I awoke.

I didn’t know what year it was, let alone what day or what hour.

I was ravenous with hunger. I couldn’t remember the last time I had eaten, but I needed to feed now with an urgency that threatened on obsessive.

My joints creaked from lack of use, my vision dulled and blurred on one side. Perhaps I had suffered sickness while in cryo sleep? It wouldn’t matter soon. Soon, my hunger would be satiated.

I remembered the days when I never suffered from illness, from when I was a capsuleer. They told us we would live forever. They lied.

Things had changed when Empress Jamyl Sarum I married Tibus Heth. That was the end of immortality for all of us. What made things even more interesting was the fact that our bodies then began aging at an accelerated rate. The top scientists of the Union (the new name given to the merging of Caldari State and the Amarr Empire) couldn’t find a cure.

Many of us believed this genetic virus had been engineered all along by Sarum towards the extinction of all capsuleers. Not surprisingly, very few Amarr capsuleers took ill, and none suffered this genetic mutation condition.

When we had fled New Eden in our Hel carrier, there were only a few hundred of us; time and necessity had seen our numbers grow.

The alarms blared. The attack had already begun. By now, some unsuspecting vessel would be locked in our tractor beams, having already been disabled by whatever fighter drones we still had functioning. Our existence was a risky one, jumping into high sec for a quick ambush, then retreating into the nearest wormhole we could find.

We were always cautious. Our scouts were very thorough. Over the countless years we had learned what could happen if we were reckless, having had our wormhole collapse on us previously, leaving us stranded in high security Empire space. CONCORD was quick to react to our presence, and it took us decades to restore our ship to fully operational status. Many lives were lost that day, but it was fewer mouths to feed in the end.

Still, maybe today we would be lucky. Maybe today we would pillage and burn, topping up our cargo holds and stuffing our faces until we could gorge no more.

Limping slightly, I left my room, if you could call it that. Even though we were on an old Minmatar Hel carrier, space was at a premium. There were thousands of us aboard, maybe tens of thousands, it was hard to keep track. So a room? No, more of a storage locker really.

The hallway was packed with fellow crew mates, all of us staggering forward to our posts. We reeked of body odour, not a one of us having had the luxury of a shower since before I could remember.

I made my way to a landing bay. As part of the assault team, it was my duty to get into the enemy vessel quickly once it was within our docks, neutralize any onboard threats, then return to whomever was in command that day. We were not to loot, or feast, before any others.

It was a rule.

My anticipation grew as I entered the main hangar deck and saw what we had captured; the largest luxury cruiser I had ever laid eyes on. There would be thousands of people aboard, enough to keep us going for years. I could feel the saliva building in my mouth, and my stomach growled, audibly chastising me for not fulfilling its needs already.

Three dozen of us boarded the ship.

The electrical systems had been shut down via EM pulse, knocking out not only the ship’s systems, but any energy based hand weaponry they might have aboard. The dark didn’t bother me; it never had.

Immediately upon entering the boarding ramp, we were attacked.

A male in light armour took a swipe at me with a weighted baton. My left hand thrust forward, open palmed, catching him in the muscle of the forearm, twitching reactively of their own accord, his hand opening, dropping the baton. The stunned look on his face was quickly erased as I drove my forehead into the meat of his cheekbone.

I grabbed his shoulder with one hand, his jaw with the other, twisting his neck perversely until I heard it snap. The saliva in my mouth threatened to spill outwards.

I was hit across the back by another security guard, and while I acknowledged the blow, it didn’t hurt. I turned, my one clear eye glaring at the terrified man who was already backpedaling away. He stumbled, falling onto his rump, and I winced a little at the thought of him damaging himself.

He rolled over onto his front, clawing and crawling, trying to escape. I reached down and grabbed him by the ankle, pulling him towards me, eyeing his meaty legs, but my planned attack was interrupted by a fellow crew member diving on top of the man, ripping through his armour and shirt with his bare hands, blood spraying everywhere.

I pushed forward more deeply into the ship.

There was screaming to be heard reverberating in every direction, and it was music to my ears. My heart raced with excitement. It had been so long, too long, since I had been awake. I was going to savour every moment of it.

I turned a corridor and came face to face with a red haired woman. We both stopped for an eternal moment, her horrified at my appearance, me shocked by an ageless memory of a woman I once loved.

She shrieked. My hand snaked out, grabbing her by the throat, hard, stifling her shrill voice. She grabbed at my arm with both hands reflexively, already weakening from my vise-like grip. Her knees began to buckle.

I punched her in the face, so powerful was the memory of that other red-headed bitch. I drove my fist into her nose, her jaw, watching her lips split, her eyes swell, knowing I was committing a horrible sin amongst my brothers, knowing I was bruising our food, and that I would be punished later.

I didn’t care.

I continued pommeling her as I lowered her to the deck of the luxury cruiser. I drove my knee into her sternum, rewarded with the rushing sound of what little air remained being pushed from her lungs, and laughed as she spit up teeth onto the deck.

She could barely struggle now, and I was so sexually aroused by the indecent act that I was performing, I could hardly contain myself.

I smashed my fist into her face once more for good measure, then leaned close to her, taking in a deep smell of her fear.

I licked at the blood on her face, delighting in its metallic tinge. Her skin was so soft, so lovely. It would look beautiful on me.

Unexpectedly, she reached for my ear, ripping the earring out of it, taking a piece of my precious skin with it. Again, there was no pain, but I was filled with such rage at her defiance.

I drove my fist into her face. And again. And again. I could feel my knuckles splintering, and laughed with glee as her visage became more and more unrecognizable.

The sound of bones breaking, the canvas of blood, I was nearly orgasmic. I knew she was already dead, but I couldn’t stop. I wanted to reach into her face and pull out her spine, sucking on the tangy sponginess of her marrow. I wanted to consume her, strip her flesh, add it to my own.

I was tackled by three of my own crew mates before I could fulfill my dark indulgence. I was furious and turned against them with animal savagery.

It was my last mistake. As a pack, they surrounded me, inching closer, and I knew my miserable existence was at an end.

I had broken a rule.

I cast one more look towards my fair-haired prize, filled with a momentary regret that I would never get to feel her skin from the inside, that I would never get to eat her organs, or suck her bones dry.

With a guttural howl, I attacked fiercely, but was slowly, and literally, torn to shreds.

I awoke.

I was trembling. Aura had gently brought me to consciousness within my pod. My Vigil class frigate had arrived at my preset destination.

I had arrived in 0.0 space.

I tried to shake my mind free of that horrific and disturbing nightmare I had experienced, but failed.

Clearly, there was something wrong with me.

UNDISCLOSED 0.1 SYSTEM
ENROUTE TO CURSE REGION

My Vigil class, exploration fit frigate rocked again against the missile volley from the Serpentis ships. They had setup a gate camp on the jump gate I had just made use of.

It was terrible luck really. Had I been travelling the other direction, I tentatively could’ve broken through their blockade and accessed the gate controls before they could’ve locked me down. Unfortunately, it hadn’t gone down that way, and as I had tried to align the nimble frigate towards the next jump gate along my destined path, the Serpentis had surprised me with their competence.

Now I was suffering from my underestimation of them, two Daredevil frigates raking me with missiles and turret fire while keeping my frigate webbed and scrammed, allowing the turrets of the much larger Vindicator battleship ample time to track me.

Aura warned me that my shields had dropped as I felt the metallic structure of my ship groan and strain. It wouldn’t take long for that battleship to incinerate me.

I had decided to head towards Curse Region, following a lead I had received from a contact within Republic High Command. There was growing concern over the Angel Cartel’s technological advancements, rumours they had been reverse engineering Jovian technology and selling it to the Serpentis, whom they were known to be closely allied with. The ramifications of Jovian technology in the hands of such a widespread and powerful pirate ring were staggering, if true. It was my job to uncover what I may, being the poster boy for the Republic’s current “Anti-Pirate” campaign. A victory would further help to restore my tarnished reputation, whereas a failure wouldn’t surprise anyone, and the blame would fall squarely on my shoulders.

I hated the situation I was in. My heart was pure, my motives noble, yet no matter what I seemed to do, the bureaucracy and political machine of the Republic was destined to spin things however they best saw fit to protect their own interests. But was that beneficial to the longterm prosperity of the Republic? Were the secretive directives of a few influential members of parliament really what the foundations of democracy were intended for?

I was beginning to see Shakor as more of an impotent figurehead than anything, and felt empathy for him. Him and I were very much alike, men with the ability to see right from wrong, possessed of the desire to improve the quality of life for our people, to do what was right, and yet surrounded by those lacking the forward thinking ability to enlist true and lasting change.

It was a growing frustration for me.

My travels had been surprisingly quiet through most of lowsec; there seemed to be a mass emigration towards Empire space recently, though I couldn’t be entirely sure why. Did it have to do with the very thing I was being sent to find out? I supposed only time would tell.

The battleship landed another heavy salvo against my frigate, penetrating my hull, venting oxygen from my ship’s life support systems into space. I had Aura seal off those sections immediately. The ship wasn’t responding at 100% anymore, and scanning the damage control systems, I knew I was done for unless I took drastic measures.

I had finally managed to align to my intended gate, and fired an ECM burst. I knew the Vindicator wouldn’t be in range, but I was hoping to at least shake the two frigates long enough to make the jump to lightspeed.

I felt, more than heard the burst, and was elated when I watched both frigates lose target lock. I was free, and made use of those precious seconds.

Moments later, my ship shook violently as I sped through warp, and I encouraged the ship verbally under my breath to just hold on long enough to make it to a station.

As I half-expected, there was another gate camp setup, awaiting my arrival. I blazed forward, Aura activating the jump gate, and I was away without further incident.

Three systems later, I docked up at a relatively non-hostile station, and engaged them for repairs to my ship. They overcharged me, but given the remote location I was in, I was more than happy to pay their fee without argument.

During the forced downtime, I reviewed my intelligence reports on the Guardian Angels. I had transferred every piece of RSS data I had been provided onto my NeoCom, and while most was vague assumptions and spun yarn from aging pilots, I put together a disturbing theme: from all indications it did look probable that the Guardian Angels had indeed advanced ancient Jovian technology.

My mission objective was clear. Achieving that objective would be an arduous task, and I had no idea what was going to happen next, but if anything, I was sure it would prove interesting, as life often was.

When I started EVE Online I didn’t know that once I created my character’s appearance, that would be it. I’m sure many of us made this same mistake.

Please understand I came from Star Wars Galaxies. In SWG, you could change clothes, wear accessories, have every facet of your appearance changed by an Image Designer for an ingame fee.

Even though EVE Online is all about internet spaceships, I foolishly assumed that I could change my character later on.

So Roc looks like he does.

Then I started messing around with Roc in 3D, as many of you seen, and I’m really pleased with the results. So much so, that I used an empty slot on an alt account to fool around some more with how I think Roc Wieler should look ingame.

Here’s the results:

This looks a lot more like his high resolution 3D representation. I like these lights because of the Minmatar feel they give to the image.

Then there’s this:

I like this one as well because it has darker glasses, and overall gives a more ominous feel.

The bottom line is that I’m considering paying CCP to have my avatar redone. Do I wait for Incarna? Does it really matter? Does anyone care?

Fill out today’s poll and help me make a decision!

He couldn’t stop staring at her, as was often the case. He squeezed out one more drag of the used cigarette he had found on the ground between numb fingertips; from the cold or something else he couldn’t be sure. He looked away from the rounded glass display case, absently portraying himself as disinterested, though the truth was anything but.

By typical standards, he supposed the dancer wasn’t that attractive, but really, beauty was subjective. To him, she had a healthy amount of meat on her bones; she wasn’t one of those waif thin monstrosities with implanted breasts and lips, ribs sticking out like some malnourished Matari slave. He liked his women plump and natural.

And the way she moved, oh the way she moved. Her full hips were hypnotic in their gyrations, the fluidity of her arm movements mesmerizing.

He spent most of each afternoon and evening on this corner, watching her, sometimes into the early hours of the morning.

He flicked away the cigarette butt, looking around in the dirty snow covered ground for another without success. It didn’t matter; he had wanted to quit smoking years ago, and he would, until he found his next discarded butt.

He reached down and picked up his worn wool hat, wiping off snow and slush, checking to see if anyone had dropped in some change while he wasn’t looking. No such luck today.

He put the upturned hat back on the ground, and adjusted his flimsy, weather wet sign that read “Homeless war veteran. Please help.”

He had never been in the war.

If he had been honest, his sign would’ve read “Blew my own leg off in an industrial accident that could’ve been prevented if I had been paying more attention. Please help”, but he realized that probably wouldn’t generate any sympathy.

And he knew people would care even less if he was to tell them he had opted out of insurance benefits at his old job in order to save a bit of money that he could use to come see the dancers.

Being a war veteran was the better choice.

Mostly people would just throw some coins into the hat, or the occasional smoke, but sometimes one would stop to ask him about his time in the war, how he was injured, and rant about the government not taking care of its soldiers.

Over the last few years, he had developed quite the story.

My unit was deep under enemy lines, far into hostile territory. Every inch we took felt like a victory, as we could never tell when the next movement we made might be our last. We had already lost half of our squad, including our commander, but still had mobile ops with command.

The night was pitch black, and we had stripped ourselves of most high tech equipment to move more easily, and with stealth.

My body was covered with dried blood, even under my fingernails. It had been a brutal engagement with no sign of ever letting up.

The thing about war is that nobody wins, despite the media and political hype. Everyone loses, especially the families of the ones that never come home.

So there we were, neck deep in shit, crawling into a small ghetto apartment block, our objective nearly in sight. There were a group of terrorists holed up on the third floor of a small building 500m away.

The cover fire was heavy, and we lost two more men crossing the exposed roadways, but finally made it inside. Every step of that bomb blasted place creaked; there was no quiet way of going about it.

We rushed up the stairs, kicking open the door to the designated apartment, ready to spray down weapons fire on anything that moved.

Except what we found was a screaming mother, clutching her children to her desperately, bawling her eyes out.

I couldn’t do it. I didn’t care what they had done or IF they had done anything. I wasn’t going to shoot an unarmed woman and her children.

Maybe someone had it wrong. This couldn’t be the right apartment; there was no way.

One of the men beside me lifted his weapon to fire. I hollered at him to stand down. He did, thankfully, but the resulting yelling match between us was one of my greatest shames.

Some of us wanted to follow our orders and get the hell out. Who cares if they died? They were the enemy. Me, and a few, argued that it wasn’t right, that orders just weren’t orders.

There was a bright flash, and a deafening ringing in my ears.

When I awoke, the doctors told me the apartment had been hit by an air strike. Only me and one other guy had survived, and he was in critical condition.

I had lost my leg. He ended up losing his life, due to complications.

I can never forget the look of that mother. I can never forget the inhuman things war can make us do.

On that cue, he would usually shed a tear, a skill he had refined after countless performances, and on those special occasions, enough money would fill his hat that he could actually eat a decent meal.

He used to hate his life. He used to hate what he had allowed himself to sink to. He gave up caring a long time ago.

Now, it simply was what it was. It might not be a glorious existence, but it was all he knew. And he had no complaints.

He had a decent little hole in the wall he slept in, a few meager blankets to keep him warm, though in the winter months he wished he had more, but a little liquor always helped to warm him up, and he managed to eat at least one morsel of food per day, to keep his strength up.

The dancer looked his way. He blushed, turning away. He didn’t’ like it when she looked at him; it made him uncomfortable. He wasn’t worth looking at. Please stop looking.

He didn’t actually know if the dancers could see out from inside the display cases. They were like store front attractions, displays setup to entice customers to come in and shop the merchandise, but it was more than enough for him to just watch from afar.

He wondered if the display cases were heated, as the dancers never wore much in the way of clothing.

When the joint closed, he sometimes would leave a note on the plexiglass for the dancer to see when she came in the next day. He was very subtle with his writing, like a secret admirer, and one day, when he got his life back on track, he would take her away from this hellish hole they both endured. One day.

He found a flattened cigarette on the ground, wiped it off, and lit it up. Still good.

There was a commotion at the front door. The dancer stopped to watch, mild fear etching itself onto her face.

He squinted his eyes to get a better look, his vision not being what it used to, and saw the bouncer to the place flat on his ass, snow and slush covering him. Was he bleeding? It looked like.

Then he heard the gunshots from inside, and the resulting screams and panic.

Everything he knew told him to pack up and leave; this wasn’t his problem, but he couldn’t move. He was rooted to the spot. The dancer was being yanked from the window.

He could see her shaking her head in the negative, pulling herself backwards against the arm firmly wrapped around her wrist, her back pushing against the street side of the glass.

He couldn’t leave her; he just couldn’t. But who was he? What would he do? He was just a piece of scum that pissed his life away; that’s what he was.

Still.

Most of the customers from inside had left by now, and he watched three gangster types walk non-nonchalantly out of the front door, not a care in the world, heard them cackling at the fallen bouncer.

They had weapons.

Still.

He grabbed his walking stick, some sickly split wooden branch he had found years back, and with great pain and effort, hobbled towards the strip club.

She was his dancer. He wasn’t going to let her die.

His hands hurt from the cold and a number of other physical ailments, his joints creaking, straining with the effort of his aggressive stride, but he was determined to make a difference.

For a brief moment he had mustered up a vision of himself as the soldier in his own story, almost believed it, confident that because he was doing the right thing, he would survive, just like he had the bomb on the apartment.

But the bomb wasn’t real. It had never happened. The story wasn’t real. His life wasn’t real.

Still.

The group pointed his way, laughing amongst themselves as he approached, grimace and malice etched across the deep lines of his face.

He didn’t know what he was going to say or do, but he knew he had to do something. He threw a sidelong glance towards the window; his dancer was gone.

The lead ruffian spoke first.

“What do you want, old man? Gods, what is that smell? Body odour, booze? Did you shit yourself, old man?” He waved his hand in front of his nose, rearing away in mock disgust, his cohorts laughing furiously.

The entire time their hands never left their weapons.

“Release her.” were the words that came out of his mouth. He hadn’t planned them, and was as surprised as they were at what was said.

“Say again? Are you a drug fuck, crazy as a kite? Release who?” the lead ruffian chuckled, creating more mirth for his friends.

The “old man” pointed his hand towards the glass display case.

“She was in there.” he said, his voice rising in pitch at the end. His nerve had left him, and he was starting to feel the fear overcome him.

His good knee began to tremble, his arms shook, making it hard to keep the walking stick steady.

The trio laughed some more.

“Do you have any idea who we are you crazy codger?” the lead ruffian asked, laughing.

He shook his head in the negative.

“Guristas, bitch.”

Their mood went serious suddenly, their body language becoming threatening, murderous intention in their eyes.

“And we don’t like being told what to do. Especially by some foul smelling, gimped old fuck who has a crush on a fat whore.”

Something snapped inside.

He lunged at the lead ruffian, catching all three by surprise, his walking stick repeatedly striking, him screaming at the top of his lungs.

He got in a lucky blow, and heard the resounding wet thwack of his stick breaking the nose of the lead Guristas thug. The other two still seemed dazed from the unexpected attack.

He was doing it. He was winning. He was going to have such a good story to tell after this, and it was real! He was really doing it. His dancer would see. She would know what he had done, and when she asked him, he would say he did it all for her.

He heard a loud bang, like the one from his story. His ears rang more than he had ever described in his spectacular tale.

Was he actually going crazy? Did his mind think he was actually in his war story?

Still.

Everything was still.

Snow fell on his face, and he could see the sky in front of him. It hurt to breathe. It hurt to move.

He pulled his hand away from his torso, and his eyes went wide with shock and terror as he saw it covered in his own blood. There was so much blood.

The three gangsters stood over him, the lead one squatting down, his nose bloodied and split.

“You fuck!” he spat on him.

His heart grew sad. He hadn’t saved her. She would never be his now. Maybe it was better that he died. Maybe this is how it was always meant to be. Who was he to dream anyway?

The Guristas pirate captain stood up, aiming a handgun down at the homeless bum that had broken his nose, and pulled the trigger, fulfilling the man’s unspoken wish.

Still.