Politics

“I have no disrespect towards Shakor, and you’re a fool if you think you can manipulate me on that path.” I said, remaining seated, my elbows propped on my thighs, staring at the bottom of my cell. This entire block smelled of urine, feces and blood, but my senses had already adjusted to accepting that as normal. It was the body and mind’s way of adapting for survival.

“That wasn’t my intentional at all, Wieler. I merely wanted to point out some simple and recent historical facts about the man we all call Sanmatar. The Republic is built on tribel democracy, on the strengths of our differences, by the unity of our core beliefs and culture. Every Matari has a voice within their tribe. Every tribal leader has a voice within the council of parliament.”

“Yes, yes, I know these things. I am not a child. Do not speak to me as such.” I said with muted hostility.

“My apologies; my intention was not to offend. It is just that when I heard of your current situation, and found you here, in this place,” he gestured with open arms at the cell, his robes of office flowing freely around him, “I didn’t know exactly what to think. I mean, it is a known fact you have been a hero in this war. It is known you are loved by the people, despite Shakor’s attempts to discredit your name. Ah, I see that has gotten your attention.”

Shakor and I were colleagues, friends, sharing very similar ideas for the future of the Republic. Both of us were military men, and had a straightforward, above board approach to how things should be run. He had my respect, and I thought I had his.

“It is also known that you would do anything to discredit the Sanmatar’s good name, Orvas Seriador.” I said in return. He withered slightly under the attack, but quickly regained his composure. Someone not as finely attuned to reading body language might not have noticed any reaction at all.

“I am sorry to have wasted your time, Matar Colonel; oh, my apologies, you no longer bear that rank or honour. Forgive my ill manners.”

He smiled with genuine inflection, but I knew it was just another manoeuver in his game. I would play along until I knew what his real agenda was.

As I was opening my mouth for a witty rebuttal, he continued on, cutting me short.

“Just think about the facts of Shakor’s rise to power. There were no opposing candidates during his election. There was no traditional policies upheld at all. And since he’s taken rule of the Republic, he’s pretty much dissolved parliament and has made military action his highest priority, sacrificing hundreds of thousands of lives to date in an unnecessary war we cannot hope to win. It’s madness.”

Madness. Interesting choice of words from the leader of the Sebeistor Tribe considering where our clandestine talks of usurping power were taking place.

“It’s a crazy universe.” I grumbled.

“Indeed it is.” Seriador agreed, thinking I was acknowledging his points about Shakor.

“What is you want, Seriador?” I said bluntly, ignoring his honorific, my own shot back at him for being petty with titles. Respect was measured by the actions of a man, not by the shiny medals on his uniform, or the fancy robes he wore.

“I simply have a need for real answers, Wieler.” he replied with measured timing. “This is a dangerous precipice for our people. With the Thukkers returning to the fold, we are a united people, but at what cost to maintain? Already there have been failures, the Salvation Crusade debacle being one of recent note, as well as your incarceration here.”

“Did you ever think things might be worse if we had a lesser man at the helm?” I asked with sincerity.

“Perhaps. But perhaps you do not know our ‘captain’ as well as you believe, to continue your analogy. Where is he now? Has he been to visit you, his dear friend and loyal servant of the Republic? Did he speak for you at your defence?”

He let his questions hang in the air and I had no immediate answer. My thoughts raced, suddenly following new paths of reasoning, new paranoid delusions of political backdealings and deceptions.

Damn you Shakor. Why hadn’t you been there for me? I hated even questioning his integrity, but Seriador had hit a nerve.

“As you said, it’s as though the universe has gone insane. What better place to find the next Sanmatar than here?”

Seriador smiled once again, with the hypnotic gaze of a viper luring its prey closer until the predator was ready to strike.

“And why not you? Why don’t you run for the position? You’ve never been one to give away power.” I said, knowing some of the political history of Orvas Seriador.

Seriador held his hands up in surrender, waving away my comment. ” I know I am not the man our people need in the immediate years to come. I am here to advise, of course, but I am aware of enough to concede I simply do not bear the strengths needed to out Shakor for the tyrant he is, at least not now. No, better to have the right man for the right job, and in my heart, I know that is you, Sanmatar Wieler.”

I scowled at him for using that title. It was all illusion. Look at my left hand while my right hand slaps you. I had learned my lessons in politics well from Shakor. Is this why he kept encouraging me to get involved? Was it to protect me from despicable men like Seriador?

Or was Shakor protecting his own interests? Did he see me as a threat early on, and thought to keep me under his thumb?

There were too many unanswered questions.

“Just say the word, Wieler, and I can have you out of here, with a snap of my fingers.” He held up his hand, ready to snap his fingers to illustrate his point.

I have to admit, it was very tempting. I needed to be out of that hellish place. There were Amarr that needed to die. Despite what Seriador believed, victory in the war was not impossible. The Amarr Empire could be toppled. Yet I wasn’t ready to owe Seriador for my freedom; the price was too high. He would expect me to do his bidding, being the real power behind the Sanmatar title, and that was something I would never let happen.

I had too much to think about.

“You’ve give me a lot to think about, Seriador. I need to work through it, in solitude. Can’t think of a better place to do that then here.” I lied. I hated this place. I hated what it was doing to me. I thought it was starting to break me. Is realizing you were slowly being broken part of not being broken? Or is it the opposite? Were you already broken if you started thinking about yourself in the third person, narrating your own life as it unfolded around you? Either way, I was slowly starting to lose my grasp on reality.

I had heard rumours of sane people succumbing to insanity simply by being in environments like this. It happened in war, why shouldn’t it happen there?

“As you wish, Wieler.” Seriador said, bowing slightly, as he backed out of my cell. “Just know I will come back to visit you often, and we will not speak of politics, but rather perhaps I can simply be here to listen to a friend in need, if you will consider me such.”

“Yeah, whatever.” I replied.

“Very good.” Seriador said, ignoring my blatant sarcasm. “And as your friend, let me ask, is there anything you’d like me to bring on my next visit?”

A frigate to blow the hell out of this place? A platoon of marines? Nah, too subtle.

“I’d really like a nice…” Did I want to owe this man for anything? Did I want to play this game?

“Yes” he asked, his eyebrow arching.

“I’d really like a nice cigar.” I said.

He laughed, throwing his head back as he did so.

“Very good. I shall bring you some wrapped from leaves nestled in the jungles of the southern continent. We can enjoy the experience together.”

He laughed again, unprompted as far as I could tell.

“What?” I asked.

He leaned close to me, whispering in my ear.

“Isn’t it a little crazy when you think about it? Here we are, in this place, the famed Roc Wieler and myself, Orvas Seriador, secretly plotting to overthrow the government and usher in a new era of prosperity for the people of the Republic from the depths of an insane asylum? Perhaps we should both be kept here for the good of all.”

He stood up, laughing again, and suddenly I realized I hated this man.

“Crazy is as crazy does.” I replied. “And you’re free to stay. I could use the company.” I leaned back in a welcoming gesture.

Again he waved me away with his hands. The man had very easy tells.

“No, no, I speak in jest, and it was insensitive of me I clearly see. My apologies, my new friend. I shall come back as soon as my duties allow, and we will enjoy a fine cigar together. Fly safe, Colonel Wieler.”

Interesting.

“May the gods guide you.” I said, speaking the traditional reply.

Politics was draining. I needed a nap.

My sympathies

From: Anarine
To: Roc Wieler,  c/o Majanuni Institute, Pator

Dear Roc,

This message will surely be a surprise to you. You do not know me, and I do not have the pleasure of knowing you personally, I only know you from the news and gossip that I hear from different channels.

I do not know if it is true, and I do not know if all the details I have are correct, but my sources are normally very trustworthy, therefore I must assume the worst.

Do not let my reputation of being a lab rat fool you. We all fight for a cause, and while I may not be on the front lines, my combat is to keep fellow Gallenteans armed and ready, and of course our trusted allies, the Minmatar. Lab rat or not, I’ve been on the front lines, and I’ve had Aura scream at me. Flying a CovOps might seem a sign of weakness for some, but it normally leaves you deep in enemy territory, and I’ve seen my fair share of battles in 0.0 space, fighting for TCF. I have seen hundreds of pilots on the field, and both friends and foe flash frozen naked in space, their ship having been torn apart by war, and their capsules little more than tritanium scraps. In the midst of explosions, laser beams and bullets, war can be a nerve-wrecking experience, and I’ve seen what no person should see; fellow pilots whom found themselves in the wrong place at the wrong time, torn apart by bombs thrown at the enemy fleets. I have even been a victim to such acts, a fellow pilot mistaking me, having been frightened by my decloaking close to a friendly fleet. It left me in a pod, far from home, and inevitably waking up in a clone facility after dozens of jumps deep in enemy space, but I have learned to forgive the pilot which did that to me. War is a terrible thing, and it does terrible things to the best of us. That pilot is now a close friend, and we talk regularly.

I have heard of your trial, and of the verdict. My sympathies go out to you, as more than anyone else, I can understand what you went through, and, I believe, what you are going through right now.

I don’t care what any tribunal says, you are a man of honour.

Forgive my bad English; Gallenteans are of French origin, and I’ve kept my origins more than others.

Kind regards,

Anarine

My therapist had been kind enough to secret this to me, as any personal items were strictly prohibited within the mental health and wellness facility.

A part of me was saddened and disturbed that word of my predicament was spreading so quickly, but I wasn’t really surprised. In general, people were vultures, picking at the carcass of any newsworthy gossip, in an attempt to make their own existences seem less pathetic by comparison.

A secondary, more human part of me was moved emotionally at the compassion in this letter from a stranger. It reminded me of why I had made every hard decision in my life without hesitation or regret.

Amidst the screams and howls, against other “guests” talking to themselves, crying or laughing hysterically, scratching themselves until their skin bled, or simply smashing their heads against the wall, I felt connection with another.

I wasn’t abandoned, forgotten, alone in the universe, and I sure as hell didn’t belong here.

Just another day

Have you ever felt so worn down, so beat down, that you simply don’t know what keeps you going sometimes? Have you ever felt that no matter what you might accomplish it simply doesn’t make a difference in the grand scheme of themes? Have you ever experienced such a disconnect from your own life, your own emotions, that when friends and families share there triumphs and heartaches you simply don’t have the energy to empathize or truly care? Regardless of the sunshine or the heavy rains, does every day feel like just another grey and lifeless day?

Some would say it’s a sign of depression, or an indication of mental instability. Others would warn that these behaviours and attitudes could lead to passive/aggressive or sociopathic behaviour.

I say it’s overpriced brain manure and people should stop getting involved in other people’s business so much. Sorry doc, that wasn’t an intentional slight at you, though I suppose it still reveals some issues we’re going to have to work through together. Lovely.

Sometimes life just hands you lemons. There is an old adage that says make lemonade, but what they fail to mention is that it still tastes sour and bitter. Or plant a lemon tree, which to me just creates more sour and bitter.

I say “It is what it is”, and regardless of our own attitudes towards these situations and times in our lives, we just have to keep moving forward and eventually we’ll find ourselves somewhere else on our journey, or we won’t. Not really a lot we can do about it.

The Amarr had been pushing aggressively throughout all of our systems, their fleets growing in size, working together, making sure none were caught alone and offguard.

General Mintor had been doing well to direct many of the Tribal Liberation Force’s fleets towards coordinated defensive attacks, as well as small guerilla style strikes into enemy space.

I liked his approach in this regard. He didn’t assign duties based on personal preference, nor rank. Instead, it was through drawing straws. You showed up for assignments, and you randomly selected one.

If Mintor thought you were completely incapable, he would overrule this method of course. The man wasn’t a fool.

I drew my straw and hoped it would give me the chance to kill as many Amarr pigs as possible.

“Colonel Wieler, you’ll be intercepting and destroying a large supply convoy in Ardar. Good hunting.”

I saluted, already relishing the opportunity to eradicate as many Amarr as possible.

“Will the defendant please rise.” The Tribal Magistrate commanded. I stood to my feet, the binders tight on my wrists. I had been in this position before; it was never comfortable. I felt trapped, caged, feral, wanting my freedom by any means necessary. I was a spectacle, paraded for a show I couldn’t watch.

My military lawyer stood beside me, looking into my deep brown eyes, trying to reassure me that everything was going to be fine. It wasn’t going to be fine, not as long as a single Amarr still breathed life into their lungs.

“The prosecution may begin.” The Magistrate ordered.

There were too many large fleets out and about on my way to Ardar. I was disappointed. No matter how much I baited, or lingered in a system safe spot, I couldn’t lure any single frigates or cruisers out to play. They were following strict fleet activity patterns; they either came in together as one, or not at all.

The Amarr had never been this consistently organized before; something had changed.

Eventually I made it to Ardar.

“Colonel Roc Wieler, beginning my assault.” I transmitted across the fleet comms.

The fleet was to disperse to its individual tasks, then rendezvous at the place of Mintor’s choosing after our individual assignments were finished. It was a sound strategy, keeping the Amarr confused, and should they wish to engage us, they would have to dissipate into smaller wings, giving us a fighting chance. Mintor was definitely nobody’s fool.

“Copy that, Wieler. Advise caution. Ardar is hot. Fleet’s regrouping here. Multiple complexes under fire. More hostiles inbound by the second. Finish up quickly if you can; we’re going to need every pilot we have to secure this system.”

That was convenient. The fleet was meeting in Ardar and the Amarr were coming to us, to me. My Rifter class frigate surged forward as my mind lost control momentarily, revelling with glee at the thought of the upcoming feeding frenzy.

I quickly regained control of my ship, and headed towards the enemy convoy.

“This isn’t the first time you’ve appeared before this Tribunal, is it Matar Colonel?” The prosecutor asked me once I was sworn in and had taken the stand. I didn’t like being up here. It was too easy for any of my numerous enemies to get a clear line of fire; too easy for the media to catch an innocent gesture or comment and turn it into another exaggerated performance for the galaxy to see. My career was still recovering from the last misunderstanding I had with the board of ethical conduct; I didn’t need this. I needed to be out fighting the Amarr. While we wasted our time here dealing with trivial bullshit, our people were suffering under their oppressive hands.

Was I the only one that understood what was at stake? Was I the only one who…

“Colonel Wieler, the question, if you please.” the prosecutor repeated.

I had drifted.

“No, this is not my first time defending my actions to the Tribunal; wasted time and effort that could be better spent letting me do my job, letting me free our people from”

“From the oppressive tyranny of the Amarr?” the prosecutor cut me off with dramatic sarcasm.

I nodded, seething inside.

“Yes, Colonel, we’re all aware of the Amarr and your one man crusade against them.” the prosecutor continued on, leaving me confused. One man? The entire Tribal Liberation Force fought against the Amarr. How did he figure it was a one man crusade?

Why didn’t my representative interject? Why didn’t I interject?

The prosecutor had been paid off, that was the only reasonable explanation. The Amarr had bought him. This entire farce was a setup. I wouldn’t let them succeed.

The last freighter exploded, defenseless, the Imperial Crusade pilots having warped off as I thinned their numbers with zeal. Aura was going haywire, my overview flickering, sometimes showing numerous open complexes, other times showing none. The system of Ardar read contested, then uncontested, then contested, with dozens of enemy ships on my HUD, then none, then an entire fleet.

The Ripsack had sustained heavy damage at one point during the engagement, leaving me at 4% hull integrity. I had never been that close before, and it wasn’t a feeling I enjoyed.

The nanites were busy repairing the armour plating, but the internal structure would remain weak until I could dock up for repairs, which wouldn’t be anytime soon.

“Objective completed.” I transmitted to General Mintor, already aligning towards the fleet.

Fleet chatter had been busy the entire time I was running my mission. The Amarr weren’t giving up, and kept sending new pilots into the largest of the complexes, slowly thinning our numbers through attrition.

I needed to be there. Mintor confirmed.

“Roger that, Wieler. Get here as soon as you can. Hostiles on the acceleration gate, be ready.”

“Enroute to you now, sir. Wieler out.”

Warp had never felt so slow.

“The incident we would like to talk about today occured 4 days ago, at exactly 19:24, according to your ship’s logs. Does that sound accurate to you, Colonel?” the prosecutor spat out from between the space in his front teeth.

I grinded my teeth. I didn’t want to talk to this traitor one more second. I envisioned myself lunging from the witness stand, grabbing his skinny neck between my hands, crushing the life out of him for betraying us all.

Don’t drift, I reminded myself. People get nervous when you drift.

“Yes, that sounds accurate. I would like to note that my Aura unit was malfunctioning at that time, so may not be 100% reliable in this event.”

“Really Colonel? The transmitted data seemed accurate to the technicians. Shame that we can’t run diagnostics against your Aura unit now, seeing as how your frigate was destroyed, but I’m getting ahead of myself.” the prosecutor smiled with pure malice and evil.

I would kill him soon.

The acceleration gate was clear. I used it to warp into the complex. Adrenaline surged through my veins; soon I would feast on Amarr blood.

Reverting to normalspace, I could see multiple hostiles engaging our fleet. A Crusader was within 7500m of my position. If I could lock it now, it would be one less for us to have to deal with.

My target acquisition was swift. I urged Aura to overheat the guns and fire. She spat back at me, warning me that this action would be considered a global criminal offence, was I sure I wanted to continue?

Of course I wanted to kill this Amarr pilot. This faulty unit was going to get me killed. I gave the override command and was immediately engaged with the Crusader.

My entire person was consumed with hatred and joy at the same time: hatred for these pigs that were a blight to all civilizations; joy that at least a few more would die by my hand today.

“According to those very same ship logs, Colonel, you opened fire on a Crusader. Is that correct?” the prosecutor asked.

Without hesitation, I replied. No more drifting.

“Yes, that is correct. I did my job, as I always do.” My job killing Amarr of course.

“And did anything … unusual … occur next, Colonel?” the prosecutor asked.

He was baiting me. What was he digging for? Where was he hoping for me to slip up?

I thought about the events in question again, detail by detail, making sure I missed nothing.

My armor tank was holding, the Crusader’s shields slowly melting beneath the Republic Fleet Fusion ammo. My HUD flickered. There were several Crusaders, then none, alongside several Matari designed ships, then none. Multiple warning klaxons warbled to life, then there was darkness and pain, followed by light and rebirth.

I screamed in frustration and cognitive processing as my mind accepted the new clone body.

My ship had been destroyed. Goddamned Amarr fucking pigs.

While the loss of the ship was regrettable, there was nothing peculiar about the encounter that stood out in my mind.

“To the best of my recollection, everything was by the book.” I stated with certainty at my word choices. There would be no manipulating me, traitor.

The prosecutor smiled. “No further questions.”

The magistrate allowed for my defense to cross examine me.

“Matar Colonel Wieler, do you know why you are here today?” the defence lawyer asked.

“No sir, I do not. As far as I can ascertain, it’s to question my integrity in fighting the Amarr, my ability to follow standard protocols, and some administrative lackie somewhere getting bent out of shape at me losing a frigate, which I’m happy to replace from my own personal funds.”

The defense lawyer scowled at me, willing me to shut up, so I reigned in my growing outrage at the entire situation.

“Were you read your rights, or informed of any details whatsoever regarding this case upon your detainment?” he continued.

“No sir. I went peaceably, with nothing to hide, as would any proud Brutor.”

Where was this going?

“And you also declined an attorney, correct?”

“As I said, I’ve got nothing to hide, so no need for someone to defend me. I have a proud service record, several commendations and medals awarded since the war began, and have served dutifully for almost three years.”

“And we thank you for your service, Colonel Wieler. And yet I was assigned to be your defense today, regardless of your personal preference. Do you know why, Colonel?”

I already had said no. Why was he asking me again? Was he in on it too? Had the Amarr gotten to both of them? Was there some higher level conspiracy I wasn’t aware of? I needed to get out of here and get to the bottom of this, needed to prove the Amarr were more dangerous than anyone knew but me.

“Again sir, with respect, I am unaware.”

The magistrate interrupted. “Do you have anything relevant to ask the Colonel about the incident itself, council, or are you simply stalling to waste all of our time?”

At least the magistrate seemed to not be on the take. That was a good sign. I might get through this intact after all.

“No, your honour, I have nothing more.” The defence lawyer sat down, and I was still left in the dark as to what the hell was going on.

There was no media present. That meant blackout. That meant it was serious. How the Amarr had managed to arrange something like this was staggering to think about. The money involved, the planning, the right people in the right positions. We were infected with their disease.

“Matar Colonel Roc Wieler.” the Tribunal Magistrate began.

“This Tribunal finds you guilty of High Treason, for firing on your fellow pilot, Boris, also known as ‘The Butcher’, in direct violation of …”

What? What was he talking about? I never fired on Boris, did I?

Fleet comms was broadcasting frantically.

“Stand down! I repeat, Colonel Wieler, stand down! You’re firing on friendlies!”

His shields were melting beneath my Republic Fleet Fusion ammo.

“All nearby pilots, take his ship out from under him, but do not pod the Colonel. I repeat, if anyone kills him, you’ll have to answer to me.”

I could do this. I could kill the Crusader and move onto… darkness, and pain, then light.

WTF?

“The evidence is irrefutable, both from the testimony of other pilots in your fleet, as well as multiple ship records detailing the incident.

Why was Boris flying a Crusader? Why would any Matari fly an Amarr ship? What was happening here?

“This Tribunal finds you guilty as charged, and you are immediately relieved of rank and command.”

I would never fire on a fellow pilot. Was it my faulty Aura unit? Say something, Roc!

“Furthermore, you are to be held in protective custody at a secured military institution until such a time as you can be diagnosed as mentally cognizant. Failure to do so within one year’s time will result in your dishonourable discharge from the Tribal Liberation Force without compensation as you are returned to civilian life. Dismissed.”

The Magistrate hammered his gavel. The case was over.

“I would never fire on a fellow pilot.” I said weakly.

“Off the record, Colonel, I’m glad this happened.” the Magistrate said. “Pilots like you are a danger to themselves and everyone around them. And this isn’t your first questionable act in the line of serving the Republic. You’re a disgrace to all of us. You’re lucky you didn’t kill anyone; I would’ve had you executed without hesitation. Now get out of my sight.”

Two armed guards came and escorted me to a holding cell, presumably until transportation could be arranged.

Boris, I’m sorry. I’ll figure out how the Amarr set this up, and I’ll make them pay. I’ll make them pay a thousandfold.

[OOC Request] This is a pretty huge moment for the development of Roc as a character. I would ask that if you’ve read this, please post your own blog entry relating to the aftermath of this event, and how it affects your character, or doesn’t affect your character.

I’m sure the news will be made public as quickly as possible, but how does it play out? How do people react? I look forward to reading your posts. Thanks.

NEW EDEN RESPONDS:

[OOC] My EveSpace

NOTE: Please forgive the poor quality images. Someone in my house has misplaced my camera charger, so until then I am stuck taking pictures with my iPhone.

I know, I’m a little slow sometimes, but here is the current state of my office. This summer, I’m laying down some ancient hardwood, unstained or smoothed, and a new antique wooden desk. I think it will look nice, the contrast of old and new.

DAYTIME

TOWER 200

For when you can’t get up in the morning to get to the gym, or squeeze in time at lunch, and feel too lazy to go after work, the Tower 200 is a great pulley gym system to help maintain muscle tone.

REFERENCE MATERIAL

It’s important to balance intellectual pursuits. From comics to alternate history novels to 3D art training and actionscript development to a little bit of HBO on the TV, always keeping the brain engaged is a good thing. In the background, is the EON Magazine EVE Online Regional Map.

ROC’S DESK

They say you can learn a lot about a person by the way they keep their desk. So what do my desk items tell you about me? Collectible lightsabers on top, Serenity Steele’s EVE Strategic Mapbook at hand, DLink DNS-321 NAS, DIR-655 Router hidden behind, self portrait with smaller, personal picture, LG W2753W monitor. I’ll let you come to your own opinions and observations.

RIGS

My two gaming rigs: Firetail (left) and Rifter (right). Oh, and R2D2 on the right.

STAR WARS

Let’s get this out of the way now, I was a day one Star Wars Galaxies veteran, and played for 5 years. Before there was ever Eve Online, there was Star Wars, the greatest science fiction universe ever created. Ever since I was a child, I’ve loved Star Wars; in fact if not for Star Wars my life choices would’ve been very different so far as career, hobbies, intellectual pursuits, moral beliefs, etc, etc. And yes, Darth Vader was at my wedding last year with a full complement of Stormtroopers.

I almost forgot; that’s Darth Tater and Artoo Potatoo on top of the display case.

DARTH VADER

To me, there is no greater science fiction persona than Vader, despite what Hayden Christensen tried to do with him in the newer trilogy. When I had the chance to enter a 3D contest to win this $400 Sideshow Collectible Vader, I was all over it, and the Force was with me. On the second shelf is a collectible pin set of the six movies, and on the bottom shelf is my original Collector’s Edition Star Wars Galaxies: An Empire Divided box set. Such a shame. The original game had so much potential, but Sony Online Entertainment thought they would show how amazing they were at handling the greatest Intellectual Property of all time by not just destroying it once, but completely obliterating it twice.

Be thankful though. If not for that, Roc Wieler might well never have existed.

Also, I apologize to anyone distracted by the reflection of that incredibly handsome and well built man in the image reflection.

STUFF

Yes, that’s a real piggy bank. He even oinks when you put money in him. Up front is the best micro copter I’ve ever seen, the Falcon. It’s worth owning just for the Japanese manual translated into the funniest English I’ve ever read. For example, first troubleshooting tip, Controller power switch is “OFF”. Solution: Turn power switch “ON”. Thank God for the Japanese. Only other interesting item on the dresser is the Tim Horton’s gift card (I don’t drink coffee), and the Cult of Eric Cartman membership card.

THERE BE DRAGONS

When I saw this piece I thought it was very well done, even though not entirely my style. Still, glad I bought it. It’s interesting.

IRON TIDE

One of the single most impressive pieces of Eve Online I have seen is Iron Tide. Thankfully, EON did up a large poster version of this art which I proudly have on my wall. I hope one day I create such a work that people speak of in the same vein. Also, I have a bed in my office. I tend to overdo things and can hardly make it out of the room before collapsing.

FANFEST

Some more excellent Eve Online artwork postcards, and my Eve Online Fanfest 2009 Guest pass. Good times.

100% RECYCLED AWESOME

Two reasons this image made it into this post: 1. Christine Spar was the best Grendel, period. 2. That wood block Obi-Wan Kenobi toy has the coolest phrase printed on the side of the package; made from 100% recycled awesome. I liked it so much, I used it on my blog for a while.

MORE VADER

I get the coolest Christmas presents. My friends and family know not to get me lame Star Wars stuff. Instead, I get fully sentient R2 units, the Force Trainer (coolest toy ever made that you play with your frickin brain!), collectible lightsabers, and Darth Vader’s robotic arm. I mean, c’mon, it’s a great time to be a kid (or an adult that acts like one).

GOTTA ROC

Yup, I have a picture of Matar Colonel Roc Wieler on my desk. Helps me stay in character. I just glance over at him and think “WWRD?” That beautiful woman in the lower corner is my wife. I just glance over at her and think “What would she NOT do and kick my ass for doing?” It’s a good balance for my virtual life.

Below are some night shots, just for fun. I don’t actually turn all this stuff on at night, but figured might as well for showcasing my Eve Space.

Hope you enjoyed.

NIGHT TIME

Lots of pretty lights. Didn’t mention the CyberPower unit earlier. It’s the one in the bottom left.

From a lower angle you can see the lights of the Router in the back. And yes, I really am fond of Windows 7.

Lightsabers rock.

Ok seriously, not enough can be said about Hasbro’s Interactive R2. 360 degree hearing, infrared and motion sensing, flashlight, positional memory, orientation detection, seo services, beer arm, thick treads for plowing across carpet, voice recognition, personality, and the fact that his beeps and warbles start to make sense after a while… R2 really is the coolest.

Sadly, I just found out tonight that Vader’s lights no longer work. Shame really. His saber lights up as well as his chest plate and belt lights. It really is impressive, most impressive. Ah well.

Blog Banter #16 – Financial Survival

Welcome to the sixteenth 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 a great fun to read! Any questions about the EVE Blog Banter should be directed to crazykinux@gmail.com. Check out other EVE Blog Banter articles at the bottom of this post!
The third Blog Banter of 2010 comes to us from ChainTrap of the Into the unknown with gun and camera EVE Blog. He asks us: “Eve University turns six years old on March 15th; six years spent helping the new pilots of New Eden gain experience and understanding in a supportive environment. Eve is clearly a complicated game, with a ton to learn, so much that you never stop learning. So, the question is; What do you wish that someone had taken the time to tell you when you were first starting out? Or what have you learned in the interim that you’d like to share with the wider Eve community?”
It’s joked about a lot, but at the end of the day, survival is about one thing; profit. Without proper finances in place, not a one of us moves forward. There are many ways to profit in this universe for a capsuleer: agent work, ransoming, mining, manufacturing, scientific research, market trading, exploration in regular space of wormhole space, killing other pilots and selling what salvageable parts remain from their ships; and those are the non-creative ways.

I remember when purchasing my first Rifter, fit with T1 guns, thinking there was nothing I couldn’t accomplish, but also wary of losing such an expensive ship. It still hadn’t sunk in just how much isk a Capsuleer was capable of earning.

As time went on, I lost that first Rifter, then another, and another. Eventually I came to lose ships of all sizes, showing red in the books in excess of billions. In order to have lost billions, I must have made billions.

I was fortunate. I had a contact who used my initial investments in the market to profit for me. It funded my war effort, giving me the ability to push against the “divine” Amarr war machine for years.

Ultimately, whatever your goal, whatever else you may learn during your existence in New Eden, you need to profit. Without that, might as well go back to being a civilian.

As for imparting wisdom? Buy high, sell low.

List of Participants
  1. CrazyKinux: The Three Pillars of Wisdom
  2. The Elitist: Helping the new guy/gal
  3. Hands Off, My Loots: Nothing Needed
  4. Rantuket: Blog Banter 16
  5. EVE Opportunist: Nooby Cluey
  6. Into the Unknown With Gun and Camera: EVE University
  7. Zero Kelvin: We’re the young ones!
  8. I am Keith Neilson: Set Your Destination
  9. Prano’s Journey: Just Like the Very First Time
  10. A Merry Life and a Short One: No Seriously
  11. Yarrbear Tales: Nublet 101
  12. A Mule In EVE: If I only knew
  13. The Planet Risk Show: Dared to be Bold
  14. Diary of a Space Jockey: WTH did I get myself into?!
  15. EVOGANDA: Why?
  16. A Memoir From Space: 16th Blog Banter
  17. Death’s Sweetest Kiss: Who What When Where Why How??
  18. Freebooted: Beyond the Shortcuts
  19. Learning to Fly: Noobing
  20. Caldari Outcast: My First Blog Banter Post!
  21. More to come soon…

What’s in a name?

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.

Valkear General Roc Wieler

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?

Bitterness

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.

Rage

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.