PATOR IV, HEIMATAR REGION
SANMATAR OFFICE

Shakor stood facing his favourite window, feeling the gentle breeze of the city below against his face. On his desk behind him, his computer beeped patiently waiting for the verbal confirmation code to send the three awaiting outgoing messages.

He had never been a man to hesitate, but now he found himself second guessing his choices. What had caused his trepidation? When had he become this man afraid of consequences? The resounding answer caused his heart to sink; it was when he had first met Roc Wieler.

The Matar Colonel had shown such promise early on, but as time progressed, Roc was consistently the focal point in multiple storms of contention and controversy. Shakor’s friendship with the Brutor had become well known, and he had found his office more often than not busy with the task of damage control regarding the pilot.

Now Roc sat in a mental treatment facility, his fate in the hands of doctors that couldn’t possibly understand the complexities of capsuleer life regardless of their collective training. It was a dire situation for Roc, but one of his own doing, at least indirectly.

What had surprised Shakor more was the visit by Garlon Das, and the attached offer to Roc. To his credit, Roc had rejected the offer of political leveraging, being too keen to not suspect Garlon’s underlying motives to usurp control of the Republic.

Surprisingly, Roc had applied for the Council of Stellar Management, a political body even outside the Sanmatar’s juristication. Their goal was the improvement to the quality of life for every citizen of New Eden, though they tended to slant their focus towards the wants of the pod pilots.

After his initial shock, Shakor could see why Roc had chosen that path for his first attempt at entering the political foray. Just the same, it could not be allowed. He was still too naive to the way things really worked, too idealistic.

There came a time when duty even overrode friendship. Shakor sighed and gave the command.

The computer happily chirped and sent its three awaiting messages.

—

“Are you certain? I really can’t believe it.”

“We’ve confirmed the report. It’s accurate.”

“Collateral targets acquired. Initiating termination protocol.”

—

PIAK II, MOON 4, LONETREK REGION
HOUSE OF RECORDS INFORMATION CENTER

Piktun sat inside of her first Charon class freighter. It was brand new off of the assembly line, and she was only two days from being able to pilot it herself. She had focused her capsuleer abilities towards commerce these last few years, yielding billions in profit from the elite market of the pod pilots for herself and her clients. War was profitable, what else could be said?

She floated in the unfamiliar warmth of pod goo, still acclimating herself to the foreign sensations of expanded awareness and intrusion. Her thoughts strayed to one of her most prolific clients, Matar Colonel Roc Wieler, though she wasn’t certain he still held that rank given his latest set of obstacles. Still, the man had made her rich beyond her wildest dreams, not that he hadn’t profited a few billion isk himself in the process.

Most recently, she had been approached by representatives of Concord, whom requested a full audit on the accounts of Roc Wieler. They had provided proper credentials, and even informed her of his application to the CSM, and she had excitedly complied. Everything she had done on his behalf had been completely above board.

She gave the mental command to her Aura link, pulling up his accounts. It always made her smile to see the historical rise of profit margins.

“Aura, show me the latest trends for this region.” Piktun said, slowly becoming more familiar with her womb like surroundings.

There was no response.

She focused her will, mentally giving the command again. No response.

Her heart rate accelerated slightly, but she took a deep breath and focused once more.

The status indicator for Roc’s profits starting blinking red, and a small alarm sounded in her mind. In horror, Piktun watched as hundreds of millions of isk began dropping from his account.

“Aura, what is going on with account 661699191?”

Piktun felt panic rising in her throat. She wanted to be out of this pod now. She wasn’t ready. She began hyperventilating, her blood pressure rising.

“Aura, what is going on? Why aren’t you responding?”

Piktun was almost crying. Then there was a stab of sharp pain in the base of her skull, through her connection to her ship. A million volts of electricity surged through her body, liquefying her organs from the inside.

She gurgled briefly, then was dead, floating in the goo of her pod. There was no transfer to a new clone.

Pod goo swirled slowly, changing colour to a mix of crimson.

—

“Initial target confirmed terminated. Proceeding to next target.”

“And we’re 100% certain of the accusations?”

“If you have a problem with your orders, Fallout, feel free to take them up with our superiors.”

—

ORIS, MOON 4, DOMAIN REGION
EXPERT DISTRIBUTION RETAIL CENTER

Phillip Wessam was glad to be back in his pod as a combat pilot. He had spent far too long working as a “legitimate businessman” for the Empire. Truth be told, there was a part of him that missed the slave trade, but it was more hassle than it was worth in the end.

“Gold 3, tighten up formation. You’re straying.” the training commander barked.

Wessam focused his thoughts, bringing his Punisher back inline with the rest of his squad, then felt a surge of pain in the base of his skull.

The training commander watched as Gold 3, a new recuit in a Punisher, began to list offcourse.

“Gold 3, I’m not going to tell you again. Tighten it up and focus!” he bellowed into the squad comm channel. The Punisher continued offcourse, slowly spiralling towards a larger battleship in the fleet.

“Gold 3, this is your last chance! Alter course or you will be fired on!”

But it was too late. Phillip Wessam was already dead.

—

VILLORE VIII, MOON 7
FEDERAL INTELLIGENCE LOGISTIC SUPPORT

Minara Dawn knew her days were numbered ever since her betrayal and outright false testimony regarding Roc Wieler. As much as she had tried to put it from her mind, leave it in the past, her fear of eventual retribution had become an obsessive compulsion. She was completely paranoid.

She barely flew her ships anymore. Even more rarely did she leave her office or apartment.

When the day came for her to reconnect with Aura, a connection essential to all pod pilots, she did so with certain dread. She had her own technicians check and recheck the connections. Security was doubled in her hangar.

She was terrified to die.

When she was finally plugged in, finally feeling comfortable and somewhat whole again, she realized how foolish her terror had been.

It was her last thought as she felt a sudden jolt at the base of her spine.

—

“All secondary targets eliminated. Moving to primary.”

“Dammit Nova! At least let him explain himself.”

“Wouldn’t matter if he did. Orders are orders. And even if the proof has been falsified, it’s not my place to question it. Loki, you ready?”

“Ready.”

—

PATOR IV, HEIMATAR REGION
MAJANUNI INSTITUTE

Roc Wieler sat alone in his cell, just another day in solitude, left only with the constant questions in his mind. There was too much self-loathing, too much anger; he was slowly deteriorating, giving up the fight.

A low rumble shook the concrete foundation. He knew the tremor of an explosion when he felt it.

Alarms sounded throughout the facility. Roc had always known they would come.

For weeks, he had steeled his mind, preparing to fight against anything and anyone that would come for him, but the drugs, the mental probing, the interrogations; they had finally started to wear him down. He knew he would break soon, if he hadn’t already. He honestly couldn’t remember.

All he had ever wanted to do was make a difference in the universe.

A loud explosion this time, much closer, shaking dust loose from his very cell.

Still the mountainous Brutor didn’t move. He had accepted his fate. What other choice did he have in the end?

The wall across from his cell exploded inward, and he instinctively covered himself, dropping to the floor. When he arose, there was a single figure standing before him, covered in a sleek bodysuit, staring down at him.

“Roc Wieler, come with me. We don’t have much time.” she said.

An emotion Roc hadn’t felt in a long while began to rise within him, hope.

Slowly he stood and took his first step towards freedom. That is when his caution kicked in.

“Who are you?” he asked, realizing it had been the first time he had spoken in days.

“My name is Nzuri Sana, but that’s not important. What is important is who you are.”

Roc looked confused. He knew who he was. Didn’t he?

She picked up on his expression and spoke firmly, “You’re no longer Roc Wieler. From this point on, you’re nobody; just another pilot trying to make a living. Got it?”

She turned and started towards the hole in the wall before acknowledging Roc’s reply. He started after her.

“Where are we going?” he asked.

“Only place we can, flyboy; nullsec. You’re wanted by Concord. Only place you’re going to survive long enough to figure out what’s going on is where they aren’t.”

Roc nodded. He understood.

His life, as he knew it, had ended, and a new chapter begun.

He smiled.

“What’s so funny?” the woman asked.

“Oh, just been itching for a fight is all. Looks like I got my wish.” Roc replied, his boyish charm restored.

She looked at him sternly when she spoke. “This isn’t a fight you can win.”

Roc returned her stare with an intensity that shook her to the core of her being.

“Exactly how I like it.”

—

“Subject has eluded us. Orders?”

“There’s nowhere he can go. We’ll find him. Fraudulent ISK is a capital offence. Concord won’t take this lightly.”

Fallout smiled. “Well, if he makes it to nullsec, not much we can do at all.”

Nova and Loki both scowled. “No, there isn’t.”

Two years since you died, and still the pain inside me grows. The pain at losing you threatens to crush every good memory we had. It’s not healthy I know, but my heart cries out still upon every thought of life without you.

It’s not fair. There are millions out there more deserving of death than you. It was the truest tragedy if ever there was one.

I am still fixated, consumed on the last mental image I have of us; you laying there on your side, kissing me; me holding your face in my hand, tears flowing freely.

It tore out my soul as they gave you the needle, as I watched you breathe your last, as your eyes glazed over, lifeless, to forever haunt me.

No man should ever have to make the choice to end the life of someone he loves so dearly. It’s too painful a responsibility for anyone’s mind and heart to endure.

Yet it was my choice.

The doctors said we could try expensive medicines, and that it might buy you a few more months. Months in which I could watch you slowly wither away, suffering poor quality of life and growing discomfort, simply for the selfishness of having you with me for a little while longer.

I couldn’t do that to you. You deserved better. You deserved the release you got from the pain.

Still.

I had to step away just now to clear my eyes. I find it difficult to even write about you. My heart drowns in never ending misery.

This universe is worse off without you in it.

As time passes, I fear the loss of my memory. I fear not being able to remember every detail about you. I have nothing left but those memories; a few photos, videos, a few articles left that were yours.

And your urn.

I look at you often, hold you close sometimes. Without you I am not the man I was.

Life hasn’t been the same for me. I wrote another song about you, about life inbetween death, about being there until the end. Many love the song. It just moves me to tears everytime I listen.

So much has changed in my life that I would tell you about, but honestly none of it means anything without you to share it with.

Two years.

One day I will join you. We will be reunited. I will be made whole again.

Until that day, know I love you with all that I am, and miss you every day. I still kiss my ring every morning to honour you.

I don’t want to stop writing. I’m afraid when I do it will be as if you’re gone again.

You were my best friend. You understood me like nobody else ever has, and probably never will.

So many things we never got to experience together, to share. And now it’s too late.

I constantly second guess myself you know. Maybe I should’ve told the doctors no. Maybe we could’ve tried the other medicines. Maybe a miracle would’ve happened.

It’s my fault you’re dead. It was my choice.

I still believe it was the right thing to do for you. The pain I feel confirms it. You didn’t suffer. You didn’t decay. You shone brightly, and were extinguished quickly.

I will never stop speaking of your greatness.

I love you Taniqua, and you will always remain alive in me until we are one again.

Welcome to another special installment of the EVE Blog Banter, the monthly EVE Online blogging extravaganza created by myself, 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 a great fun to read! Any questions about the EVE Blog Banter should be directed to me.

What could CCP Games do to attract and maintain a higher percentage of women to the game. Will Incarna do the trick? Can anything else be done in the mean time? Can we the players do our part to share the game we love with our counterparts, with our sisters or daughters, with the Ladies in our lives? What could be added to the game to make it more attractive to them? Should anything be changed? Is the game at fault, or its player base to blame?

—

Stigmas, stereotypes, demographically targeted marketing are but a few of the reasons that contribute to the low percentage of female gamers in general.

Historically, males have always been the tinkerers, the explorers, the gadgeteers, the inventors. Men are the wanderers, the ones filled with the desire to conquer everything they put their hands to.

Factor in a patriarchal, male dominated workplace, and other sexist practices, and you end up with virtual realities created by men for men.

MMOs are the modern day version of a “Boy’s Only Club”, and they are marketed that way, for the most part.

Thankfully, the women of this generation have been statistically proven to be more apt with social media and associated technologies, and are making huge strides in the virtual arena.

Game producers, developers, marketers and advertisers are picking up on this trend and adjusting their outdated ways of thinking to better capitalize on the sheer volume of women involved in technology.

It’s a smart move.

But until every company starts realizing that women are just as capable as men when it comes to technology, there is only one solution to attract more women to Eve Online.

More Roc.

Brilliant in its simplicity, I know. More Roc posters, more Roc music, more Roc animations, more Roc merchandise. CCP needs to capitalize on all the bad ass sexiness that is associated with the package of Matar Colonel Roc Wieler.

It’s the most realistic solution to the problem. Always has been.

CAILLE, LUMINAIRE, ESSENCE REGION

When it came down to it, all men liked tits and ass, but there was always a stigma attached to preferring one over the other. Being an “ass” man could automatically find you kindred spirits, sad pathetic souls with nothing better to do than compare women’s asses.

Reducing women to the mere objectification of body parts was uncivilized, sexist, insulting and just wrong.

In my experience, it was always the fat, ugly, and/or older women that couldn’t fit into an Achura’s form-fitting latex body suit that held this opinion of objectification. Not once had I ever met a young, hot, firm piece of meat that didn’t enjoy strutting her stuff, tantalizing, teasing men, intoxicating them with sensuality, making them pay for every moment of fantasy and hopeful pleasure they would never receive.

Me? I was a breast man.There was just something primal about a nice rack. Some scientists had theorized it was instinctual from our long distant evolution, and that breasts looked like ass, and cleavage was arousing to men simply because as animals “doggy style” was the most natural of sexual positions and after millions of years still held that same hypnotic affect on our loins.

Others postulated it was survival of the fittest, and our unconscious brain selecting the healthiest traits in potential partners, and since breasts meant life for our young, we were naturally attracted to women with nicer tatas.

Whatever the reason, I enjoyed everything about them: the way they bounced and swayed, the feel of them like large, ripe melons at the grocer, the smoothness of them, the scent, the taste while sucking on them like a hungry infant.

I became greedy when it came to breasts, grabbing at them, fondling them, holding them with the hope of never letting go. I could easily fall asleep in their warmth after several hours of marathon sex.

I was definitely a breast man.

When I first was accepted into the Capsuleer program, a few of the other candidates and I decided to party it up, to celebrate our good fortune. At the time, I had no idea becoming a capsuleer would lead to the neverending misery of being immortal.

Typical of a pack of males with far too much alcohol in their systems, we were loud, obnoxious, ready for a brawl, but mostly just out and about the city of Caille having a good time.

Why Caille, the shining jewel of the Gallente Federation? Aside from the crystal walkways and other unparalleled attractions the city had to offer, there was a darker side to Caille where only the finest of whores would be found.

You seem surprised in reading this, I can tell.

The group of guys I was with were incessant in their praise of Achuran hookers. I had never been with one, having only ever experienced intercourse with the love of my younger years as a slave. This, of course, was seen as a challenge, and my cohorts were hellbent on getting me laid by an Achuran. I was too drunk to argue.

I told them what I liked in a woman as we trolled the late night streets. Breasts.

It wasn’t long afterward that I found myself in a cheap hotel with a cheap Achuran, passionately making out on a filthy bed. My hands molested her chest, my tongue licking every inch of her skin from neck to nipple. I was drunk. I was horny. I was an aggressive animal. To her credit, she gave as good as she took, and I found myself consumed with the need to fuck this woman. The painful throbbing I felt needed to be satiated, and I began undressing her.

Her shirt quickly found the floor, and I was reaching under her skirt to violently yank off her underwear when I felt something poke at me. You heard correctly.

To my credit, I hesitated for a moment, and you really need to understand what was going through my head at the time.

As I said, I was drunk. Have you ever been so drunk and so horny that you’d stick it in a wall just for the sweet release it would bring? Sure, you’d regret it the next morning when your manhood was nothing but ground beef, but that’s the thing about men, we weren’t great thinkers of consequence.

Penis want. Penis gets.

She looked nervous on the bed. Or he. Or whatever. I could understand why. I wasn’t even sure what expression I wore on my face at that moment, but I knew if it was one of grimace, far greater men had withered beneath that scowl, let alone a confused trans-gender hooker.

Whatever.

I shrugged, leaned forward, and kissed her, continuing to make out, filling one hand with luscious perfection.

Hey, she had fantastic breasts.

PyjamaSam just didn’t enjoy cigars.

I had been trying for years to get him to indulge in the overpriced luxury with me, but he gently refused once again, standing his ground. Even though a capsuleer himself, with considerable wealth, he was too pragmatic to ever overpay for anything that wasn’t a necessity. Of course, his definition of what was deemed necessary differed from most. If it was technical gadgetry, or something he could use for many crazy ideas and pursuits, it was a must to have and would therefore be acquired regardless of cost.

I could respect that.

It was seldom that Sam and I got to enjoy any downtime together, but such was life. The fact we were able to enjoy each other’s company for a few fleeting moments was something I treasured, and as I sat with Sam in the comfort of my ship’s quarters, reading ‘fanmail’ and enjoying a few beers, our conversation turned to friendship and its inherent value.

I shared with Sam that I recently had this conversation with another longtime acquaintence, which led to asking one another why we were actually friends. In response, the other friend had this to say:

“Roc, you’re my friend because you make me laugh, shake my head. You’re a touchstone of reality that I need to base what’s right and wrong in the universe.”

I took that as high praise.

I put the same question to Sam. It seemed appropriate given the candor of our conversation, our longtime friendship, and the fact we didn’t get to catch up with each other as often as we used to.

Sam’s response?

“Well, you like huge cocks, and I have one.”

I shook my head, and we both laughed. Neither of us was well suited for touchy feely conversations, and that was his way of telling me to shut it up and have another beer, which I gladly did.

—

They wouldn’t let me sleep. I overheard them talking about sleep deprivation as a way of reducing my mental barriers, making me more susceptible to therapy and treatment.

They were so out of their league with me. I’d been through hell and back several times. I had frequent flyer miles.

They wanted to wear me down? They wanted to break me?

I just laughed some more, thinking of Sam, thinking of the good times, thinking of thick, veinous, totally inappropriate penii. I cackled until I wept.

You are delusional, Roc Wieler.
What gives you the right to affect the lives of others?
You are not a god, Roc Wieler.
Why do you feel it’s your responsibility to interfere?
You’re just like the rest of us.
You’re just one man.

I was restrained on a gurney, stripped to my underwear. I can see how that would immediately induce a sense of relaxation in someone. Numerous electrodes were attached to my body from head to toe, with wires running into various machines; completely soothing. Please, let me share with you everything there is to know about the inner recesses of my psyche. Right.

The rain continued to pour outside the only window to this room.

Rain. Pouring rain, freeing me from my sins, cleansing me of all unrighteousness. It didn’t matter now what they did to me during this interrogation, my mind was free from my body. They could call it a therapeutic session. They could say the drugs were to help monitor my heart rate as well as to help me relax. They could go to hell. I knew who they were. I knew who they were working for.

Our vehicle pulled up to the train station, angling for the passenger drop-off area. This area of the train station was currently under construction. The dropoff stretch was about 200m long, three lanes wide, but its entry was reduced to only a single lane. The idea, of course, was to drive the length of the dropoff, allowing other vehicles to file in behind you, maximizing the efficiency of the dropoff area.

Of course, in the rain, nobody wanted to get wet, and as such, the vehicle I was in was now stuck in the middle of an intersection two cars behind the entry of the dropoff because some idiot decided to park their car at the narrow opening while dropping off their passenger. The car directly behind them honked their horn, understandably frustrated. We were two cars back of that, watching the entire scene.

“People are idiots.” the driver of the car said.
“No argument from me.” I replied to her, already feeling my annoyance levels starting to rise.

Finally the idiot waved goodbye to his ride, then decided to flip his middle finger to the driver of the honking car, because, you know, THAT car is at fault here. Moron.

Something that staggers me is the bravado people have when relying on the laziness and/or fear of others. For example, what if the driver of the honking car pulled out a pistol, got out, then shot the finger flipping idiot? I wager he wouldn’t be feeling so brave then, laying in a pool of his own blood on the pavement.

Conversely, what if the finger flipper walked over to the honking car, pulled the driver out, and pommeled him to a bloody mess? The equation worked both ways.

People rely too much on their misreading of other people. It results in arrogance and ignorance.

My teeth were grinding apparently as my female companion commented, “Let it go, tiger. He’s not worth your time.”

I kissed her gently goodbye, deciding to exit the car where we were, already annoyed at the minor delay and inconvenience.

As soon as she had driven out of sight, I tracked down finger flipper, whom was now standing with a very tall Brutor, broad of shoulder, but not in good physical shape, though he might once have been.

I quickly approached the two, who were laughing and chatting, obviously friends and regulars on the train together.

“Excuse me.” I said, getting finger flipper’s attention. “Next time you go around giving people the finger, you really should make sure you’re not the one being an idiot.” I thought it was an open and honest, non-threatening opening statement. Apparently I was wrong.

“Oh, were you the asshole honking his horn?” finger flipper said.

“No, I was the one stuck a few cars behind in the intersection because you think you’re special.”

“Hey, everyone stops there.” he said. I was stunned for a moment. Everyone stops there. That’s really what he said. That self-same logic used by children when they want what some other kid has: ‘Well, everyone else is going.’

The immediate answer to enter my mind was universal: ‘And if everyone else was jumping off a cliff, would you do that too?’

It revealed to me that I was dealing with an idiot child trapped in the body of a full-grown man.

Of course, while all of this happened in my mind, the two had turned to walk away. Instinctively, I grabbed man-child at the elbow, firmly. I wasn’t done talking yet. And yes, I realize now that was a mistake considering how many witnesses there were, one of them already going to get security, though I was unaware of that fact.

“Excuse me. Why are you touching my friend?” the tall Brutor asked/threatened politely, while man-child yelled ‘get your hands off me’ or some such.

“I’m not done talking with him yet.” I explained to tall Brutor as man-child struggled to free himself from my grip, resorting to foul name calling while trying to shirk me off.

“You can’t just go around grabbing people.” tall Brutor said, trying to remove my arm from man-child without success.

“Just like he can’t go around being ignorant to people?” I asked, feeling quite smug in my little victory of logic.

I turned my attention back to man-child, who was cursing up a storm of frustration at me.

“Listen, I’m just saying think about what you’re doing when you do it.” I said to him.

“Fuck you, man. Quit yelling at me.”

Again, I was stunned momentarily at the juvenile mentality of the words being thrown my way. Quit yelling? Again, the immediate mental response that formed in my mind was ‘You think I’m yelling? I’ll show you yelling.’ Hmmm…

“You think I’m yelling?” I said with a smile. “I’ll give you something to cry about.” Shit. That didn’t come out right.

“Is there a problem here?” a new voice asked.

I turned my head to see two special constables standing beside us. The more overweight of the two was the one whom had asked the question.

I released man-child, smiling slightly as he lost his balance, but recovered with self-satisfied victory on his face. I really wanted to wipe that expression away.

“No problem at all. I’d like to report this gentleman please.” I stated bluntly.

Lesser overweight constable raised his eyebrows. “For what?” Man-child had a similar expression of incredulity.

I had two minutes before the arriving train departed. It was an express train to obviously what was both of our destinations. The next one wouldn’t come for at least an hour.

It was exactly 8:10 AM.

I took a deep breath and explained the events of the passenger drop-off, fully expecting nothing more than for man-child, tall Brutor and myself to miss our train.

To my surprise, more overweight constable expressed his need to talk with man-child more about the incident. Tall Brutor asked if he could go, as he had nothing to do with it (how quickly bravado wilts in the face of authority), which I confirmed, and he was off to catch his train.

I assumed that I would need to remain, file a statement with the fat constables, and be delayed as well.

“Did you need my statement, sir?” I inquired.

“You’re good to go. We have enough to check the cam feeds. Here’s my card. Call me at your convenience if you think we require any additional information. Be safe and thank you for travelling with Pator transit.”

Pator.

You’re not a hero.
Do you really think you can make a difference?
Tell us, Roc Wieler, what drives you?
Why do you do the things you do?

My eyes snapped back to the reality of where I was. I could feel the drugs rushing through my system, leaving me with a feeling of disconnectedness. As a capsuleer, I was used to that sensation. I guess these “doctors” weren’t used to dealing with capsuleers.

I was aware of every ping of the machinery around me. I could hear the subtle strain of the leather against my wrists, as I flexed and relaxed my fists.

My throat was dry, but my voice held steady.

There was only one answer to all their questions that rang of truth. Only one answer that explained everything I did, and still do, in my life.

“Because I can.”

It’s interesting, in retrospect, to look back at the gaps between the entries in this journal and postulate as to what my audience must think of those absences. Were they intentional? Did nothing interesting occur? Does he not remember? My mind wanders down many pathways of thought on the topic.

In this instance, the answer was simply one of embarrassment, shame and mental anguish. To this day, they are still difficult memories to consciously bring to the surface and discuss, let alone write about.

The medications kept me sedated, docile, lifeless. My jaw hung open involuntarily, a steady fall of drool running down the side of my cheek, streaming over my shoulder to finally pool on the bed sheet beneath. I was in a straight jacket, thick leather straps tied down tightly over it, equally strong straps clasped around my ankles. My head was kept immobile as well by a final leather strap.

I had always liked leather and bondage until then.

I suppose I’ve jumped the gun a bit, leaving you wondering how I came to be in that condition. My apologies for that.

Since being admitted into that forsaken place, and realizing my mind was slowly slipping away from me, I had made it my primary objective to escape. I knew it was playing into the game the Amarr had setup for me, and that it would only further reinforce the smear campaign they had somehow engineered against me, but I had weighed every alternative and came to the same conclusion: there was no good way out of this one for me. If I stayed, awaiting evaluation, possible therapy, then verdict, I would surely go mad, possibly killing myself, possibly left to be a vegetable. That would mean the Amarr won. If I did manage to maintain my sanity and was dismissed to civilian life, I would be shot on site by Concord for any illegal actions against the Amarr, capsuleer status or not. Again, the Amarr won. The only remaining option then was to extricate myself from that unholy situation, forfeit my military career, and continue on as a fully licensed capsuleer, waging a one man war against the atrocities of the Amarr.

Two days prior to my new jacket I had made my attempt at freedom. The security here was quite lax, and the orderlies that opened my cell that day had not expected my sudden and aggressive assault. I had been a model “patient” since my admission.

It took little effort to crouch, punch the attaching joint of the knee from the side, watch the man collapse, stand to open palm the nose of the second orderly, then drive a hammerfist downwards across his chest, dropping him on top of his colleague, all before they knew what had happened.

I grabbed a handful of old mechanical lock keys, as well as the passcard of both orderlies.

By the time I had bolted for the nearest secured door, the alarm had been sounded. Other patients cheered, barked, screamed, spat phlegm, defecated, as well as many other responses to the abundance of stimuli, but I ignored it all, single minded in my desire for freedom.

My heart raced in my ears, my blood pumping fiercely in my veins. I would utilize all my power to be away from this place.

I was stopped at the first door. None of the keys worked, and the IDs I had swiped required a passcode to be used in conjunction with them.

It only took a few minutes before eight security personnel, dressed in full riot gear, came at me from both ends of the hallway, and regardless of how well I fought, I was subdued easily.

When next I awoke, I was in the state I described at the beginning of this entry.

I had fought the effect of drugs before. Part of me wondered if Vitoc had been mixed into the sedatives to slowly recreate the dependence that had nearly cost me my life many times in the distant past.

I needed to stay focused. I needed to draw on memories of strength and hope. It was the only way to overcome the demons that threatened to knock down the door of my mind.

I randomly sifted through my recollections, finally seizing on one that ironically left me in a far better mental place than I had hoped to be in.

It was a letter from a Caldari patriot, written when I was still a Capsuleer, as an expression of appreciation for the “Brutor Way of Life”, a fitness program & cookbook I had published during the height of my celebrity.

Hi Roc,

I just wanted to drop you a quick line to say thanks. Don’t know if this will actually get to you.

First off, I’m a big fan (and I actually grabbed a copy of Bio when you released it), and plan to pickup your second album, One Night of Roc, soon. I’ve always enjoyed following your exploits and adventures, whether through GalNet, or via local holonews. New Eden– it’s a richer place to hang out in because of your contributions and others like you.

My other ‘thanks’ is a bit less conventional. Two months ago, I read a piece about how you had progressed on your fitness goals in only a few short months. That really gave me some inspiration to start on an pretty intense fitness plan. Needless to say, it’s funny how big a change an hour and a half in the gym every morning and cutting out all the crap and junk food from a diet can make. I started on at 265lbs, and as of today, sixty days later, I’m 212lbs. I’m not quite back the shape I was in before trade school when I ran triathlons, but I’m more fit than I’ve been in a very long time, and it’s given me the push I needed to start back into martial arts as well. It’s even inspired some of the guys I work with to get back into shape. I owe you one dude.

So I was thinking, if you’re ever in Caldari space (har har), and find yourself in the mood for a steak dinner, my treat, look me up. It’s the least I can do to say thanks – just forgive me if I order a salad instead of a baked potato…

Feel free to have Aura ping the hell out of me to make sure I’m not a stalker. I’m just another guy saying thanks to one of the few living legends we have in this universe.

All the best, and thanks again,
Garlon Das

Funny the things the mind latches onto for strength. Thanks Garlon.