pilot to defend them. They were more concerned with retaining personal power than realizing that everything they knew would be stripped away from them should the Amarr be victorious in the war. The egotistical selfishness of some people stupified me. There was no better word for it.

Then there was Mynxee; a love/hate relationship of epic proportions. Sometimes I wanted to kill her. Other times I wanted to kill her after I slept with her. It was a dilemma. Don’t even get me started on the exploits of the HellFleet Alliance.

Billions of personal isk lost in ships and fittings. Thousands of lives lost in crew killed in action.

Complacent attitudes all around towards the realities of this life.

How could I not have been bitter? I saw the downward spiral of society long before it happened. In my gut, I knew what was coming next, and while I fought against it, I was but one man.

It has been said that change can begin with one man. Looking back over recent history, I wish that had been true.

I’ve lost everyone I ever cared for. I’ve outlived everyone that ever mattered to me.

The bitterness I knew then is nothing compared to the bitterness I know now.

And yet it is that same anger that fuels my passion. It is part of what defines who I am, what keeps me moving forward each and every day.

Why was I bitter? Why am I still?

Because the universe needs more people that care, and really there can be no bitterness if one didn’t care a great deal.

It’s hard to describe how angry I was. My rage consumed me so thoroughly that I felt as though I could no longer control myself: my tongue, my ire; I was lashing out more violently than I knew I was even capable of, swearing obscenities, yelling as loud as my hoarse voice would allow, veins straining against my skin with effort and tension, blood pumping through my veins, full of adrenaline, ready for a personal, hostile encounter that could erupt at any moment.

Only a woman could do that to me, and even that’s not a fair statement.

Nobody could “make” me do anything emotionally. It’s like saying “Your honour, she ‘made’ me beat her black and blue. I lost control.” No. The truth of a situation like that was that you wanted control so badly and felt you were losing it that you beat the hell out of your female partner in order to teach her a lesson, to prevent her from attempting to escape your box of convenience in the future. A Brutor woman would set that right.

So it was myself I was angry at. Angry at losing my cool, at reacting so vehemently. I was self-loathing that she could get to me, that her will was just as strong as mine, that she wouldn’t back down.

It was physically giving me a headache.

I came storming into my hangar bay, not saying a bloody word to anyone, fists clenched so tightly my knuckles were a vibrant white. I had decided I needed to unleash my aggression in a more productive manner, namely killing Amarr pigs. Even thinking of them made my blood boil, souring my mood and demeanour even more. Even in my earlier string of cussing, not once did I hurl the phrase Amarr pig out there; calling someone an Amarr pig was just something you could not take back, and Brutor especially had been known to kill each other over such an insult, myself included.

There were no lower form of filth in the galaxy than the Amarr.

Yes, I was going to kill any that presented themselves the opportunity to die that night. I smiled a murderous smile, a glint of sinful enjoyment sparkling in my eye at the anticipation of freeing the galaxy from a few more ass-eating, rim hugging barnacles. There are not words to being to describe how repugnant they were, and are, to me.

I refused to endanger my crew when my temperament was so very foul. That left frigates as the natural choice; no crews.

Chances were, I was going to lose whatever vessel I took out, as I would be full-on ganking any Amarr ship I could. That meant Rifter; cheap, easy to replace, could deal out punishment and take a beating.

I readied my pod, had Aura cycle up the systems, and launched the Ripsack, using my aggressive NOS fit.

Within minutes I was listening to militia chatter, young, green pilots talking out of their asses with dreams of conquest and glory. You could always tell they were new as they actually looked forward to engagements, no thought for their crews, of isk lost on ships destroyed. For them, war was fun; a very juvenile mentality.

They would learn. Or they wouldn’t. Either way I didn’t really care at that moment.

Aura prioritized the contested Minmatar military systems for me by order of proximity, and I headed towards the closest one, Ardar.

Fifteen uneventful minutes later, I had secured the system. There wasn’t an Amarr ship to be found anywhere in the constellation. It was pathetic. I needed sweet release from my boiling over anger. I needed an outlet for my seething hostility.

I moved onto Vemeini.

Again, not an Amarr around anywhere, not even on long range scanners. I did pickup a Minmatar Military Beacon broadcasting a contested state. It seemed the Amarr had been around earlier.

I made my way to the beacon, and having gained some useful and relevant skills in my recent adventures, set about hacking the beacon remotely.

Aura estimated it would take me about 12 minutes at the pace I was working.

The thing about anger is that eventually it passes. Eventually, you come down from that mind bending state of complete and utter hostility, and are left with nothing but the regrets of any poor choices and actions you made during your time of emotional infancy.

Feeling anger is natural and human. Reacting like a spoiled two year old child having a tantrum until you get your way is not.

We should not allow our emotions to rule us. They have their place, yes, but they should always be secondary to proper rational thought. Rash and foolish decisions result from allowing emotions to run unchecked, and almost always end up hurting those closest to us.

Dammit.

I had come down from my rage. It was like a crash of Mindflood. I was drained, completely exhausted mentally and physically, fed up with everything and suddenly wanting to crawl into bed and forget the day ever even occurred.

With about a minute left to complete my hack of the military beacon, I would be doing just that. My eyes felt heavy, my brain lethargic. I was spent.

Aura picked up hostiles on the directional scanner, less than 2 AU out. She identified a Broadsword, a Drake and a Hurricane, all transmitting as Imperial Crusade, all warping towards me.

Looked like my rage was going to get unleashed afterall.

Quickly, I pinpointed their direction of entry, and fired up my afterburner towards them, all the while maintaining my focus on the beacon hack.

I knew there was no way I would be able to take out any of these ships, let alone survive against all three, but I would be damned if I would let this beacon fall into enemy hands. I needed to keep them occupied long enough to finish my slicing of the computer systems.

52 seconds was a helluva long time for a frigate to survive to two battlecruisers and a heavy interdictor.

Still, if it was easy, I wouldn’t be here – Roc’s Rule #260. I laughed at myself and focused on the task at hand.

The Broadsword landed on my grid first. I overheated my afterburner and my 150 mm autocannons, opening fire on the HIC. I played it well, keeping myself out of range of its stasis webifier, and there was no way it possessed the speed to close the range between us.

The Drake and the Hurricane arrived.

Barrage ammo repeatedly slammed into the Broadsword, and I was surprised that I was actually doing damage. I didn’t bother with warp scramming, as I figured this trio wouldn’t be leaving such an easy kill as a Rifter.

Proximity alarms of incoming missiles sounded, and I could feel the shake of artillery fire around me. The adrenaline I thought had fallen to the wayside had resurfaced with a vengeance for a second round.

28 seconds remaining.

Projectile ammunition falloff worked in my favour. My speed was too much for any of them to track me adequately. I continued my assault on the Broadsword from an optimal distance, giving me the ability to maintain maximum transverse velocity while delivering maximum damage from my overheated guns, which soon would burnout if I wasn’t careful.

The Broadsword wasn’t even at half shields. Still, it felt good to let loose against it.

The Ripsack lurched, my speed dropping slightly, as artillery shell fragments tore through my shields and armour. Aura reporting a large section of the stern armour plating had been torn free from the impact.

Another shot like that and I would be done.

I cycled down my weapons, focusing as much of my attention as possible on finishing my work with the military beacon.

Less than five seconds to go.

I had Aura plot the familiar course back to Dal, notifying those anxious green Tribal Liberation pilots of my location and the hostiles insystem.

A Broadsword, a Drake, and a Hurricane, unable to take out a single Rifter. As I finished my hack of the beacon and warped off towards home, I wondered if perhaps those Amarr might soon be experiencing a little rage of their own.