Today we’re going to try something a little different. YOU, the audience, are going to determine how this story ends.

Guidelines:

– Your story should go in the comments section of this post. Please type “reserved” in the slot you wish to fill. I can go back later and edit your entry for you.

– Take note of the name above and below you. Try to pick up where they left off, working yourself into the story, and leave your ending open for someone else to easily add themselves to your story.

I thought it might be an interesting experiment. Here’s hoping it works out well.

—

They had all watched the race; some were there to cheer on their favourite racers, others watched it over illegal encrypted subspace transmission. Everyone watched in horror as the only racer to be left unaccounted for was Roc Wieler. He had ascended the mountain, as had many others, but neither he, nor his mount, had exited that section of the grueling race.

The search and rescue drones had given up, their sensors useless in the ferocious storm that encompassed the mountain range. Nine hours had passed already, and yet still many of the crowd would not leave until the fate of Roc Wieler was determined. Some had even boycotted the victory ceremony and after party, knowing in their hearts that foul play had tainted the tradition of the bear races. Many spat on Vladimir Karnakov as he proudly embraced his third place victory, and guaranteed spot in the Annual Finals. This wouldn’t be covered in the news; these races didn’t exist. But to everyone gathered, the emotions existed, and were running high.

Something had to be done.

Snow.

Pristine. Beautiful. Gentle. Soothing. Fun. Adventerous. Dangerous. Slowing. Debilitating. Deadly. Cold.

Wind.

Piercing. Biting. Freezing. Siphons the breath right out of you. Tiring. Staggering. Killing.

Cold.

You feel it in your bones. Burning. Then not burning. 

Pain.

Teaching. Caressing. Tormenting. Destroying. Breaking. Building. Intolerable. Defying. Defining.

Will.

Unbreakable. Unbeatable. Undominatable. Unstoppable. Unrelenting. Uncomprimising. 

I would not back down. I would not give up. We had come too far to be stopped now. I swung my flail at Vlad once again, the numbness fighting against my feeble grip. Laboured breathing came heavily; the bitter cold crystallizing each breath before my face. The snow was fierce, assaulting me from every direction, even upwards. There was no visibility. There was no shelter from the unrelenting storm. There was no escape.

I connected with Vlad’s shield, the reverberations more than my body could handle. The flail broke free from my hand, immediately swallowed by the grave of the mountain’s snow drifts. My mount was wheezing almost as much as I was;  favouring her injured side. Grim news on a grim day.

Vlad had closed in on us at the base of the mountain. A mighty blizzard had awoken on our ascent; it’s anger evident to every rider. The first attack from Vlad came without warning. There were no camera drones as a precursor. I was blindsided by the attack. His sonic hammer smashed into my back and ribs without mercy, its pulse magnifying the damage dealt tenfold. Clothing and flesh were torn asunder, the ribs beneath splintered and shattered by the full swing of that first strike.  I staved off the second blow, but barely; and already the fatigue was setting in. The howling wind and hungry cold latched onto me, gorging on the warmth of my wounds, devouring my own body heat until there was precious little left. 

Vlad was known to be dirty, and he proved himself true once again. He hammered at the hindquarters of my mount, something blatantly illegal, but with zero visibility and no camera drones in sight, how could it be proven? My bear let out an anguished howl, pulling away from Vlad and his monstrous black mount, nearly toppling us over the side of the narrow mountain pass. He was playing for keeps. 

I cursed as I watched my flail leave my hand. I was weaponless. I was tired. Vlad lifted his hammer high above his head, winding up with as much energy as he could to deliver the final blow, the blow that would end my race; end my life. I needed to move. My mind urged my body to respond without success. I couldn’t even maintain my grasp on my mount’s fur. 

Time stretched itself for me in that instant. I watched as the sonic hammer began its fateful downwards arc towards my skull. There was nothing else for me to do but stare. I had been bested. I had been beaten. I was going to die. I heard the triumphant roar of Vlad, sounding as ferocious as a bear himself, deafening my throbbing, frozen ears. Time sped up.

It wasn’t Vlad; it was my mount. She had succumbed a moment before I was about to. She had been running at a full pace up this treacherous mountain for too long. Her front legs collapsed, throwing us both forward into a painful tumble, just as Vlad’s hammer found the space my head had been a moment before. 

We crashed over the lip of the pathway, plummeting forty feet to the snow covered rocks below. 

I don’t know how long I was unconscious, but I awoke with a start. My mount had survived as well, though her fur was covered in blood from the both of us. She lay on her side, her breathing deathly shallow, and I knew she wasn’t going to survive much longer. My own body no longer burned with the cold; my first and final warning that I was suffering from both hypothermia and frostbite. I couldn’t see more than five feet in front of me; the blanket of snow covering everything in every direction. There wasn’t as much light as when I had blacked out; the temperature was dropping with the sunlight. The search and rescue drones would be hard pressed to find us. 

Every rider was required to carry an emergency pack for just such an occasion. I felt around my torso for mine. It was nowhere to be found, and could easily be buried under many feet of snow, even if it was in the immediate area. 

I was confident the race was over by now. I had lost. 

I was so very tired anyway. I just needed to sleep. 

So I did.

It wasn’t my fault. The men’s shower was occupied, and I had to report for duty. There were no ladies present in the corporate gym that day, so I used their shower, no big deal.

The ladies changeroom had more mirrors I noticed, exiting the shower. More mirrors meant I could do a little “posedown” to better examine my progress from this workout. I could see the veins of my shoulders straining to escape their fleshy prison. I looked good.

I switched poses, trying to isolate each muscle group; trying to see where I needed more work, and where I could relax for a cycle or two. So engrossed in myself was I that I didn’t even hear the changeroom door open.

Three female corpmates stopped dead in their tracks. The one on the left of the trio lost her grip on her gym bag, the bag thudding heavily on the tile floor. Her eyes bulged at the sight of me. The other two stood with mouths wide open, not even blinking as they drank me in visually.

I’ve been in more embarassing situations. I didn’t even mind being appreciated. The body is a temple, and I worked hard to keep mine in the best condition I possibly could to illicit exactly the reaction I was receiving from the fairer sex.

I threw them my most charming grin, preparing for a little harmless flirtation, as I obviously had the upper hand in this encounter.

It was only then, as I noticed the direction of the gaze of the one on the left, that I realized I wasn’t wearing my towel …

I believe we have the moral obligation to help those less fortunate than ourselves. Those less fortunate than me believe it also.

But what is help really? Is walking by them day after day, choosing which one you will give pocket change to helping? We know we don’t give to all of them. They know we don’t give to all of them, so is it helping?

It was once said “Give a man a fish, and he’ll eat for a day; teach a man to fish, and he’ll eat for a lifetime.” How many of us are really willing to take the time, make the effort to help those less fortunate?

I am just as guilty as the rest of us, make no mistake. I refuse to give change to the poor and homeless for two reasons.

1. I am always asked for “spare change please”. I don’t have any that’s spare; eventually I will use it all myself.
2. I actually prefer to stop and ask if they would like something to eat, and that I am willing to grab them something nearby. You would be amazed how many times I have heard the answer “No, just some change please.” I refuse to support addictions in this manner.

Yet neither of my approaches is any better than ignoring the situation altogether. It’s not teaching anyone how to change their current position in life.

Before I start sounding too preachy, I must confess that one of my only experiences in trying to change someone’s life resulted in catastrophe, I am sure leaving neither of us wanting to go through that scenario again, though undoubtedly, one of us would.

—

I saw her there, shaking in the summer’s sun, her skin stretched taut, clinging to the bones of her small, teenaged frame. Her clothes were matted, covered in various splatterings, a canvas of filth that society unknowingly and ignorantly painted. She was rummaging through refuse as I approached her.

As she saw me coming, she quickly went into action, preparing her rehearsed demeanour for the thousand and first time. “Spare change please”, she said, as I came closer. “I don’t have any spare change today I’m afraid”, was my reply, “but I’d be more than willing to take you for some lunch. What kind of food do you like?” I fully expected a refusal, as had been my experience many times in the past, but much to my surprise, I was called on the offer. I invited her to join me, thinking of myself as noble, already prepared to make a fuss if my companion was looked at rudely, refused entry, or condescended to at the eatery. Instead, she wanted me to bring the food to her. It made sense really, and not because she was ashamed of herself in any way. She had no idea whatsoever who I was; for all she knew I could’ve been looking for a convenient way to abduct her, or worse. Smart kid.

I went and got us a nice hot meal, then joined her in devouring it. It was messy fun. I cautiously tried to open a dialogue with her, probing to find out more about her, hoping to encourage her to open up about her life, so I could save her.

A lesson I hadn’t learned yet in life was this: everyone has their own lifeview; trying to inflict our views on another while disregarding or invalidating theirs is offensive and blatantly wrong. Worlds thrive this way; it is in our very makeup. The sooner we can accept that we all have our own opinions formed by our own life experiences, and respect those of others, the better off we will all be. 

I was trying to ascertain what brought her to this low point in her life, already formulating my plan on how to direct her path back towards being a valued member of society. Though I didn’t know it at the time, all I was doing was being a condescending prick.

She had reached her limit of patience with my narrow minded preaching, and was irate enough to be bold about it.

The short version was that she had been repeatedly raped by her father until she couldn’t take it anymore, and simply left. She was twelve years old. She had been living on the streets of Matar for five years, and in that time I garnered from her justified rant at me that she had learned more applicable and useful life skills than many of us ever could hope to learn. She had friends that were her “family”. She had a role to fulfill in her small community. She had learned about people, how to evaluate them, how to manipulate and get what she needed from them, how to be wary of them. She had learned about hypocrisy, sterotyping, judgementalism, and worked diligently to overcome them in her own life, while suffering those very abominable traits from most people she interacted with daily. 

In listening to her, I felt smaller and smaller, as I was guilty of nearly everything she had to say. My eyes and heart were opened to the harsh realities of what our world could really be. I had my own past, and traumatic as it was, I felt sickened to be shown just how uncivilized even we Matari could be to our own. Yet I felt no righteous indignation; I only felt shame.

“So spare me your pity,” she continued on, “People need to change their attitudes. Please.” she added with spiteful sarcasm. ” I won’t hold my hand over my ass waiting for that to happen.”

I don’t remember the exact moment the conversation was over. I don’t remember saying goodbye, or if she just up and left, or if I did.

All I remember to this day was her choice of words, “Spare change, please”.

She’s right you know. We all need to spare a little inner change, please.

“I still can’t believe you’re doing this.” Sam chuckled as he triggered the micro camera drone to snap another picture. I couldn’t believe I had convinced him to be the photographer.

“Shut up already. I’m trying to look pouty and serious.” I was really having a difficult time keeping a straight face through all of this.

Never dare me to do something was the moral of the story. The drone snapped another photo. I could hear Sam’s muffled snickering, and turned to see one hand over his mouth, the other held up in apology. I couldn’t contain myself anymore either, and started laughing heartily.

“You’re an ass.” I said, weezing for breath, the tears streaming freely down my face. My sides hurt from the strain of laughing so hard.

“Rocalicious? Really?” We both broke into more laughter.

“Hey, it was meant to be flattering. How was I supposed to know that’s what she’d name her ship?”

It felt like hours passed as we sat on our asses in hysterics like teenagers. It felt good. It felt free. I hadn’t laughed that hard in a long while. Times like these were when I appreciated Sam’s friendship the most; he could make me laugh and forget about myself sometimes.

“Alright, here, take a look.” He said, as he pulled a finished photo from the drone. We both looked at it, then at each other, seeing who could stifle their laughter the longest. It was a short contest, and we both were thrown into fits of the giggles again.

“Will you sign it for me?” Sam said, barely able to get the words out, his arms wrapped his stomach. I held the photo up again.

“Hey, I even shaved for this!” I blurted out, clutching my own abdomen.

Finally, the moment passed, and we had composed ourselves. In a few days, I would make these available to all of New Eden for purchase. The politicians wanted to make me a “hero”? Fine. I’d give them more than they ever bargained for.

Crazy as it sounded in my head, this might actually turn out to be a fun adventure all on its own.

Two months ago, I lost too many crew members in a Gallente initiated ambush. I deal with death everyday; I have learned how to give it closure. 

I got a communication from one of the deceased crew member’s next of kin this morning. It was asking for my assistance with the EVE Intergalactic Bank Customer Service Department. Apparently, they had been billing the dead crew member annual service charges and late fees, and though the outstanding balance was at 0 when she died, it had now accrued a debt with the company. 

I called the EVE Intergalactic Bank (EIB). Here is an actual snippet of that call:

ROC: I’m calling to tell you she died in September.

EIB: The account was never closed and the late fees and charges still apply.

ROC: Maybe you should turn it over to collections.

EIB: Since it is two months past due, it already is in collections.

ROC: So what do you think they’ll do when they find out she’s dead?

EIB: Either report her account to the fraud division or report her to the credit bureau, maybe both.

ROC: Do you think God will be angry with her?

EIB: Excuse me?

ROC: Did you get what I’ve been telling you? The part about her being dead?

EIB: Sir, you’ll have to speak with my supervisor.

Supervisor gets on the phone.

ROC: I’m calling to tell you she died in September.

EIB: The account was never closed and the late fees and charges still apply.

ROC: You mean you want to collect it from her estate?

EIB: (stammering) Are you her lawyer?

ROC: I was her commanding officer. 

Lawyer information given

EIB: Could you transmit a certificate of death?

ROC: Sure.

Locator information given, certificate transmitted.

EIB: Our system isn’t setup for death. I don’t know what more I can do to assist in this matter.

ROC: Well, if you figure it out, great! If not, you could just keep billing her; I don’t think she’ll care.

EIB: Well, the late fees and charges do still apply.

ROC: Would you like her new billing address?

EIB: That might help, yes.

ROC: Muritor Memorial Cemetary, 1249 Cemetary Rd, Mioar, Plot Number 1049.

EIB: Sir, that’s a cemetary!

ROC: Well what the FUCK do you do with dead people on your planet?

Click

Out of character again today; something I do try to avoid.

It has been asked of me by some of my audience to do a brief explanation of my writing process. I would like to thank my readers once again for their continued support. I do write primarily for myself, but it brings me joy to know that others appreciate the efforts made.

STEP #1: Listen to the Muse, always

Our own lives are our greatest adventures. That is my belief, and I have learned that any fictional projection of ourselves is still just that, ourselves. Whether it’s writing, MMOs, acting in a play, or another outlet, we reference very real experiences and emotions to help define the role we are in. 

My writing is based on three things: My own life experience, my own dark thoughts based on real life experiences, and complete fantasy based on countless decades of an overindulgence in science fiction.

Each and every day some interesting thought will enter my mind, whether it’s from external stimuli, or a product of my own experiences and imagination. Seize those moments. They are the source of a great many tales.

Step #2: The Right Tools

In this day and age it is unacceptable to me to say “I wish I had written that thought down.” Information is accessible from virtually anywhere. For me, I have an iPhone 3G. I have the WordPress application installed that basically allows me to write a draft from anywhere I am. As some of you may have gathered, I also commute to and from work, about 1 hour each direction. This gives me ample opportunity to write daily.

Step #3: The Snowflake Method

I use a modified version of the Snowflake Method. I do encourage you to read the link before continuing on with this post. Please.

So, let’s give an example. 

I’m on the train, commuting. I see something outside the window, or overhear a conversation, or encounter someone who annoys or interests me, and the muse springs forth an idea.

I open my iPhone, launch the WordPress authoring application, and get to work.

My ideas are usually summed up in 1 – 4 sentences, but there is no limit; go with your muse.

1. What is the keyphrase of the story? 
2. What did I learn from it?
3. How did I get there, as in, how do I get myself involved in the story.
4. How do I apply it to EVE Online and Roc Wieler (when writing for this blog).

These sentences can be in any order, and don’t have to be chronological. Sometimes mixing it up adds more variety and interest to the story, as well as furthering your skills as a writer. Writing the middle first, for example, might spark new ideas in the muse as you fill in the rest, often resulting in a more enjoyable finished piece.

Step #4: Speed Writing

So we have our idea. We’ve jotted down our key sentences. Now we use the snowflake method to fill them in. Add your own vulnerabilities. Add personal flare. Keep in mind the who, what, when, where, why and how we all learned in school, as well as sight, sound, touch, taste, smell and that elusive sixth sense, or whatever you want to name it.

Edit as much as you want at this stage. Re-arrange things where you think needed, correct grammar, expand your vocabulary, whatever you think needs done.

Just remember, once you hit submit, that’s it, you’re done; no going back.

Step #5: Always leave them wanting more

It is imperative, and I cannot stress it enough, always leave them wanting more. Any writer will tell you to resolve your story. I agree wholeheartedly. But I also think it’s equally important, if not moreso, to introduce a teaser; something to make them want to keep reading your work. So always be conscious of that when you write. What could the twist ending potentially be?

You’ll also find that by doing this, you leave yourself in a good position for further writing in the future.

And that’s pretty much it. Reviewing it now it doesn’t seem that impressive to me. I wish I had something more awe inspiring and insightful to offer, but it is what it is.

—

The Lecture

I hated giving speeches; it made my stomach knot with gas, I thought to myself as I addressed the group before me. That’s the last thing I need right now, to start worrying about passing wind. They had gathered to hear me give a “pep speech” for the Republic. I declined repeatedly, but when you’re invited by the Prime Minister himself, you learn they don’t take no for an answer.

It was deftly quiet. Nobody even blinked. I could hear my heart in my ears. It was oddly comforting, yet mocking, but at least assured me I hadn’t gone deaf. I felt a cold bead of sweat work its way down my cheek bone. I wanted to wipe it; its itch was maddening me. I needed to finish and get out of here before I lost it. I hated crowds. But duty was duty.

I still didn’t know why they chose me. Sure, I was aware of the commercials that were still continually played on billboards across the galaxy, but there were dozens of “heroes” in this war much better suited to public speaking than I. Sometimes I wondered if it was all one big joke, and I was the only one not in on it. 

I heard a brief “ahem” to my left, and chanced a quick glance that direction to see the Prime Minister glaring at me, gesturing me to get on with it. He was seated with political dignataries, and some de facto clan leaders, all of them looking anxiously either at me, or at each other. I realized all my inner musings were only increasing the incredibly uncomfortable silence already omnipresent.

I turned my focus to the cluster of microphones affixed to the pulpit before me. “Thank you Pr…” I began, only to hear the piercing screech of audio feedback in the microphones. Some of the audience reacted as well, piling more anxiety on me; like I wasn’t feeling the pressure enough already. I started again, a little more quietly this time. “Thank you, Prime Minister. I’m not one for words…” 

“Speak up!” Some random voice shouted, illiciting subdued laughter from a portion of the crowd. Easy to talk trash when it’s not you. I wagered things would be very different were I to meet the heckler face to face, alone in a dark pub. My stomach was in knots. I thought I might vomit, or pass out from the stress.

I summoned my courage. Here I was, a fleet commander for the Tribal Liberation Force, a killer of thousands of our enemy, yet I couldn’t talk to a crowd? Screw that. This wasn’t about me after all. It was about the Republic I believed in; about the freedom of our people; about the role that each and every one of us must take to shape the future we desired; the future we were entitled to.

It was time to speak.

A small smirk crept onto my face as I inhaled deeply. It was going to be a speech they would never forget.

“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.

I punched the wall again, this time hearing the knuckles split, and looked at the blood on both the wall and my fist. 

“That damn arrogant, double talking sunuvabitch!” I yelled to nobody. I punched the wall again, adding more cracks to my hand, but finally starting to crack the wall. I still wasn’t satisfied.

“You foul smelling, fat waste of skin!” I punched again, even harder than before. I was outraged. I was beyond angry. 

“You condescending, self righteous, hyocritical pain in my ass!” I exploded. “Fucking Amarr piece of shit.”

—

ATTN ALL PILOTS:

Mandi Kai is to be terminated on sight, commencing immediately. Colonel Roc Wieler will pay 10 million ISK per verified kill. Culmulative kills are encouraged. Destroy her ship. Destroy her pod. Punish her until she ceases to exist in this universe. You will find her close to the Amarr homeworld, flying frigates, cruisers, and assault frigates. She must be taught a lesson.

END TRANSMISSION

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Bookmark this post and link your Battleclinic killmail in it.

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“You messed with the wrong person this time.”

Welcome to the November installment of the EVE Blog Banter, the monthly EVE Online blogging extravaganza created by CrazyKinux. The EVE Blog Banter involves an enthusiastic group of gaming bloggers, a common topic within the realm of EVE Online, and a week to post articles pertaining to the said topic. The resulting articles can either be short or quite extensive, either funny or dead serious, but are always great fun to read! Any questions about the EVE Blog Banter should be directed here. Check out other EVE Blog Banter articles at the bottom of this post!

This month’s EVE Blog Banter comes to us from Brinelan over at The Shard (http://www.theshard.org). He asks: What drew us into EVE, what keeps us playing the game and what brought us back if we’ve ever left?

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Everyone has a story to tell. 

I remember my humble beginnings. My life began in a simple city, of no more than one hundred and thirty five citizens. We weren’t the biggest clan by any means, but we were very close knit. War raged around us, eventually destroying what was our home. We tried to rebuild, but it was never the same. I was a tribal leader then, a valued member of the clan, but I made my mistakes. I hurt a lot of people unintentionally, trapped in an ever growing web of my own lies. It is something I truly regret to this day, and have vowed to never get caught up in such a situation again.

Despite the fame, despite the community I failed, my destiny was to be elsewhere. 

I was enslaved at ten years old, forced into a life of servitude by the Amarr. There was a point when the only escape my mind had was to fantasize about crazy things. I remember one nightmarish fantasy I had, where I was undead, some kind of mystical warlock, able to cast about magic, like the bedtime stories I remembered when I was an infant. Once I was a superhero, able to jump over buildings in a single bound. There was even a time I lived among small human like creatures, seeking some all powerful and unifying ring. But I grew up; I no longer had a desire for such childish things.

Eventually, I snatched my freedom. It was no easy task. I fled from Amarr space, knowing nothing of the New Eden before me, unskilled, untried, unprepared. A lot had changed in twenty years.

I made my way to Hrober, where I lived for months, etching out a precarious living, never sure if each day would be my last. I was eventually taken under the wing of some local mercenaries there. It was they whom shaped the future I enjoy now. They trained me as a pilot. They recommended me as a capsuleer. They taught me to do more than survive; they taught me how to thrive.

Since leaving them, I’ve made my own little dent in the universe. Sure, I am not as well known as thousands of capsuleers, but my goal was never to acquire fame or fortune. I simply want to make a difference. I want to free our people from the tyranny of the Amarr. 

When the Republic started recruiting capsuleers for the war effort, it was a no brainer. I signed up immediately, leading engagements into both Amarr and Caldari space. There are some who enjoy my style of fleet command; and a few who don’t. Through much effort, aptitude, diligence, and patience, I am now a Matar Colonel of the Tribal Liberation Force.

And yet, war cannot last forever. 

There is still so much of this universe for me to explore. In reality, I’ve seen very little of it, not even much of my birth planet. But then again, who has really? Even to master all the cultural intricacies on one planet could take several lifetimes, let alone fully embracing the entirety of New Eden?

Fortunately, I have several lifetimes to explore; to learn; to embrace. 

What keeps me here? My story has only just begun.

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Participants: