“So how’s the war going?” Sard Caid said with a slightly veiled hint of sarcasm. I think he was actually interested to hear about it but didn’t want to genuinely appear to be. It was hard to tell; I didn’t know Sard that well yet. He had stayed around the constellation for the last few days and we finally made time to sit down and continue our intellectual debates. I had to admit he was an intensely fascinating person, and our dialogue reflected as much.

“It goes.” I replied. How do you really answer a question like that? Well, being the merciless killer I am the war is going extremely well. Both sides have been slaughtering innocents by the thousands and my conscience is completely ok with that. War was the most base of human acts. It was an inexcusable necessity. If we ever had lost sight of that I think the course of my life would’ve gone in a much different direction, but as I learned from Shakor many years later, The pain of leadership is something only the strongest of hearts can endure. I relied so much on that man during my venture into the political arena, but as I typically do, I’m getting ahead of myself in my story.

“And the ground front?” Sard continued. I wasn’t directly responsible for any of our ground forces, and Sard knew that, so I found the question curious. I had recently hired on an infantry trooper I had met not too long ago, a young and likeable fellow. He showed promise and I was pleased to have given him the opportunity. Aside from that there was no involvement from me in that branch of our military.

“Couldn’t really tell you, Sard; not my area of my expertise.” I lifted my glass to my lips, taking another satisfying mouthful of the beer Sard had recommended.

“You mean to tell me that the famous Colonel Roc Wieler, Scourge of the Amarr, has never ridden, even as a passenger, on one of those, what do you call those vehicles they drive?” He asked, his statement becoming a question.

“Jeeps?” I replied.

“No, bigger than a jeep.” Sard said. “You know, really big.”

“Armoured Personnel Carriers?” I ventured, beginning to become irritated. I had a passing knowledge of ground warfare, though as a pilot it hadn’t been the path I had chosen.

“No, no, they have the big gun on the front.” Sard continued.

“Mobile Artillery?” He was really getting on my nerves. I honestly didn’t see any relevance to this tangent, and was going to tell him as much shortly.

Sard sighed. “It’s on the tip of my tongue, just having a mental block. You know, those big armoured things with the treads.”

“Tanks?” I blurted out.

“You’re welcome.” Sard leaned back in his chair, smiling, content in having suckered me in.

“I’m gonna punch you now.” I said.

“Oh for the love of crap!” I screamed in pain. It felt like I had been lashed with a metal whip.

1 more set of lat pulldowns
1 snapped cable
1 raised and bleeding welt across my collar bone and chest

Priceless. 

They had replaced the broken cable in the gym only a week earlier. The “new” one was frayed and was more difficult to pull, but I figured it would just add to the workout. I had warned the facility management several times that it would snap and there would inevitably be a lawsuit. They had laughed.

On the one hand, I’m thankful it was me that it happened to. I liked to think I was tough enough to handle pain. On the other hand, I wish it had been someone else so I didn’t have to waste half my day sitting in the medcenter waiting to be told it’s a welt but nothing was broken, which I knew.

I just wanted to go visit management after this and share my own special brand of pain with them.

I just wasn’t having a good week with cables.

As a young Brutor slave under the care of Master Cho, I endured much, but I also learned a great deal. My daily tasks started early and often took me into the long hours of the night. Everything I did was to please my Master, to please the Emperor whom was revered as God, and to expunge all blasphemy from my soul, though I could never be pure and holy by simple virtue of being a Minmatar.

There was a small pond near our home, and I often would stop there during my work for a quick break. I had taken to putting tadpoles in a bucket and watching them develop over the season into frogs. It wasn’t that I had a particular fascination for frogs, it was just of utter interest to me to watch how something so small and simple could transform into something else so entirely complex.

I learned Amarr religion was paramount to their cultural existence; the two could not be separated. From top level politics to every bylaw, state and religion were one and the same, and still are to this day. I absorbed the beliefs of the Amarr like a sponge does water, always thirsty for more. I yearned to be whole, to have my soul cleansed and set free.

The key to the Amarr beliefs was their Saviour, whom the Emperor was the physical incarnation of. It was the Emperor who forgave sins, who led us into the destined future we were promised since the Saviour originally appeared to man and sacrificed himself to God on our behalf, washing away our sins. 

I don’t know why it struck me the way it did that fateful summer afternoon, but as I sat by the pond looking down into the bucket of maturing frogs I had collected, my heart went out of them. It had been drilled into my head that I myself was nothing more than a dumb animal, a subclass of humanity, and if it wasn’t for the Saviour’s sacrifice I wouldn’t even have the opportunity to embrace the truth. Well, frogs were animals too. I wondered if anyone had every told them about the Saviour’s grace.

I gathered them all up on the grass, and began to preach the truth at them. I was pretty sure they weren’t understanding, but being young and naive I assumed it was my inability to communicate at a level they understood.

God inspired me with an idea. My heart felt lifted as I set about fulfilling His calling. 

I picked up one of the frogs and crucified it, nailing it to a nearby tree. As it hung there, mangled and bleeding, I positioned the other frogs in front of it so they could visually reference the story of the Saviour. It was then that Master Cho came by, and I was keen to show him what I had done, not thinking of any potential trouble I could’ve been in; not aware of the time I had spent here this afternoon and how my duties had suffered for it.

Master Cho stared at my beaming face, then at the frog hanging on the tree. “What have you done, dog?” He snarled at me.

I felt my joy sucked away like stars into a blackhole. I was suddenly fearful, feeling foolish, and began crying. “Tell me what you have done, cur.” Master Cho repeated with impatience.

With a sobbing voice I began to explain my intentions with the frogs to Master Cho. I didn’t even see his first backhand coming, which caused a white flash in front of my vision. As I lay on the ground, tasting blood in my mouth, my Master physically taught me the mistake of my blasphemy. 

He broke my bones. He pierced my organs. I was numb from the pain, and don’t recall blacking out, but I do remember believing that I would die, and that I deserved to.

—

DAL SYSTEM
REPUBLIC FLEET LOGISTICS

“You’re a sick fuck, Wieler.” Sard Caid said, as I gave him a personal inspection of my newest Firetail. Sard and I had been discussing lately what possible virtue I could see in this ship class. We had debated it at length, each conceding points to the other, but eventually I figured you really just had to see it up close, to experience it personally to understand its appeal.

Sard stood there, shaking his head. 

We all have our own rituals I suppose. Many of us took pride in naming our ships. But more than that, many pod pilots, myself included, added our own little flare to our vessels. For me, I enjoyed nailing an Amarr corpse from a previous kill to the bow of my ship. It served as more than a visual deterrant to the enemy, it was a mockery of all they were. And it made me smile. The frogs would understand.

“To each their own.” Sard continued, as we turned and walked out of the hangar bay together towards the Black Hole Pub, continuing to discuss a great many engaging topics.

“Get on those frigates now, *Fantastic! Freyla, watch your range on that Harbinger, you don’t want to get in too close. Metal, I need shields; get one of your drones on me now!” Roc commanded.

“You need to stay within seventy clicks, Chief.” FullMetal Basilisk replied as he cackled insanely. 

Cytral listened, his gut wrenched in knots, as the play by play of events continued. He stood in Ops at Freeform Industries HQ, feeling helpless, but willing every good thought he had towards his pilots. 

“I’m into hull!” Doc Gigawatts screamed. 

“Wordsworth, get on Doc’s agro; give them something else to target!” Roc shouted into fleet comms. 

It had gone on this way for the last thirty minutes. The Renegades had made good speed into Amarr space, not pausing to engage the Amarr militia at any junction. Doc’s squad had quickly formed up under Roc’s fleet, and they had been making their way back towards Heimatar. Roc wouldn’t recklessly hurry through the jumpgates, pausing the fleet at each point to send a forward scout through to the next system. They had worked their way as far as Jaswelu, in Domain Region, and while every jump was bringing them closer to Minmatar space, every system found Roc’s Renegades facing more hostiles. The 24th Imperial Crusade had joined the battle in Vashkah, deep in the heart of Amarr high sec, and they were well coordinated; Cytral’s pilots having already pushed their way through several enemy gate camps.

Ah Niko, you would be proud and terrified if you were here. Cytral thought to himself. Niko had been the corp’s Fleet Commander before Roc had come along, and due to other extraneous circumstances was on a leave of absence, nobody sure when or if he would return. But Roc Wieler had stepped up to the task with enthusiasm, and transformed the motley group of mining pilots and industrialists into a passable fighting force. They weren’t going to be declaring sovereignty in any nullsec systems anytime soon, nor go against the likes of the Red Alliance, but they were learning to trust each other, to know each other’s strengths and weaknesses, and to work like a team. 

Cytral found Roc Wieler to be a most interesting character. Short-tempered, flirtatious to a fault, yet not always sociable, the Colonel had proven his worth with his hard work ethic, his consistency, and his extreme sense of duty of honour. He was a proud Brutor through and through, but there was something more to the man. He had an intrinsic sense of rightness about him, carrying himself naturally as a leader, though if you were to ever confront him with this observation you would see the more awkward side of Roc Wieler. Still, Cytral believed the man was possessed of more potential than any of them knew, and once that was utilized, the Republic might never be the same.

“We got incoming!” Freyla spoke heatedly into comms. 

“Negative, darlin. Check your overview. They’re Amarr alright, but not the 24th. My guess is pirates, meaning if we end up engaged with them it’s because they shot first. Last thing we need to add to the mix right now is Concord breathing down our necks.” Roc spoke with a fevered pitch, but his voice was controlled, calm, even in the midst of the chaos. It was just one more quality he possessed that made him an excellent fleet commander. So far, they hadn’t lost a single pilot. Cytral knocked on the warfare logistics table he was leaning on. Let’s hope it stays that way. He thought to himself.

Momentary feedback bled through the comms system, then resumed. A new voice could be heard through the fleet. It was one some of them would recognize. It seemed Roc had patched his personal comm into fleet.

“It’s been a while since I’ve had the pleasure of killing you, Wheeeeeler.” Veshta Yoshita drolled sarcastically. Veshta was one of the top Ace pilots of the 24th, and the longstanding hatred between her and Roc Wieler was well known to any whom had served in the Tribal Liberation Force under his command. 

“Well, good to know I bring you pleasure, Veshta.” Roc replied without missing a beat. “Shows you at least have good taste in men, picking a Minmatar. Can’t say I blame you really. I’ve heard what little Amarr boys have to offer.”

A second private comm could be heard over the system. “General, where’s your fleet at?” Roc said. He had contacted Sasawong prior to entering Amarr space to see what kind of support could be garnered from the Tribal Liberation Force. For the most part, militia pilots were hungry for any kind of killing they could engage in, so it was more than likely the Minmatar would respond.

“Wouldn’t really call us a fleet, Roc.” Sasawong said. “But we’re  three squads in Sifilar. Want us to move or stay put?” Sasawong and Roc Wieler had quickly become friends early in the war, flying numerous times together against the Amarr. Each knew the other was trustworthy and dependable, and this had been proven many times over.

“Move towards Hati system, Sasa. We’re gonna be coming through hot if we get that far. Lock down that system and roll out the red carpet.” Roc said.

“I enjoy nailing your corpses to my wall, Wheeler.” Veshta interjected over the comm. 

“I’d like to say I enjoy nailing you too, Veshta, but even the thought of it repulses me.” Roc replied witfully.

The skirmishes continued around them, though the Renegades had been ordered not to warp scramble anything. The goal here was escape, not destruction. If any of their enemies were foolish enough not to warp away when their ships were going down, so be it, but by letting them warp away, the hope was for a short hiatus while pilots docked up in stations for repairs before re-engaging Roc’s forces. Hopefully, it would buy them enough time to make it back to Minmatar space.

Cytral squeezed the console tightly, closing his eyes against the headache that suddenly hit him. He felt nauseous and dizzy, monetarily feeling his knees go weak before regaining his composure. His condition was worsening. Soon he would have to tell the corporation.

“Alright, Squad One, jump. Renegades, hold back and cover.” Roc blared over the comms. The forward scout had declared the all clear in the next system on their route. Each jump was one step closer to home. After all of Doc’s squad had made it safely through to the other side of the jumpgate, Roc gave the order for the Renegades to follow, the Amarr fleets right on their tail.

As Roc urged his ship to jump, he couldn’t help but smile. If they could make it to Sifilar, the Amarr would be in for a helluva surprise. Doc’s wormhole accident might turn into a major victory against the enemy. 

The universe definitely had a sense of humour sometimes.

Editor’s Note: *Yes, that’s his real name, Captain Fantastic.

PART ONE:

Wormholing (verb) – The act of completely obliterating a pod pilot trapped within wormhole space without mercy.

Wormholed (noun) – The nominative used to describe one who has suffered wormholing. Example: “Dude, you were totally wormholed.”

A new and interesting phrase I encourage you to incorporate into your regular trashtalk. I am curious to see how quickly it spreads around New Eden.

PART TWO:

3AM, my emergency chrono sounded; code red. I scrambled to my datapad, plugging into our secured intra-communications network to see what was going on.

Doc Gigawatts: “We’ve been trapped here for hours, barely keeping ahead of the Sleepers. They’re like nothing anyone has ever seen. Our entry point collapsed. We’re trapped. I’m nearly out of probes. Require immediate assistance.”

I raced to our headquarters, finding Cytral already monitoring the situation.

“What’s the plan, Cy?” I asked, unsure of what could be done. Wormhole exploration was something that many explorers had done throughout the space age, but it had only come to mainstream attention with the recent events that transpired in Evati, though not many were privy to that information. I had no experience nor knowledge of wormholes, but was concerned for my corpmates.

“Nothing to be done, Roc. They’re on their own. We have no way of getting to them, and no way of providing a point of egress for them. They could be gone for days, weeks, months; I really have no idea. We can only monitor the comms and hope for the best.”

The following hours were one of terse frustation. I paced back and forth countless times, figuring I would eventually wear a groove into the flooring. Doc had taken some of the more anxious corp members on our first “official” wormhole expedition. So far, things weren’t going that great. My own inward understatement made me chuckle nervously.

“They could’ve waited. I could’ve taken the Renegades for wing support.” It was only the night before that I had finished purchasing and fitting a new Firetail in Rens. Doc had taken some of our experienced warfare pilots along, but still, I wanted to be there.

“Shoulda woulda coulda.” Cytral said, a growing look of concern on his face. “Need you to prep a rescue team. Set your pilots to high alert standby. Have your ships fueled and ready to go at a moment’s notice.”

I saluted Cytral once, then left ops, heading for the corporate hangar bays, sending alert status notifications to the Renegades.

Quickly and efficiently, my team was assembled. It was a hurry up and wait situation. We sat and played cards to distract ourselves from the peril of our comrades, each of us thankful to not be in the situation of our colleagues, yet hopeful we would see them again soon.

An overhead speaker squelched. Cytral was relaying the message directly from our squad in wormhole space. Obvious urgency was implied.

Doc Gigawatts: “I located another wormhole. Sleepers are in close pursuit; damn they hit hard. Fleet entering wormhole … now!”

We collectively stared at the speaker, wanting more information, wanting to be there to fight side by side with our brothers and sisters. Not a sound could be heard in the hangar bay, not even of breathing.

Doc Gigawatts: We’re all through; pulling up the starmap now. Shit! Double shit!

We could hear through the speaker channel the sound of target locking, and the ominous warning being issued to Doc Gigawatts, and presumably the rest of our team.

Doc Gigawatts (heard from speaker): Enemies of the Amarr. This will be your last trespass into Empire space.

Oh hell no! I thought to myself.

Doc Gigawatts: “We’re being targetted. We’re in Amarr high sec. We won’t last long with the damage we’ve taken from the Sleepers. Require immediate assistance! Please!”

Amarr high sec, bloody hell. “You heard the man, let’s move!” I bellowed, stirring my pilots, crews, and ship workers into action. Within moments we had the all clear for launch.

Way to go, Doc. I thought to myself. Out of the frying pan and into the fire.

I grinned inwardly at the new recruits standing before me in the gym. Some of them looked pathetic, either too skinny or too fat. They all wore toques. It kept more heat in the body, got you sweating more than you would normally. Some of them wore “Property of Roc Wieler” TShirts in an attempt at leniancy by appealing to my vanity. You could tell they were new.

“Alright ladies, you may be pod pilots now, but you’re certainly not Renegades; not yet anyway. We’re going to start by learning how keeping your body in shape will benefit your mind and soul.” I began, my voice booming with authority and intolerance. I was their drill sergeant for this orientation, my mission to show them how physical and mental excellence would aid them in enduring the hardships of real piloting.

One of the recruits snickered at my comment about mind and soul. “You find something funny recruit?” I asked, my voice stern as I got directly in the face of the offender. “Sir, no sir!” The recruit yelled back in perfect military form. I wasn’t in the mood for any insubordination.

“You’re dismissed.” I said dryly. The pilot’s eyes opened wide, wondering if he had misheard me, or if I was serious. I was always serious. “Did I stutter?” I screamed at the pilot, a spot of phlegm spitting from my mouth as I spoke. The recruit quickly turned and headed for the change room. “See how easy life can be?” I said sarcastically. “You either do, or you don’t. There’s consequences either way. I won’t cut you any slack in the Renegades because out there, our enemy won’t cut us any. If you want this, I’m going to break you. If you don’t want this, get out of my sight now.” Three more recruits left the gym. I paused for a few moments, letting any other doubters come to terms with themselves and leave if they so chose. Nobody else did; good.

“I’m sure you’ve all been to the gym. I’m sure some of you even think you’re in shape. You’re not. I’m not. Your clone isn’t either. It’s a whole new lifestyle now, ladies; and you have to train your mind before you can train your body.”

I grabbed two dumbells and thrusted them into the arms of one of the beefier recruits. “Arm curls. Go.” The meaty recruit bent his knees slightly, shoulder width apart, which was a good start, and then proceeded to use his back to create momentum for his arms to use in curling the weight. I stopped him quickly. 

“Form is the most important thing. If you’re not going to do something right, don’t do it at all. We’re not here to be muscleheads, we’re here to be pilots. My pilots perform at peak efficiency; that is your objective. Let me demonstrate.”

I proceeded to go over various common exercises with them, nothing out of the ordinary, illustrating proper form for each routine. I encouraged them to try, which they did, some doing better than others, but it gave me a sense of where each individual was at. 

“Nutrition is 90% of getting in shape, or something like that. 54% of all statistics are made up on the spot anyway.” Not a single recruit laughed. This was good. “Cut out the cheeses, the fatty foods, the salty snacks, the sauces on everything you eat. It’s bad for the body. No more Quafe, no more cafs, you’re all going to be eating healthy now.” I remember how hard it had been for myself at first giving up the foods and drinks I enjoyed, but after a few months I realized I couldn’t enjoy my food any other way. Things started tasting better, cleaner, and the results had spoken for themselves. 

“Open one of your hands. That’s how big a single meal portion should be. Never eat more than you can hold with one hand.” They gazed down at their palms, some of them beginning to wonder at the accuracy of my methodology. Truth be told, it wouldn’t work for all of them. It was worked for me. Still, the general guidelines were sound, and the astute ones would realize these were core principles, not a holy book of working out. 

“You’ll eat six times per day to keep your metabolism active. And you’ll work out twice per day, as your schedules allow. Now, onto the workout routine.”

I moved over to the treadmill. “First thing is ten minutes of cardio before every workout. Doesn’t matter to me how you accomplish that, but you need to make it high impact cardio. By high impact I don’t mean wreck your knees, I mean keep your heart rate up; make yourself feel like you’re going to collapse. Got it?” They all nodded their understanding.

I moved over to the chest press. “I don’t care what you exercise on a given day, in fact I encourage you to mix it up, keep it fresh and exciting for your muscles. Don’t let them get used to your routine. If they do that, they’ll stop developing.” I grabbed the bar, then instructed them on what we would be doing.

“I call these ‘Active Pyramid Drops’. For me, they’ve been gold. They’ll work for you too.” I laid it out for them plainly.

• Three sets with ‘Active Rest’ in between sets. Active Rest being high end cardio to keep your heart rate accelerated. You could run on the spot, jump rope, climb stairs, do bench hops, whatever you wanted, but the key was to keep the heart rate up, at least 85 beats per minute.
• For your first set, use 90% of your maximum weight and do 12 repetitions.
• Second set, is 100% of your maximum weight, 8 repetitions.
• Third set is the magic. Do 110% of your maximum weight, 6 repetitions, then immediately do your second set without rest, then your first set without rest. 
• Do this for four different muscle groups per workout, a group example being arms, which includes biceps and triceps.
• Do four different exercises for each muscle within a group following the above technique.

For the next hour and a bit, I oversaw their progress. It was always interesting to me to observe others. I could tell which would make the final cut already, and which were the quitters. Still, if I could change even a few of their lifestyles, inspire any of them to start taking care of their body and mind and not rely on a fresh clone should they die, then I knew I would be adding value to their lives. 

I couldn’t wait to share with them what my daily breakfast was, or my own little exercise I called “The Panty Remover”.

MATAR
PATOR SYSTEM

 Though tribal by nature, the Republic had advanced remarkably over the last one hundred years. Vast highways ran throughout the various metropolises of the planet, as well as one superhighway that connected all the major cities. This roadway was recently renamed the “Highway of Heroes”, in honour of the many fallen soldiers from our history, both recent and past.

It acquired this name primarily as an honorific to those fallen in the first great war of our people, but in more recent times its name was apt due to the fact that most returning from the frontlines in caskets found their motorcades following this great path for their final journey home.

It had become routine for information to slip onto the interweb when a new shipment of dead soldiers would arrive planetside, and inevitably this knowledge had been acted upon. On every major overpass across the continent, countless civilians and service personnel would stand in wait, regardless of time of day or weather, draping the proud Minmatar flag over the railings; a final tribute to those who fought valiantly for the freedom of our people.

It was raining heavily today, but that didn’t deter any of the assembled mass. Veterans in dress regalia stood tall, their standard placed firmly against the concrete, their stoic posture testament to the respect they were giving to these newly fallen comrades. Civilians had parked their vehicles on the side of the overpass, bringing local traffic to a crawl, yet none of the passing motorists were agitated or angry; there was quiet understanding and acceptance of this gesture. 

Daul stood amongst others from his infantry unit, waiting patiently. He could see the red bearded man-mountain fidgeting nearby. He had learned since his first battle that this man’s name was Corm. He was well respected, well feared, and well deserving of those sentiments. Daul had heard stories of Corm’s antics both on and off the battlefield and held the man akin to something between a monster and a god. He continued surveying those gathered, noticing firefighters, police officers, Concord Security officers, and other civilian professionals. His eyes fell on a small child in a stroller, her mother comforting her in this dreary weather. Daul knew by her demeanour that this woman had lost her husband to the war.

It left a sickened feeling in Daul’s stomach. There were those even in his own life that couldn’t stand the thought of war; wouldn’t discuss it, wouldn’t acknowledge that it existed in all its gruesome detail. Yet it did exist; ignoring it didn’t make it go away. He wondered if in fact the opposite were true, that if perhaps every Matari was aware of the gore of battle, the lives not just lost but violently taken, then perhaps as a whole they would do more about it; perhaps this war would end all that much sooner resulting in less lives lost. 

He was sure Sanmatar Shakor did all that a politician could, but his energies were diverted elsewhere of late; land disputes, religious cults and terrorist bombings seemed to be the order of the day for the Prime Minister. And even his attitude towards the war had changed when he did make public speeches. It seemed as though his support was dwindling and he was therefore adjusting his stance to maintain public favour. Daul had no respect for politicians. He had no respect for someone who couldn’t stand by their own beliefs regardless of status quo. But was he any better? Was he any less of a hypocrite?

His eyes wandered amongst the crowd some more until they fell upon something they had never thought to see in this lifetime; a capsuleer. He had only glanced at the back of the man’s bald head, but he knew without a doubt the telltale implant at the base of his skull. The man had quickly pulled up the collar of his brown leather jacket, whether in an effort to ward off the elements or to hide his giveaway implant, Daul couldn’t tell, but regardless, he started making his way through the crowd to catch a better look at this man.

Capsuleers were an entirely different beast; an entirely different factor in this war. They were technically immortal, able to be reborn upon each death they experienced, though Daul had heard stories that capsuleer cloning technology was greatly exaggerated and they were capable of dying just like any other. To some, pod pilots were the pinnacle of evolution; the ability to fly great starships with a minimal crew, to engage in adventures that most people couldn’t even dream of. Their abilities were greatly respected, revered by many, giving them a divine attribute. But not everyone felt that way. To the growing majority, capsuleers were an abomination. They were the very reason this war continued. It was the capsuleers that brought hell to the stars. It was the capsuleers that callously watched as the lives of entire crews were exstinguished while they were simply reborn to fight again. A small political group had recently been gaining local media attention with their push for Shakor to ban military cloning technology, focusing the abundant funds it used towards civilian emergency facilities only. 

Daul didn’t have an opinion on pod pilots. He had never met one, and he was the type of man that evaluated someone based on face time, not heresay. 

The capsuleer he had been slowly edging towards had stopped, finding a suitable position to gaze across the Highway of Heroes, waiting as were the rest for the military motorcade to pass underneath. Daul believed he was the only one to have noticed the capsuleer, the attention of everyone else too busy looking down the highway in anticipation. But he was wrong, he realized, as he saw Corm approaching the pod pilot from an intercepting path. The look on Corm’s face told Daul instantly that his intentions weren’t happy ones. Corm was shoving his way through the crowd, some people cowering away from his mass, others being forcefully pushed aside. Corm had that look in his eye; it was the same gleam of insanity and ability that Daul had seen on the battlefield. He hurried his pace, trying to get to the capsuleer ahead of Corm.

Daul could hear Corm’s raised voice as he watched the man-mountain gain the attention of the pod pilot. The smaller man turned from the overpass railing to see what was causing the disruption, then turned back to wait for the motorcade. Those closest to the man had backed away, sensing he was the focus of the larger, well muscled man’s fury. Someone, the lady with the baby in the stroller, was pointing at the capsuleer’s neck, outing him for what he was. Murmurs went through the crowd, some shouting their disapproval of the man, others unsure of themselves and not giving into mob mentality quite yet. 

Corm arrived at the man five meters before Daul did. He watched as Corm screamed profanties at the back of the man, commanding him to leave this place or face the consequences. Obviously, Corm wasn’t an admirer. Upon failing to get the man’s attention, Corm spat on the back of the man’s head, his fists clenching and unclenching, the veins of his forearms visible even from this distance. His face was flushing red, and Daul knew that he had to try to talk down his comrade. But what was he going to do? They had fought only one battle together; they were not friends, and Daul damn well knew he wasn’t physically able to stop the behemoth. 

The wad of mucus ran down the back of the capsuleer’s head, the rain accelerating its slimy progress until it disappeared beneath his leather jacket. Still, he did not respond. Corm grabbed the man’s shoulder, spinning him with one meaty hand, his violent intentions clear. Corm never had the chance to bring his intentions to bear.

The capsuleer used the momentum of the spin to drive his straight armed fist into Corm’s solar plexus, his hip pivoted to deliver maximum driving force. Daul could hear the air expunged from Corm’s lungs, as the man-mountain doubling over from the blow. The capsuleer continued forward, following the momentum from the punch, to deliver a solidly driven knee to Corm’s groin. The bigger man’s hands went from holding his stomach to holding his balls. Still, the pod pilot drove forward. He grabbed Corm’s red hair in his hands, driving his rear knee upwards with impressive force. A loud crack could be heard amongst the crowd, and Corm dropped to the concrete, blood pouring from his nose. He didn’t get up.

The capsuleer turned his attention back to the motorcade, which could now be seen approaching in the distance. Daul watched as a few others from his regiment dragged the limp form of Corm away from the scene. The crowd seemed to have let the moment pass, either from newfound fear of the small man that had toppled the man-mountain, or from disinterest now that the reason for their being in this miserable weather was so close. 

Daul was torn. A part of him knew that he should go with his brothers-at-arms, but another part of him wanted to meet this capsuleer. He chose the latter. He easily made his way to the pod pilot, greeting him. “Excuse me, I don’t want to…” Daul began.

“Show respect.” The capsuleer said in a voice filled with gravel. The pod pilot stood at full military attention, surprising Daul by throwing a crisp salute towards the motorcade. Daul followed suit, immediately knowing he was in the presence of authority. The crowd also saluted, cried, cheered, or showed respect in whatever way they thought was most appropriate.

It was a sobering moment. Daul wondered if many would gather when it was him that would inevitably be in the back of one of the vehicles passing beneath them. He chastised himself for his lack of respect. These men and women had died defending the Minmatar Republic. They had made the ultimate sacrifice for their people, same as Daul would do, wouldn’t he?

Memories flashed before his eyes of his own cowardice, of his own wanton abandon of duty at the first sign of real threat. He felt strongly ashamed suddenly, not worthy of being in this place, not deserving to be amongst these people, least of all the pod pilot. He turned and began walking away, when he was interrupted by the voice made of gravel.

“What’s your name, son?” The voice asked. Daul stopped in his tracks, turning his attention back to the capsuleer. He was about the same height as Daul, but the man was thick as an ox. His face had hard lines on it, chiseled from experiences Daul didn’t even want to think on.

“Daul Halwick, first class private of the 501st infantry regiment, sir.” He found himself nervous beneath the hidden gaze of this man, unnerved by the sunglasses and scowl the other man wore. There was no way of knowing what thoughts went on behind those hidden eyes, what intentions may lay within the man. 

The capsuleer extended his hand. 

“Colonel Roc Wieler, Tribal Liberation Force. It’s an honour to meet you, soldier.”

Daul was five rows back and the mortar fire had already come. It had rained down from the sky in deathly silence and would have caught them off guard if some veteran in the front row hadn’t raised up his flak shield and set off a chain reaction that slowly progressed all the way through the ranks. It was better than it could have been, but some of them had still been late with their defenses, or put them up at an ineffective angle. They continued screaming even now, but Daul could hardly hear it anymore.

Daul was past the moment of fear. The nausea was gone, the tightness in his bowels. There was no way out, nowhere to run and hide. The forces had engaged. The mortars were proof of that. So now he was committed, and that lent him a peculiar type of calm. He was just waiting for it. Waiting to run forward to die or to live. That appeared to be his destiny. Now that he had marched up to the precipice, he found he could handle it.

He was not a large soldier, not the kind that reveled in battle. There were those around him that were. Brutors the size of mountains who considered the fray in a completely different perspective. It would take something special to bring them down, and they took the field with a reasonable expectation to be able to walk back off it when all was accounted for at the end.

Daul, on the other hand, was an average sized man. He was well trained and athletic, but this was his first battle, and he knew that there were those in the opposing army who had advantages of both size and experience. One strike was bad enough, two was unnerving. But as he had already concluded, there was no way out of it now, nowhere but forward to run.

Five rows back, he thought. Maybe, just maybe, the battle wouldn’t come to him. Maybe he could stay hidden behind his comrades.

He looked to his left and saw a mammoth Brutor with bulging muscle and a huge red beard smiling in anticipation. Something about that crazed look told him that he would be seeing action, that he wasn’t far enough back for security.

As one they started to move. Daul hadn’t heard any word of command, but the press of the bodies sent him forward. Shoulder to shoulder they crept along and Daul found that he could not allow himself to drift further back in the ranks as he had been secretly planning to. They were all too close, and they all pushed each other along as if they all shared the idea of the subtle retreat.

The walk became a jog, the jog a run, the run a sprint, and the exhilaration of the moment stirred his adrenaline. This was the battle. This was the moment of truth. And he felt the pounding of his heart in his ears and in the shortness of his breath. He resolved instantly that if this was to be his last accounting, it would be a good one, and he let loose with a wild scream that was picked up and repeated by the hoarse and nervous throats of the men beside him. His whoop became louder with their augmentation, and he picked up his own volume to pay greater homage to the cacophony they were creating.

Everything slowed in a sense. His eyes recorded the images that flashed before him. The color of the men. So stark and white against the grey suburbia and blue skies.

The feel of the concrete beneath his boots, rubble and debris littered everywhere. The sharpness of the air as he gasped for it, seeming to cut his throat as he drew it in. And then, the clash of the weapons from the lines ahead amidst the sounds of gunfire.

It was like standing in one place and watching a storm blow in. A sheet of water and darkness, chaos, the fist of nature, coming at you in a black wall and then swallowing you.

Daul struck out around him madly. Nothing came close. Nothing was allowed. Arms, hands, broken weapons, the moment they entered his field of vision he smashed them away with a strike from his slender vibro sword. He spun in circles, blindly, mud and blood tossed up from the foul below and smearing his face and clothing until he was an unrecognizable mass. He stood in one place, never advancing, and the battle came to him.

It thinned after a while, after an eternal minute. Daul had no idea how long it had been, but he knew he was exhausted, and that there was nobody close to him. Slowly, his senses returned. The berserker rage that had overcome him had spent itself, and his body had rightly decided that the best chance for survival lay again in absolute faith for the control of his reason. He stumbled forward, the throng just ahead. He surmised his comrades were the ones whose backs were to him.

Suddenly, out of the wall of flesh broke a single soldier. The enemy, he could tell by the color of his armour beneath the blood. He was frenzied and broken like a struggling deer. Young, like Daul, he broke from between two bodies and looked up one and down the other before ever turning his eyes forward. He was nose to nose with Daul before he ever noticed him in his path. Daul just stood there in shock, waiting for him to come.

The madness had left Daul, the killing instinct, and it had left this soldier as well. Daul was watching him keenly, but detached, as in a vision, as he stepped forward. The soldier seemed relieved to be out of the fray. He seemed overcome that the two pillars of men he had passed through had taken no heed of his escape. He finished looking behind him and turned his eyes forward, meeting the eyes of Daul.

Daul saw himself reflected. For the first time in this battlefield of lunacy and blood, he saw the watery blue of intelligence. There was a soul in those eyes, an understanding. This was a young soldier, like him, one that was only looking for a way out.

They paused, a fragile truce. They waited and drew nervous breath. Daul could see a pleading there, the desire to escape. Or so he thought. Was he just imagining it?

With that question the moment was broken and the brief tranquility was overwhelmed by a stampeding fear. It was a battle. This was the enemy.

The other soldier saw the change in Daul’s posture and started to react, but it was too late. The sword had already skewered him. The lifeless body slid down the blade, and Daul came face to face with the eyes again, the eyes that had pleaded for non-aggression.

He turned the sword down and to the side, the body slid off in silence. He had triumphed, he had slain his attacker. But he felt nothing but scorn and self-loathing. No words had been spoken, but this man had asked for a truce, and Daul had responded to the request with blood.

Daul was still standing there over the body when the battle ended.

The soldiers came walking back, picking their way through the bodies. Some in a daze, others joyous and relieved.

A meaty hand crashed down on Daul’s back.

“You’re first battle, right lad? Nice to see you‘ve made the cut.” It was the man-mountain with the fiery beard. “You’ve got a few tricks now, you’ll make it OK. The ones that survive their first battle, tend to make it all the way. Glad to have you with us.”

Daul didn’t make a response. He knew what the difference was between the ones that made it and the ones that didn’t. The ones that made it killed. They ignored the pleas for mercy in the enemies’ eyes, they accepted the rules of the situation they were in and didn’t waste energy on dreams for a peaceful future.

Daul looked up at the carnage and the brutes that surrounded him. This was his world, these were his people, the desolation and the foulness of the living.

He glanced down one last time at the body at his feet, peaceful in its death-mask, and as he turned to walk off the field of battle with the other grotesque and misshapen approximations of the living, he wondered who the real victor was.

Empress Jamyl Sarum glided effortlessly across the marble floor of the cavernous palatial corridor. Her clothing was of a nearly sheer material, speckled with reflective dust, form fitting in the right areas, wistfully flowing in others. She was young and beautiful, her unblemished skin radiating a golden aura. Her thick dark hair had the shine of good health. She was truly a magnificent creature. The marble floor and columns that lined this corridor were polished to mirror reflection, and seemed to absorb the warm light she emanated, even casting aside the shadows of the high arching ceiling far above. 

Bodyguards and attendants remained out of sight, but within a distance to act should the need arise; not everyone valued the Empress as they did. They were invisible to her, a mere formality, as she considered herself more than capable of dealing with any potential hostile act against her. 

She strode with royal confidence, an air of superiority, but not one of arrogance. She truly believed she was worthy of all respect, worship and adoration from the Empires. The only sound to be heard as she walked was the occasional touch of material against floor, such was her grace and poise. She was a living beacon of hope and truth; the ultimate symbol of beauty and elegance.

A large oak door opened as she neared it, revealing a grand bedchamber. The ceilings were high here as well, though not as lofty as the central corridor, with artistic murals painted on them. They were depictions of Amarrian history, of their various successful conquests and contributions to the galaxy. The bed itself was made of sturdy mahogany, and stood ten feet tall at the four corner posts. It was wide enough to sleep three people, though only one person lay upon its comfortable mattress now. 

He was wrapped in a warm duvet, his frame resting on thousand count Amarr cotton sheets. Four pillows supported his head and neck, made from the hairs of Amarr’s finest maidens. He breathed steady, strong breaths, a good indication of his recovery.

She approached the bedside, looking down at the man before her, then turning her attention to the various monitors and life support apparatus he was attached to. The regular ping of his heart monitor let her know he was indeed healing well, and she had gone to every length to ensure so. Beyond the best doctors and medicines, she had employed the services of her greatest mystics and healers to aid in his journey back to good health. 

She leaned towards him, inches from his unconscious form, breathing him in deeply, his face glowing in the light that was her. She could smell his power, his tenacity. She knew he would make a powerful ally once she had broken his significant will. 

As a testament to her appraisal of him, he stirred to consciousness, not making a sound as he surveyed his surroundings with his eyes. His head didn’t turn, nor did his body move, but his piercing eyes took in everything. He swallowed once before speaking.

“I can’t move.” He said. 

She placed her hand gently upon his forehead, caressing him tenderly, quietly shushing him as a mother would an ill child. “You were all but dead when we found you. You will regain the use of your body in time.” Her voice was melodic and mesmerizing, it was no wonder so many swooned under her power. Already, her guest found himself feeling the tug of her at his heart, his want for her, his desire to please her, to consume her. His heart rate quickened, and noticing this on the monitor, she smiled.

Her perfect lips parted only slightly, revealing straight white teeth. There was a slight moisture to her full lips, making them even more appetizing. He hungered for her already.

“Where am I?” He asked, his voice weak and scratchy.

They had found him aboard his ship not too long ago, his crew dead, as he should’ve been. It was a testament to his strength of will that he had survived the ordeal. For reasons unknown even to her at the time, she felt that instead of destroying what remained of his ship that she should save this man, that he would be a catalyst in her efforts to unite the Empires under her rule. 

“You are safe. You are in my palace, the heart of the Amarr Empire. My name is Jamyl.” She let her arms falls naturally to the sides of her body, her palms faced outwards in a gesture of welcome and non-aggression. Just the same, he reacted, his heart rate spiking.

“You bitch from the underbelly of the ninth hell. I would rather suffer a thousand deaths than even to have the memory of ever looking upon your wretchedness.” He screamed hoarsely.

Jamyl changed then, though it could not be seen by any other. The light that radiated from her was extinguished. Her skin turned from gold to black flame, enlarging her form as if she were a living shadow. She devoured all light from the room, plunging it into darkness and spiritual despair. Her eyes smoldered orange flame, and when she spoke next, venom dripped from her mouth, burning holes into the floor where it fell.

“You ungrateful cur! You dare to speak to me in such a tone?!” She hissed. “If it were not for me you would not exist at all. If it were not for me, you would have no use to this universe. I alone have chosen you. I alone have spared you. I AM YOUR GOD!”

The man in the bed shrank away from her, his eyes wide with shock. His heart rate continued to elevate, but no longer from desire; now it was from distress. She raised her arms high to her sides, continuing to devour life itself from the room, cackling a malevolent laugh that sent chills through the spine. 

“It is at MY whim that you live. It can be at my whim that you die. Choose your next words wisely, fool, as they may very well be your last.” Her voice echoed and reverberated throughout the room, casting dread upon it.

Without reason or warning, she shrank back into herself, the dark flames subsiding, her eyes return to their normal radiance. Her skin once more glowed its golden hue, and she fell to one knee, her gentle hand propped up against her forehead. 

She grunted in pain only once, then stood regally, smiling warmly down at the man in the bed.

His eyes darted back and forth, trying to make sense of all that occured within the last few moments. She seemed to not notice the silence, patiently waiting for him to take the intiative and speak.

Finally, he did. “Milady, my life is forfeit, save for serving you. I am your humble servant. What is thy will?”

She lay her hand across his forehead once more, consoling him. “Just rest, my brave warrior. I will need you whole to fulfill your destiny.”

She turned to leave, walking a few paces before stopping, looking around for something that could not be seen. She paused a moment, inhaling, her eyes closed. When she opened them again, they were smoldering flame, and she looked straight at the presence she had detected. She knew it was there; she could see right through it. An evil smile curled at her lips, and she pushed her will against the unwelcome trespasser.

—

Gigaer awoke in a sweat, immediately entering a meditative trance. The meditation was both to calm himself as well as to retain with crystal clarity every detail of the vision he had just experienced.

After a few moments of inward contemplation, he was satisfied that he had remembered everything, and began committing the dream to his journal. 

He wrote of the Empress. He wrote of the location. He wrote of the man in the bed, what was his name? He struggled with his memory, pushing aside the various puzzle pieces until he saw the single answer he sought, mentally plucking at it, bringing it to the forefront of his mind.

Ah yes, there it was. He wrote the name down, unclear of the meaning of any of this. 

Jamyl Sarum had rescued a man for some unknown purpose; a man by the name of Mako.