It was a late evening. I had just showered off after finishing a sixteen hour patrol in the Renegade; nothing noteworthy.

I casually walked towards the floor to ceiling window of my spacious accommodation, which overlooked the central axis of “insert station here” while the day’s newscast provided white noise in the background.

The heart of the station offered an artificial ecosystem, and most of the higher level businesses could be found in this central promenade. Living in this class of community would cost a small fortune planet side; it was ten times that on the station.

My head turned as the newscast caught my attention. As I toweled off my head I told the wall monitor to increase volume.

And in other news, support continues to grow for the ‘Minority Man’ movement, as hundreds now gather in protest if archaic reverse discrimination practices. What surely started as an isolated college prank has now gained legitimate traction, and as this issue continues to garner more public attention, it will undoubtedly need to be commented on by city council.

Interesting.

“Relevance.” I spoke aloud, and the monitor muted, a picture in picture panel appearing, listing all the related news media surrounding this story.

Water dripped to the floor as I stood transfixed, scanning the various articles.

It appeared a young man had applied to work at a lingerie store, and was immediately rejected without so much as an interview. “Most of our clientele is female, and it would be uncomfortable to have a man working here, given the discreet nature of our product.” the female store manager had been quoted as saying later in the day.

“And who do you think those women are trying to impress?” the young man counter-quoted. “Husbands, boyfriends, lovers. Having a man on staff provides instant feedback for these customers. It adds value.”

This same young had also applied to a “Women’s Only” fitness facility, and was again rejected without so much as an interview. “Our gym is not a pickup joint, a place for men on the prowl to hookup; go to an Achura club for that.” the facility owner, also a woman, was quoted as saying.

“If I were a lesbian,” the young man countered to a news reporter, “Would I have summarily rejected? Probably not, and I could’ve ‘prowled’ to my heart’s content. But because I’ve got the plumbing, I was immediately discriminated against. It’s an injustice that shouldn’t be tolerated in today’s open society.”

He had growing support from the Gallente Federation, by far the most liberal Empire in New Eden.

The Brutor Tribe of course was very rigid and traditional. “Men were men, and the sheep were scared” was an old saying amongst our people.

Still, I had to applaud this young man’s efforts and ingenuity.

I wondered about the opinions of others as I finished drying off, sliding naked onto the sheer silken sheets of my bed.

Gigaear, over at Prano’s Journey, has finally picked up One Night of Roc and given the most detailed, and brutal, review to date of my efforts.

As I mentioned in my comments on his blog, I always appreciate critical honesty, and he had loads to give.

READ THE REVIEW

UNKNOWN SYSTEM

The engines of my Firetail, the Renegade, screamed blue fire at me for pushing them so far beyond their safety specifications. I had already melted my autocannons, ignoring Aura’s continual alarms as their temperature rose well beyond their threshold.

More armour plates were sheared off as my pursuers continued the hunt, scoring several hits against me.

I skimmed closer towards the planet’s thick atmosphere, hoping my frigate would be able to hold together better than the enemy interceptors gaining on me; the Sansha Nation was pissed, and that made me happy.

Aura blared at me that my angle of descent was too steep for the structural integrity of the ship, but that was the idea. Within seconds, the nose of my ship glowed white, and I watched as even my pod’s internal temperature rose to a frightening 58 C. Thankfully, there was no need for a crew in this size of ship. My jaw rattled against itself no matter how hard I clenched my teeth; I could barely hear Aura’s warnings in my head over the deafening sounds and tumultuous vibrations of my ship bending, buckling, starting to break apart.

The Renegade had begun its death throes.

With a determined act of focus, I willed the ship to align to the proper trajectory, hoping I wasn’t too late to save myself. The surface of the planet was rising far too quickly towards me, lovingly welcoming me to its solid embrace. This was gonna hurt like hell …

*** SEVERAL MINUTES LATER ***

The piercing sunlight awoke me. Instinctively as I raised my hand to cover my eyes, it didn’t even cross my mind how odd it was for the sun to be shining directly down on me. A moment later, I realized I was still in my pod, a gaping wound opened down its side, its precious fluid contents spilled all over the surrounding terrain.

My ship had disintegrated around me, pieces probably scattered for miles amongst one of the most unforgiving landscapes I had ever seen.

Miraculously, I was alive, and relatively undamaged. A quick assessment revealed bumps and bruises, nothing more.

Aura was inoperable. With effort, I extricated myself from my pod, still uncertain as to the fate of the Sansha pirates. Surely they would be scanning for me amidst the wreckage shortly, if they hadn’t already during my blackout.

My Neocom buzzed. I had an incoming text.

“Need u 2 cover my shift this Sat, 4 – 10 PM, k?”

I had no idea who it was. I had been receiving these random texts for days from this person. It was incredibly annoying, and at that moment, I just snapped a little.

This was to be the first and last time I would text them back.

“kk” was all I typed.

I squinted against the blinding sunlight, my ears hearing a faint buzzing. Once my eyes partially adjusted to the blistering brightness of the overhead sky, I could see the two interceptors as dots in the distance. I didn’t have much time.

I needed to make my next actions count.

*** A FEW DAYS LATER ***

I sat in V2 Freedom Forge, enjoying a beer and cigar during some downtime, awaiting my next mission.

My Neocom buzzed. I had an incoming text.

“Ty, asshole! U never showed up 4 my shift. Tazr fired me. What the hell’s ur problem?”

I chuckled to myself, wondering if they would ever realize the intended party never received their messages.

As always, thank you to everyone that took the time to participate in any contest I put on my blog; I truly appreciate it.

Some of the entries made me chuckle, some made me nod in agreement, some made me go WTF?

Overall, I chose the winner based on appropriateness to my vision of Roc, as well as what was most creative given the situation.

WINNER: Blind Philip of EVE Observations

You have won yourself a short story, written by yours truly, about your character, as well as a Caldari Navy Hookbill. Please email me the following:

• The ingame character name you want the ship contracted to
• The ingame character name and large profile picture you want the story written about
• A brief history about your character so I can have at least a touch of insight when writing

Thanks again to all. I will definitely do this again!

“So it’s said the Amarr have always been the most technologically advanced race.” I said as I took another swig of my beer, while my U’K alliance mates jeered and booed at my opening comment.

During the previous several weeks, I had started becoming a part of the team, a brother to be relied on, no matter what the task. It felt good to be surrounded by Matari, like-minded people dedicated to the eradication of slavery and piracy but not bogged down by the minutiae of political maneuvering.

“But it wasn’t always so.” I continued, resting my beer on the table, wiping dribble from my chin with my sleeve. There was a quiet murmuring of anticipation now, my audience waiting for the inevitable tale I would tell.

“My great ancestor, the first Matar Colonel Wieler in our proud line, archived an experience he had with perhaps the original Amarrian priests to come to our worlds.”

I deliberately paused, drawing them in further, waiting for them to hang on my every word. I enjoyed telling a good story.

“These two Amarrian priests were curious about our people; intrigued by our tribal way of life, by our strong clan ties.” This, of course, received many hoots and hollers, some Brutor even pounding on their chests in recognition that we were Matari.

“It so happens that they decided to travel among us inconspicuously, trying to blend in, if you can even imagine such a thing.” A few chuckles, a few snorts of derision.

“‘Blessed Elder Brother,'” the first priest said to the other. “‘I hunger. We should find ourselves some sustenance among these primitives.'”

Boos! Bahs! from the crowd. I smiled.

“‘There, brother! Look!'” the priest said, and I pointed to some imaginary place outside, many of my audience turning to look. I shook my head and laughed.

“They happened upon a hot dog stand.” I said, a wide smile on my face, already knowing the punch line.

“‘This is good, elder brother.'” the younger priest said. “‘They eat dog as well. Perhaps they are civilized after all.'”

I had to shush the hissing and booing from my alliance mates.

“‘Let’s hope so, lesser brother.'” the other priest replied.

They ordered themselves two hot dogs, both of them ravenous with hunger. Several minutes later, they sat down with their foil wrapped food.

The lesser priest unwrapped his hot dog, his mind consumed with the need to eat. His eyes bulged round, his mouth hanging open, and he quickly wrapped the food back up, placing his shaking hand on the elder priest’s sleeve.

The elder priest looked to his younger brother, genuine confusion and rising alarm etched on his face.

The lesser priest spoke, his voice trembling.

“‘What part of the dog did you get?'”

I have never heard a group of Matari laugh so hard to this day.

Imagination has always been one of the most wondrous gifts in my opinion. Without it, would we even have advanced to where we are? If not for the dreamers, how we would ever advance as a race? As a society?

Of course, there was the argument for pre-destination; perhaps the Jovians had controlled it all… for all we knew, there could have been several attempts, perhaps even across several dimensions, creating different timelines for New Eden we would never be aware of. Did we ever come to fully understand their power? Did they even have limitations?

Gigaer recently gave a sit down interview. Twas an interesting tale he spun. Did it really happen that way? Did it not? Does the truth of it matter more than the telling?

THE WIELER VACCINE

Ol Nyna Evpuneq Nu penc, V’z va gebhoyr guvf gvzr. Wbjny juvarq fbzrguvat jryy nobir zl urnevat enatr.

“V’z xvaqn ohfl evtug abj,” V fnvq. Wbjny qvnyyrq ure serdhrapl onpx gb fbzrguvat n yvggyr yrff yvxryl gb penpx tynff naq gevrq ntnva.

“Gurl’er fubbgvat ng hf.”

“Abg n ybg V pna qb nobhg gung abj,” V lryyrq, synvyvat gbjneqf gur pbafbyr. V yhatrq ng gur xabo gung qviregf nyy raretl gb gur erne qrsyrpgbe fuvryqf. Gur rfpncr cbq ynhapurq.

“Qnzzvg.”

“Gurl’ir whfg incbevmrq gur rfpncr cbq.”

“V pna frr gung, Wbjny. Jurer gur uryy vf Rabc?”

“Fur’f qbja va gur tnyyrl.” Fbzrguvat uvg hf — uneq.

“Qba’g gryy zr fur’f orra yvfgravat?” V fnvq. Wbjny abqqrq.

“Gung’f whfg terng,” V fubhgrq, fynzzvat zl svfg vagb gur pbafbyr, “jr’er tvivat guvf hc abj orsber gurl oybj hf bhg bs gur fxl.” Wbjny fdhrnyrq fbzrguvat. V onpxrq bss gur guehfgref naq fnttrq vagb zl frng. V’z abg n cvybg, arire unir orra. Gur pbyq terl bs gur cngeby pehvfre svyyrq gur zbavgbe.

***

Jr fgbbq orsber gur Zvazngne pbzznaqre. Zl ersyrpgvba qnaprq bss gur bqqyl natyrq cnaryf bs uvf havsbez. Vg jnf inthryl ulcabgvp. Ur’q frag uvf tehagf va svefg. Gurl’q ebhaqrq hf hc — n ovg zber ivtbebhfyl guna jnf fgevpgyl arprffnel — ohg jr unq gevrq gb bhgeha uvz, fb V pbhyqa’g ernyyl pbzcynva. Bar nccrnerq oruvaq uvz naq juvfcrerq fbzrguvat va Zngnev. V qvqa’g pngpu vg. Gheavat gb hf, ur fjvgpurq gb Pbzzba.

“V ungr fzhttyref.” V qvqa’g cebgrfg guvf. Ur jnf evtug, nsgre nyy. Rabc fjnlrq orfvqr zr. Orvat Tnyyragr, V jnf snveyl fher fur’q or evtug. Fur fynzzrq gb gur tebhaq, uneq. Thrff abg. Gur pbzznaqre ebhaqrq ba zr.

“Lbhe sevraq frrzf gb unir n ovg bs n ceboyrz, V guvax fur yvxrf gb yvfgra gb guvatf, onq guvatf, vyyrtny guvatf.” Ba phr, bar bs uvf tehagf cebqhprq gur qvfx.

“Jung vf guvf?” nfxrq gur pncgnva jvgu rabhtu rknttrengrq gurnger gb svyy gur tenivgl jryy bs n fznyy cynarg.

“N cevzvgvir fgbentr qrivpr, fve,” fnvq gur tehag “Naq jung — rknpgyl — qbrf vg fgber?”

“Ol gur fgngr bs ure —” gur thneq jnirq qvfzvffviryl ng Rabc’f cebfgengr, tvttyvat svther, ” — V’q thrff zhfvp, fve.”

“Nanylmr vg. Abj.” Nf gur tehag fpheevrq njnl, gur pbzznaqre’f rlrf yvg ba zr.

“V xabj lbh’ir orra gb Fbivpbh, Wnlra. V xabj gung lbh naq gurfr gjb svygul Rybef ner erfcbafvoyr sbe unys gur cvengrq zhfvp gung’f qrfgeblvat guvf jbeyq, naq jura V svaq vg, erfg nffherq gung lbh ner tbvat gb ebg.” V’z fperjrq.

***

Gjb qnlf yngre gurl eryrnfrq zr. Rabc’f fuvc jnf vzcbhaqrq naq qrfgeblrq. Fur jnf fragraprq gb n lrne va gur oevt sbe cbffrffvba bs n fznyy nzbhag bs nhqvb nygrevat fhofgnapr. Gurl qvqa’g svaq gur pnetb.

***

Lrnef yngre, V ena vagb Wbjny ba n sebagvre zbba. Jr erzvavfprq nobhg gur byq qnlf. Nccneragyl Rabc qvrq fubegyl nsgre ure eryrnfr. Fur’q ybnqrq rabhtu zhfvp gb ybobgbzvmr na vasnagel qvivfvba vagb na rfpncr cbq, naq ynhapurq urefrys gbjneqf n cnffvat pbzrg.