EVATI
“THE HUB” BAR & GRILL

Roc Wieler downed another beer at the Hub, the Bastards and Hellcats favourite bar in Evati. They were in a closed door debriefing, leaving him to his own devices hours ago.

He didn’t really care what they were saying about him. He didn’t care if all the blame fell to him. He was used to that; it was part and parcel of being who he was.

Most capsuleers took their immortality for granted. They didn’t realize they bled the same as anyone else. It was becoming a more and more common attitude amongst this generation of podders. He tilted the new beer glass up, draining its content in one long swig. Another beer was already waiting for him on the bar.

It wasn’t unlike Roc Wieler to become depressed at his life of immortality. In fact, he had started drowning his sorrows in alcohol years ago when he finally realized the only escape from eternal life was bitterness and loneliness.

If you didn’t allow yourself to love, you couldn’t be hurt by the loss of that loved one. If you didn’t care about those around you, you wouldn’t feel deep pangs when they eventually all died.

The problem was that he cared too much. He had loved and lost, he had family growing old, he had a nation of people that his heart cleaved to. 

So he drank; another empty glass hitting the bar. Roc motioned for a refill.

If you were cursed to live forever, unable to love, then who really cared what kind of monster you became to protect yourself.

He still had one small hope, one small glimmer of life left to him. Roc believed that each capsuleer had a purpose; that each immortal, each being gifted to be a god among men, had a responsibility to do something great with his life, to make a significant difference in this universe that only he or she could. 

He had read stories of great capsuleers whom had influenced great wars in the past, defining an age, shaping a generation by their selfless acts, but they were mostly myths. Men who had taken on different identities, different lifetimes, to do what needed to be done from the shadows while others took the glory and fame.

Where were those heroes now? They certainly didn’t walk among us. Today’s capsuleer was selfish and ignorant, indulging in sins and debaucheries that would leave them souless throughout eternity.

His hope was shattered. His dream of a united Republic seemingly forever out of grasp. He believed that his destiny was to come to Evati, to demonstrate through action and morality that living the militia life, living for a cause greater than yourself, was what all capsuleers were meant for. He had foolishly thought he could save a bunch of no good pirates from the darkness and depravity of their existance, and marshal their skills and experiences into something of value to society. 

He was a fool. 

So let them say what they will, he didn’t care. And let them come to this pub, and speak with disdain to his face, he wouldn’t raise a fist. They weren’t worth it. Not a one of them, including himself.

Another beer down, another on the bar. The fact he could still indulge in such a philosophical debate with himself let Roc know he wasn’t nearly drunk enough.

That would have to change.

RENS
LOCATION UNKNOWN 

It hadn’t taken long for Roc Wieler to slip up, not long at all. General Mako smiled bemusedly at his good fortune. In  his experience, complex plans often required every attention to detail, every estimation for the unknown. Patience, cunning, deception; these were all traits he had employed several times over in his past endeavours, exercising great care and caution to ensure he always met his objectives. Subterfuge was where he excelled; and  yet Roc Wieler had made it so easy, so early. The General suppressed his laughter.

“Sir?” the voice on the other end of the comm asked.

“You heard me correctly, Talon Commander. Destroy every hostile target and their allies. Leave nothing remaining.” Far too easy indeed.

“Understood, sir.”

The comm double clicked and went silent. General Mako moved his piece on his mental chessboard, savouring his closing endgame. “Checkmate” he whispered to himself.

—

VARD SYSTEM
BASTARDS/MILITIA FLEET

The Renegade closed the distance to the main battle quickly, the blaze of its afterburner contrasting starkly to the dark canvas of space. Colonel Roc Wieler already had a Punisher locked and scrammed, and at thirty kilometres, began hammering it with 250mm artillery cannons. The Punisher diminished quickly under his assault, not able to return fire against the fast moving, out of range ship. Gaping holes appeared along its hull, followed by visible buckling against the pressure of space. Roc was already onto his next locked target, the death throes of the Punisher a thing of the past.

A half dozen Republic Militia Fleet had responded from nearby systems to Roc’s call, and he had quickly flagged them as friendly on the Bastards overview. The situation was tenuous at best, and all it would take for this alliance to fall apart was one careless shot.

The Bastards fought courageously, vengefully, the Minmatar by their side against the might of the Amarr fleet, yet still it wasn’t enough. Mr. Frog’s Executioner exploded; another loss they couldn’t afford in this fight.

“What’s the deal, darlin?” Mynxee implored on a private comm channel with Roc.

“I don’t know, Mynx. There should’ve been more of a response. I’m monitoring the channels. There are militia fleets about, but none are responding. I think we’re on our own.”

Roc was bitter, angry, disappointed. He was a colonel for crying out loud. His request for help had gone mostly unanswered in both the Militia Intel channel AND the Tribal Fleet Commanders channel, both fully populated with his brothers and sisters at arms.

Something wasn’t right. He could feel it in the pit of his stomach. 

—

DAL SYSTEM
VARD STARGATE

“You heard me right, fleet.” Dorian Flagg spoke into his fleet channel. “Comm silence at all times, break and engage at your discretion. There’s an Amarr fleet in Vard at a minor facility; there’s also pirates. Command has intel that some of our eggers have gone rogue, and have allied with the pirates. No questions asked, we’re to make an example of them. This run is off the books. Disengage your pod recorders now.”

Numerous double clicks sounded as the members of Flagg’s fleet acknowledged his orders. He was looking forward to this. He hated the Amarr as much as any Minnie;  he hated traitors to the Republic even more. 

He checked the systems on his Muninn twice, then gave the order to jump into Vard.

—

“I don’t believe it.”

“It’s about bloody time!”

“Alright, boys and girls, let’s hold out until the calvary arrive!”

A new surge of hope pushed the Bastards and their diminutive allies into action. Fifty two Republic Fleet ships had just entered Vard; battleships, battlecruisers, heavy assault ships, and interceptors. The tides of the battle had just shifted in their favour.

“Way to go, babe.” Mynxee spoke into their private channel. “Looks like you managed to pull this off. Grats.”

“Thanks.” Roc said distractedly. He had been hailing the fleet since they entered the system, but there was no reply. He issued the proper protocols, and Aura confirmed they were being received. They were simply not responding.

A quick shot across his bow brought Roc back to the reality of the moment, and he fully re-engaged himself into the task of survival.

The dance of the Bastards and the Amarr was as elegant as it was deadly. Couples left the floor when the cosmic judges deemed their movements not worthy to continue on. The accompanying light show of exploding ships and orchestral backdrop of weapons fire made for a magnificent mosaic of destruction. 

The Minmatar fleet was reverting to realspace. Some of the Amarr turned their attention to this new inbound enemy; some turned and fled altogether. The Minmatar were brutal, razing the Amarr with seemingly little effort. 

“WOOOOHOOOOO!”

“Yeah bitches!”

“That’s the shit I’m talkin’ about!”

“Nice! Nice! Eat it!”

The Bastards fleet channel had fallen back to chaos and disorder, the norm for them when not consumed in battle apparently. Roc Wieler sighed at this reversion, but still was distracted by the Minmatar Fleet. They were not returning his hails, and it was really getting on his nerves.

“I repeat, Minmatar Fleet, do NOT fire on my wingmates, they are currently aiding the cause of the Republic, and are to be treated as friendly. Do NOT fire.

I repeat, Minmatar Fleet do NOT fire on…”

“What the? I’m being locked! Oh shit, oh shit oh…” Raelyf never finished that thought as his Rifter popped before their eyes. Half of the might of the Minmatar Fleet had turned its wary eye towards the Bastards, and was engaging them in full force.

“Roc? What the hell is going on?!”

“Do NOT fire back. I can salvage this!”

“Oh we ARE firing back! Nobody shoots the Bastards!”

“Just gimme a damn minute. I can sort this out!”

“Your damn minute ended when Raelyf popped, Colonel.”

Roc cursed to himself as Jedziah berated him in front of the entire Bastards fleet. She was right. It was over. It had been going so well too. The Bastards were genuinely enjoying their adventure, getting a small taste of the elation experienced when ridding the galaxy of the Amarr. It was reinforcing his original pitch to them, join the Republic, fight for the Republic, and feel the reward of doing what is right and good.

Now it had all turned to shit. His stomach lurched; he was probably getting an ulcer, and he still didn’t know why it had all gone wrong at the end.

Jedziah interrupted his introspection, “Bastards, we’re leaving. Cover each other back to Evati. We’re done with this horseshit.”

Roc froze for a moment as his overview winked out, then re-appeared much more minimally than before. He had been kicked from their fleet. The message was clear; you aren’t welcome here anymore.

He had never been one to give up, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to give up now. He set his course for Evati, entered warp, then hailed Jedziah.

She accepted his request, and their private conversation began.

“It’s not your fault, Roc. I know. But this is exactly why we will not get involved in the war. It’s too hard to manage, too slow to maintain. We should’ve treated every ship not in our fleet as an enemy from the getgo, regardless. It’s how we roll; it’s how we survive. 

We’ll do this again, because it’s you, but you and I are gonna have a long talk and lay some ground rules. I’ll see you in Evati.”

With that, she disconnected, leaving Roc to stir in his own negatively spiralling thoughts. He would find out what was going on with the militia, and someone would be held very accountable for their actions today.

—

RENS
LOCATION UNKNOWN

“Mission failure, sir.” Flagg reported, his voiced deflated and afraid. 

It was a simple task any buffoon could’ve executed. How hard was it to not let your enemy escape? General Mako cursed, smashing his fists together in frustration. He had accounted for this, but had not really expected it to happen. Perhaps Colonel Wieler would prove to be more of a worthy adversary than he thought.

All the better, he mused, for when I crush him.

VARD SYSTEM
AMARR CONTESTED SPACE

Davo Styre missed his young wife. Correction; Davo Styre missed his young and beautiful wife very much. He had been a low level network administrator in some low level company in some low level life in his low level past. He and his wife had watched in silent horror as the events that transpired at Malkalen unfolded last year. They held each other close, looking for some sign of security in what was sure to become one of the greatest tragedies in New Eden.

When the Republic military started recruiting, there was no hesitation. Davo Styre knew he would do whatever he could to help bring the universe back to peace, and had enlisted immediately. Though afraid, his wife stood by her man offering all the support and encouragement he could ever have dreamed of.

His proficiencies shone, and Davo Styre made his way through the militia ranks quickly, currently a Lt. Commander in the Espionage division of the Republic Fleet. His duty was with the engineers; he was their hacking expert. It was their responsibility to takeover enemy complexes, securing them for the glory of the Republic.

Four months ago, he had started his tour with Colonel Roc Wieler. The man was already a legend amongst the lower ranking soldiers, and to be a part of his fleet daily filled Davo with great pride. Once again, his consistent work ethic and above normal abilities had been noticed, and he had become part of the Colonel’s personal flight crew.  

The warning alarms sounded again. They had thirty seconds to get to the docking tube. The Colonel was under attack. Only fifteen minutes earlier they had secured themselves to a minor facility in Vard, and disembarked into its bowels to do what it was they did. 

About three minutes ago, the explosions started. Distant, hollow sounding through the complex, but frightening just the same. The marine that accompanied Davo on every mission tapped his helmet beside his ear, then gave Davo the abort signal. It was time to go. 

He ran frantically through the hallways, trying to keep up with the marine, who seemed to know the route through this maze like he had been here a hundred times before. The complex shook, and Davo lost his footing, his jaw meeting the metal floor of the deck hard. His ears rang; his vision blurred, but he willed himself to stand and keep running. Forty seconds. He had no idea if that was enough time, but he knew Colonel Wieler would not leave without them. 

“Never leave a man behind.” was one of the Colonel’s rules, an ever-growing list of guidelines his fleets lived by. Davo staggered down the hallway, dizzy, his hand against the closest wall for support. He could see the marine gesturing at him with hand signals, getting smaller in the distance, but Davo didn’t know if he could keep going. He wanted to, and his body responded, even though his mind stayed dull and lethargic.

Another explosion sounded; this one much closer. Davo rounded a corner and saw the airlock. His heart swelled with hope; he was going to make it. Fifteen seconds left. 

The marine quickly equalized the pressure between the complex and the docking tube. He told him there was no time for spacesuits, he would just have to run for it. Davo understood. There were ten seconds left. He took off down the tube at a sprint, the marine right behind him, the airlock sealed on the complex side. He was twenty feet from the Renegade, twenty feet from safety. Another explosion sounded.

Davo felt weightless. It took his clouded mind too long to realize he was deaf; too long to realize the oxygen was being siphoned from his lungs at an alarming rate. He felt himself growing cold; tired. He could see the Renegade, shrinking in the distance, spinning ever so slowly. It was only then that he realized it was he himself spinning, in the emptiness of space. He could see the enemy Coercer passing by, strafing their ship, and watched in quiet fascination as the Renegade fully lit its engines, pulling away with dramatic speed from the complex, its artillery cannons continually firing at the enemy ship. 

Davo Styre missed his young wife. Correction; Davo Styre missed his young and beautiful wife very much.

—

“Keep on that Prophecy!”

“Those Omens are pounding us!”

“Punishers, closing fast!”

“Which of these are friendly Roc!?!”

“Someone jam that Apoc, take out its drones!”

—

Alistea Shire was a proud member of the Hellcats, one of the most notorious pirate corps in lowsec. They were as sleek and sexy as their ships. In a male dominated universe of capsuleers, the Hellcats were a powerful anomaly. Men often viewed them as their lessers, as objects to fill their sexual desires, as things of limited value and capability. Countless times over, the Hellcats had shown these “men” how very wrong they were in their misconceptions, whether it was relieving them of their ships, their loot, their love, or their lives.

Alistea served as chief gunnery officer aboard Shae Tiann’s cruiser class Thorax. And right now, it was taking everything she had to maintain order. They were taking heavy fire from the enemy Amarr ships, their shields were down, and their capacitor was leaking energy.

“Keep firing those neutron blasters!” she bellowed to her team. They would give everything they had. That is what their commander had always given to them; that is what they would always give to her. Another volley shook the ship, throwing several of them to the deck. Quickly, they scrambled to their feet, resuming their stations. The heavy neutron blasters continued pouring out anti-matter at the circling Crucifier frigates. They were hard to track, but she knew they could be taken down.

She turned her attention to her consoles. Another direct hit against the enemy. A few more solid shots and that would be one less thing to worry about. Alistea could see the Damage Control systems were losing ground. Power continued to drop, and soon they would need to manually cycle, meaning everything would power off for fifteen seconds. Fifteen seconds was a helluva long time when under fire. She hoped to avoid that.

“Stagger fire, pattern delta fiver!” The staccato of the blasters continued on. It might not be much of a change, but it would give them a few more seconds of power to continue fighting, to continue living.

Her console showed an Inquisitor, coming in fast. She barked orders at her team, willing them to track it, but they could only do their best. The Inquisitor sped directly past them, strafing their armour plating. It would take a lot of luck for that frigate to punch through their plating and do any real damage to them.

Sadly, luck was not with the Hellcats that day.

One neutron blaster bay received a direct hit, exploding. The growing fireball instantly killed those closest to it, ravenously consuming all the available breathable air to sustain its newfound life. 

Alistea knew her duty. She turned to the console, and quickly sealed the thick bay doors to the interior of the ship. Without oxygen, the damage could be contained to her bank of weaponry. 

Turning away from the console, Alistea stood bravely against certain death. She didn’t cry. She didn’t cower. Rather, the last words on her lips as the fireball consumed them all was “YAAAARRRRRRR!”

—

“Shit! We lost Shae!”

“WTF? Roc, where’s our militia support?”

“I got one!”

“Don’t get penisy, kid.”

—

The corpse of Colonel Roc Wieler would have been such a prize. The Amarr scout chuckled at his own vanity. He had been so very foolish. Only one war target had shown insystem, and that was Roc Wieler. Only one complex had shown on his overview, a minor facility, and the scout knew that meant a very real chance of killing the Amarr’s hated enemy. His Punisher would’ve given Roc a run for his isk, and the glory of his corpse could’ve been his.

His desire had made him sloppy. He had warped directly to the entry gate for the minor facility. With only one war target insystem, he had been certain that Roc would be near the facility already. And he had been right.

His fatal mistake; his flawed assumption, was that Roc was alone. As he exited warp directly on top of the entry gate, he realized too late his error. A squad of pirates sat in perfect camping formation around the gate. His ears filled with the telltale sound of target locking. Immediately, his ship lurched, and he knew the familiar grasp of a webbifier. He watched as his engines strained hopelessly against a warp scrambler that had invisibly lassoed his ship. He checked his weapons systems; jammed. The battle was over before it had even began. He prayed to God; he prayed to the Empress; “Forgive me my arrogance.” 

The last thought to cross his mind before his ship was torn from around him was “Who would ever have thought that pirates would be what turned the tides of war? ”

—

“Jed? What are we doing?”

“Fight dammit! We stay!”

“Roger that, boss.”

“I’m podded!”

“My ship’s breaking up, I gotta warp out!”

“It’s ok Hallan. Get repaired, get back. We need you.”

“What are those Minnies doing?”

—

Roc Wieler felt the pit of his stomach drop even further from under him. He had just lost half of his crew. He didn’t need a crew to fly this frigate, but each loss of life of those under his command always left him with a sick feeling in his stomach.

Things had been going well. The Bastards were successfully holding their own against the Amarr forces, only slowly starting to lose ground. The Amarr simply had more forces available, and the Bastards were a long way from home.  He had a new respect for their abilities as a unit; they performed fleet maneuvers he had never seen, and were perfectly in sync one with the other. Their bond was not one of just profit as he had believed; their lives were not as carefree and reckless as he had seen; theirs was a family, and he found himself inspired and jealous of them.

He realized then what he needed to do. As an experienced fleet commander, he could see the end of a battle long before its participants could. The Bastards were going to lose this fight. 

Roc Wieler opened the Republic Intel Channel. IMMEDIATE ASSISTANCE REQUIRED, VARD. MULTIPLE HOSTILES, BS, BC, FRIGS. 

He urged the Renegade to maximum velocity. It was time to do, or to die trying.

VANGUARD FRONTIERS

I am Sam. Sam I am. I am Sam am Nora am Sam am I. Happy am Nora am Sam am everything am nothing am Sam am Nora am I.

PyjamaSam wasn’t even aware that he had forgone his sanity. To him, melded with Nora, the Null-Aura AI construct he had created that allowed unfiltered and simultaneous access to all information contained within the vast Aura Network spanning New Eden, it was completely natural to think and feel this way. He had always thought this way. He had always been; he always would be. He was everything; he was nothing. He was happy.

He was a journal entry on Caldari Prime, confessing to stealing an extra food portion from the workman’s line, his guilt expunged when ink met paper. He was a draft of a bylaw declaration in a minor Amarrian noble house, increasing the tarriff on exported livestock. He was a homework assignment being completed at a Gallente Library, learning something new about his own history. He was that history, the signing of the form that forged an alliance between two major Gallente corporations one hundred years earlier. He was Sam. He was Nora. He was all recorded knowledge from all known locations within New Eden throughout all time. He was everywhere. He was nowhere. He was complete.

—

Lady Grey wasn’t really a noble. She had assumed the role to match her personality; staunch, airy, superior, refined. She had been a Vanguard Frontiers corporation member for quite some time now, and was happy with her achievements in life. Her peers respected her; something she had yearned for her entire life. Unfortunately, this time round, she drew the short straw.

There were official corporate policies that all members must follow. Then there were the unofficial policies that all members were encouraged to follow. Babysitting a genius fell into the latter category. Every few days, her corpmates would gather round during downtime, and draw straws. The one who drew the short straw had to go and take care of PyjamaSam, bringing him food, encouraging him to shower and change clothes, maybe even walk to a station window to see the sun, or enjoy conversation with another human being. It wasn’t considered a privilege, but it was what it was. He was an incredibly gifted man, that they all knew, yet ironically not a one of them felt resentment towards him for the special treatment Tessa Yor, their Director, gave him. PyjamaSam was allowed to miss mandatory meetings; excused from flight rotation, and many other “exceptions” she was sure she wasn’t aware of. He was something of a joke to them superficially, but deep down she knew they all cared for the eccentric man very much. Maybe that was the underlying reason to all of it; respect.

She balanced the cafeteria tray precariously on one hand as she used her other hand to swipe her access card across the doorway to Sam’s private workshop. She had only performed this duty a handful of times, and as the doors wooshed open and she was hit by a wall of foul odour, she silently acknowleged it was something she hoped never to become accustomed to. It was beneath her.

The workshop was dim, and remained so even when she gave the verbal command for the lights to come on. One row of lights in the far ceiling flickered mockingly at her, but the room remained primarily dank and dark. She took a shallow breath, and walked inside, the doors sealing behind her. 

“PyjamaSam? You here?” She knew that often PyjamaSam would be so lost in thought or concentration, that you could literally walk right up to him and rest your head on his shoulder before he was even remotely aware of your presence. He was singleminded in his dedication, even if he was a little creepy as a person.

She made her way through the mazelike structure, tripping only once over some haphazardly discarded computer equipment. She managed not to spill the tray of food and drink either, not that anyone would’ve noticed. She doubted if PyjamaSam even knew that fresh food was brought to him, given the sheer volume of empty Quafe soda cans that lived practically everywhere she looked. She continued navigating her path, rounding a corner, calling his name periodically, simply wanting to get this mundane duty over with and leave.

“C’mon PyjamaSam, where are…” The tray clattered to the floor loudly. Her mouth hung open, never finishing her question, her mind uncaring of how deep the shocked breath she was taking in was.

She stared in horror and empathy at the naked form of PyjamaSam, laying in his own feces and urine, spittle dripping down the corner of his mouth, blood seeping from his nose and ears. He was plugged in, though she couldn’t tell to what exactly. It looked like a standard Aura spike upon quick glance, but there was something much different, and sinister about it. It gave her chills.

Years of training overtook her body as her mind tried to catch up, tried to process everything occuring before her, to no avail. She smashed her hand on a small glass case affixed to a nearby wall, depressing the red emergency button contained within. Red strobe lights and blaring sirens warbled to life, deafening her, but she hit the call switch on the adjacent intercom system, and spoke in a trembling voice. 

“Medical emergency. PyjamaSam’s workshop. Need immediate medical assistance.”

She knew the medteam would be here within minutes. She knelt down beside PyjamaSam, and reached two fingers to his neck to check for a pulse.

She recoiled, covering her mouth with her hands, unwelcome tears springing forth from the wells of her eyes to fall freely down her cheeks.

PyjamaSam was dead.

VARD SYSTEM – AMARR CONTESTED SPACE
BASTARDS/MILITIA FLEET?

Using Evati as a bridge to Amarr space was working out better than expected. A few quick jumps through pirate infested low security space was a lot more effective than anyone had anticipated. The Bastards fleet, along with Roc Wieler, had encountered no resistance as they secured Amarr systems enroute to Vard.

For Roc Wieler, it was a thrilling accomplishment.  The ease with which enemy bunkers were being secured was nothing short of miraculous; something the Minmatar Republic was in dire need of to keep morale. At first, he had been unsure of this alliance he had made, and listening to the Bastards Fleet Channel was only reinforcing his initial skepticism. It was unlike any military fleet he had commanded. Under his command, there was comm silence. The only pilots that spoke were the front and rear scouts, his XO, and anyone else deemed as necessary. Wing chat and Squad chat was handled by their respective commanders in private channels. The Bastards were a stark contrast to the discipline he took for granted. They whooped and hollered in fleet chat like they were out drinking in a pub. It was chaotic, disorderly; he thought his ears would bleed soon from the constant noise of the channel. He had gritted his teeth and beared it; it wasn’t his fleet to command, but it had left him with a sinking feeling as to the actual combat abilities of the Bastards. They hadn’t even flown formation as a fleet. There was no warping together, no waiting for scout confirmation of enemy gate camps on the other side of a system; it was just a mad free for all, where each pilot made their way in their own time. Roc shook his head at the thought; it was careless, it was suicide just waiting to happen.

Three enemy systems secured, and they hadn’t even reached their destination of Vard system. The Bastards voiced boredom; they craved combat, they wanted kills. And to their credit, even amongst their very vocal nature, they knew their roles. They guarded the complex entry beacons like professionals. They scanned down anomalies within each system with an ease that only comes from experience. They were aware of every ship that entered a system, isolated its position and intention, and marked them as a threat or a non hostile within seconds. 

Mr. Frog was joking around in fleet chat again. Roc smiled to himself, thinking of some of the name these pirates went by. Obviously they weren’t their real names; they were aliases to confound CONCORD and other law enforcement agencies. He couldn’t begrudge them that, but still, Mr. Frog? Apparently the man was a helluva pilot, and if that were true he guessed it didn’t matter what name you went by really.

The fleet entered Vard, deep in contested Amarr space. Roc quickly scanned local, only finding one war target in system. There were no enemy complexes on scan, meaning they would have to track them down manually. The Bastards quickly assigned themselves planets, and went to work. 

Roc Wieler had been fighting the Amarr since this war began. He knew how quickly they responded to threats within their own systems. He was actually a little surprised they hadn’t been ambushed yet; Veshta Yoshita must have the day off. His comm pinged; one of the Bastards had already revealed a minor complex. That was as good as it was bad. The vast bulk of their fleet was cruiser sized and higher; minor complexes could only accomodate frigates and destroyers. Roc, of course, was in his faction frigate, but to engage enemy battlecruisers in a frigate wasn’t exactly the smartest thing he could think of. And undoubtedly, the Amarr had defensive squads around their bunkers.

“Sorry Roc, nobody can fly your wing on this one.” That was Jedziah, whom was the currently active Fleet Commander for their little jaunt. 

“Alright, let me see what support I can drum up from the militia intel channel.” Roc replied flatly, never betraying his emotions with his voice. The Minmatar Militia Intel channel was a secured comm mostly used by military FCs, officers, scouts, and those whom were proven to be 100% loyal to the Republic. Sadly it was a well known fact that the standard militia channel, though encrypted, was full of Amarr spies. If you really wanted to sabotage yourself, you asked for assistance there.

Roc didn’t speak into the Intel channel; rather he had Aura send a simple transmission: VARD SYSTEM, MINOR PLEX. ASSISTANCE REQUIRED.

In the meantime, he had a job to do, and allowed the acceleration gate that was the entry way into the complex to wrap its energy arms around him, hurtling him into subspace. He went over countless attack patterns he had learned during the course of his military career, even those he himself had implemented and were now a standard part of the military school curriculum. As his ship slowed to realspace, he accelerated the ship to full attack speed, and began targetting the waiting Amarr battlecruisers. He set a chrono on his HUD, 10 minutes, that was as long as it should take for the engineers onboard to finish their task and secure the bunker.

—

The Amarr scout watched the minor complex appear on his overview. There was only one war target in system, Colonel Roc Wieler. He had fought against this cur before. There was more pirate activity insystem than he would’ve liked, but that would work to both of their disadvantages; pirates were indiscriminate filth, not caring whom they fired upon. The pilot urged his ship AI to send a transmission to the Amarr militia channel. A nearby fleet was just finishing up an engagement and would be able to assist within minutes. Excellent, the pilot thought to himself, the corpse of Roc Wieler would be a wonderful trophy to advance his career.

—

Seven minutes to go. His engineers worked diligently, but he always wished they were faster. He knew they were doing their best, and that were highly trained; it was just the anxiety of being vulnerable in one spot for so long. He had broken free of the bunker, leading the Amarr on a merry chase, their lasers barely grazing him, but they had sent for reinforcements. Fortunately, they didn’t seem very skilled, and were simply chasing him wherever he led, continually firing even when he was well out of range. The Bastards were deep in shallow conversation, the noise of their fleet chatter quickly working its way under Roc Wieler’s skin. He was sorely tempted to just turn the channel off, but he was a part of their fleet, and they were here as part of his experiment. So far, it had gone well, and he hoped it would continue that way. Should this prove profitable for them, he could encourage them to participate again, accomplishing much for the war effort while they continued lining their own pockets. 

That was when he heard Jedziah double click the channel, and everyone fell silent.

The Amarr had arrived, in force.