“That is correct,” he said flatly to me. “I require you to undertake this contract with extreme haste and prejudice. You have proven yourself capable in the past for us, and given your military record, this should be a walk in the park for you, Colonel Wieler.” He emphasized my rank with sarcasm. I really detested dealing with new agents, especially ones on the edge of Empire space, but he did pay well; very well, and who was I to turn away work? War was expensive, a constant outpouring of ISK with precious little in return. I re-read the intel report, furrowing my brow further. This wasn’t going to be a walk in the park, unless by walk he meant blindly run, and by park he meant minefield. 

“All right, I’ll do it. Just make sure you have your bonus signed and ready.” I threw the intel datasheet on his desk, stiffened my posture, the heels of my military boots clacking together, turned perfectly on the ball of my foot, and marched out of his office. It might not have been the appropriate display at the time, but it felt good. People got lazy in lowsec; there was no discipline, no order. The further you got from Empire space, the less civilized people tended to be. There were exceptions of course, but this condescending agent was not one of them.

I had only ventured a handful of times into known pirate space. Sure, the war had taken me wherever needed, but that was different; I always had a fleet at my side and the support of the Minmatar Republic at my back. This was corporate work. Nobody would be coming to look for me if things turned sour; they would simply entice someone else with the promise of ISK, never having to risk their own corporate assets. Pilots were expendable.

I arrived back at the docking bay we were moored at, and entered my Republic Fleet Stabber. I had upgraded some of its fittings recently, trying to get my feet under me again in the private sector. I had gotten so used to barking orders, focusing on the tactics of hundreds of ships at a time, that I had gotten a little rusty at surviving on my own. That needed to change.

My newest crew was untested. I hadn’t taken them on any war engagements, though they had over one hundred hours each logged in the holosim, engaging in plex skirmishes. After losing my previous crew due to gross impulsiveness on my part, I was more cautious about throwing away any more lives or ships needlessly.

To that end, I wasn’t arrogant enough to think I could pull this off on my own. Strong willed or not, I was going to need help.

Who did I know in lowsec? Who could I trust to not double cross me on this run, and be happy just taking their cut from the salvage? I looked closely at the star charts. 

I wasn’t exactly sure where they were based, but I was hoping they might be able to help, as they were quite reputable pirates and would know how to go about this type of thing far better than I. I just had to make sure this entire adventure wasn’t traceable; the last thing I wanted was  my pristine reputation tarnished being seen associating with filth. I sent an encrypted burst packet across subspace. Here’s hoping she remembered the decryption key we used last time we did business. 

Here’s hoping the Hellcats were willing to do me a favour.

Today we’re going to try something a little different. YOU, the audience, are going to determine how this story ends.

Guidelines:

– Your story should go in the comments section of this post. Please type “reserved” in the slot you wish to fill. I can go back later and edit your entry for you.

– Take note of the name above and below you. Try to pick up where they left off, working yourself into the story, and leave your ending open for someone else to easily add themselves to your story.

I thought it might be an interesting experiment. Here’s hoping it works out well.

—

They had all watched the race; some were there to cheer on their favourite racers, others watched it over illegal encrypted subspace transmission. Everyone watched in horror as the only racer to be left unaccounted for was Roc Wieler. He had ascended the mountain, as had many others, but neither he, nor his mount, had exited that section of the grueling race.

The search and rescue drones had given up, their sensors useless in the ferocious storm that encompassed the mountain range. Nine hours had passed already, and yet still many of the crowd would not leave until the fate of Roc Wieler was determined. Some had even boycotted the victory ceremony and after party, knowing in their hearts that foul play had tainted the tradition of the bear races. Many spat on Vladimir Karnakov as he proudly embraced his third place victory, and guaranteed spot in the Annual Finals. This wouldn’t be covered in the news; these races didn’t exist. But to everyone gathered, the emotions existed, and were running high.

Something had to be done.

Snow.

Pristine. Beautiful. Gentle. Soothing. Fun. Adventerous. Dangerous. Slowing. Debilitating. Deadly. Cold.

Wind.

Piercing. Biting. Freezing. Siphons the breath right out of you. Tiring. Staggering. Killing.

Cold.

You feel it in your bones. Burning. Then not burning. 

Pain.

Teaching. Caressing. Tormenting. Destroying. Breaking. Building. Intolerable. Defying. Defining.

Will.

Unbreakable. Unbeatable. Undominatable. Unstoppable. Unrelenting. Uncomprimising. 

I would not back down. I would not give up. We had come too far to be stopped now. I swung my flail at Vlad once again, the numbness fighting against my feeble grip. Laboured breathing came heavily; the bitter cold crystallizing each breath before my face. The snow was fierce, assaulting me from every direction, even upwards. There was no visibility. There was no shelter from the unrelenting storm. There was no escape.

I connected with Vlad’s shield, the reverberations more than my body could handle. The flail broke free from my hand, immediately swallowed by the grave of the mountain’s snow drifts. My mount was wheezing almost as much as I was;  favouring her injured side. Grim news on a grim day.

Vlad had closed in on us at the base of the mountain. A mighty blizzard had awoken on our ascent; it’s anger evident to every rider. The first attack from Vlad came without warning. There were no camera drones as a precursor. I was blindsided by the attack. His sonic hammer smashed into my back and ribs without mercy, its pulse magnifying the damage dealt tenfold. Clothing and flesh were torn asunder, the ribs beneath splintered and shattered by the full swing of that first strike.  I staved off the second blow, but barely; and already the fatigue was setting in. The howling wind and hungry cold latched onto me, gorging on the warmth of my wounds, devouring my own body heat until there was precious little left. 

Vlad was known to be dirty, and he proved himself true once again. He hammered at the hindquarters of my mount, something blatantly illegal, but with zero visibility and no camera drones in sight, how could it be proven? My bear let out an anguished howl, pulling away from Vlad and his monstrous black mount, nearly toppling us over the side of the narrow mountain pass. He was playing for keeps. 

I cursed as I watched my flail leave my hand. I was weaponless. I was tired. Vlad lifted his hammer high above his head, winding up with as much energy as he could to deliver the final blow, the blow that would end my race; end my life. I needed to move. My mind urged my body to respond without success. I couldn’t even maintain my grasp on my mount’s fur. 

Time stretched itself for me in that instant. I watched as the sonic hammer began its fateful downwards arc towards my skull. There was nothing else for me to do but stare. I had been bested. I had been beaten. I was going to die. I heard the triumphant roar of Vlad, sounding as ferocious as a bear himself, deafening my throbbing, frozen ears. Time sped up.

It wasn’t Vlad; it was my mount. She had succumbed a moment before I was about to. She had been running at a full pace up this treacherous mountain for too long. Her front legs collapsed, throwing us both forward into a painful tumble, just as Vlad’s hammer found the space my head had been a moment before. 

We crashed over the lip of the pathway, plummeting forty feet to the snow covered rocks below. 

I don’t know how long I was unconscious, but I awoke with a start. My mount had survived as well, though her fur was covered in blood from the both of us. She lay on her side, her breathing deathly shallow, and I knew she wasn’t going to survive much longer. My own body no longer burned with the cold; my first and final warning that I was suffering from both hypothermia and frostbite. I couldn’t see more than five feet in front of me; the blanket of snow covering everything in every direction. There wasn’t as much light as when I had blacked out; the temperature was dropping with the sunlight. The search and rescue drones would be hard pressed to find us. 

Every rider was required to carry an emergency pack for just such an occasion. I felt around my torso for mine. It was nowhere to be found, and could easily be buried under many feet of snow, even if it was in the immediate area. 

I was confident the race was over by now. I had lost. 

I was so very tired anyway. I just needed to sleep. 

So I did.

It wasn’t my fault. The men’s shower was occupied, and I had to report for duty. There were no ladies present in the corporate gym that day, so I used their shower, no big deal.

The ladies changeroom had more mirrors I noticed, exiting the shower. More mirrors meant I could do a little “posedown” to better examine my progress from this workout. I could see the veins of my shoulders straining to escape their fleshy prison. I looked good.

I switched poses, trying to isolate each muscle group; trying to see where I needed more work, and where I could relax for a cycle or two. So engrossed in myself was I that I didn’t even hear the changeroom door open.

Three female corpmates stopped dead in their tracks. The one on the left of the trio lost her grip on her gym bag, the bag thudding heavily on the tile floor. Her eyes bulged at the sight of me. The other two stood with mouths wide open, not even blinking as they drank me in visually.

I’ve been in more embarassing situations. I didn’t even mind being appreciated. The body is a temple, and I worked hard to keep mine in the best condition I possibly could to illicit exactly the reaction I was receiving from the fairer sex.

I threw them my most charming grin, preparing for a little harmless flirtation, as I obviously had the upper hand in this encounter.

It was only then, as I noticed the direction of the gaze of the one on the left, that I realized I wasn’t wearing my towel …

I believe we have the moral obligation to help those less fortunate than ourselves. Those less fortunate than me believe it also.

But what is help really? Is walking by them day after day, choosing which one you will give pocket change to helping? We know we don’t give to all of them. They know we don’t give to all of them, so is it helping?

It was once said “Give a man a fish, and he’ll eat for a day; teach a man to fish, and he’ll eat for a lifetime.” How many of us are really willing to take the time, make the effort to help those less fortunate?

I am just as guilty as the rest of us, make no mistake. I refuse to give change to the poor and homeless for two reasons.

1. I am always asked for “spare change please”. I don’t have any that’s spare; eventually I will use it all myself.
2. I actually prefer to stop and ask if they would like something to eat, and that I am willing to grab them something nearby. You would be amazed how many times I have heard the answer “No, just some change please.” I refuse to support addictions in this manner.

Yet neither of my approaches is any better than ignoring the situation altogether. It’s not teaching anyone how to change their current position in life.

Before I start sounding too preachy, I must confess that one of my only experiences in trying to change someone’s life resulted in catastrophe, I am sure leaving neither of us wanting to go through that scenario again, though undoubtedly, one of us would.

—

I saw her there, shaking in the summer’s sun, her skin stretched taut, clinging to the bones of her small, teenaged frame. Her clothes were matted, covered in various splatterings, a canvas of filth that society unknowingly and ignorantly painted. She was rummaging through refuse as I approached her.

As she saw me coming, she quickly went into action, preparing her rehearsed demeanour for the thousand and first time. “Spare change please”, she said, as I came closer. “I don’t have any spare change today I’m afraid”, was my reply, “but I’d be more than willing to take you for some lunch. What kind of food do you like?” I fully expected a refusal, as had been my experience many times in the past, but much to my surprise, I was called on the offer. I invited her to join me, thinking of myself as noble, already prepared to make a fuss if my companion was looked at rudely, refused entry, or condescended to at the eatery. Instead, she wanted me to bring the food to her. It made sense really, and not because she was ashamed of herself in any way. She had no idea whatsoever who I was; for all she knew I could’ve been looking for a convenient way to abduct her, or worse. Smart kid.

I went and got us a nice hot meal, then joined her in devouring it. It was messy fun. I cautiously tried to open a dialogue with her, probing to find out more about her, hoping to encourage her to open up about her life, so I could save her.

A lesson I hadn’t learned yet in life was this: everyone has their own lifeview; trying to inflict our views on another while disregarding or invalidating theirs is offensive and blatantly wrong. Worlds thrive this way; it is in our very makeup. The sooner we can accept that we all have our own opinions formed by our own life experiences, and respect those of others, the better off we will all be. 

I was trying to ascertain what brought her to this low point in her life, already formulating my plan on how to direct her path back towards being a valued member of society. Though I didn’t know it at the time, all I was doing was being a condescending prick.

She had reached her limit of patience with my narrow minded preaching, and was irate enough to be bold about it.

The short version was that she had been repeatedly raped by her father until she couldn’t take it anymore, and simply left. She was twelve years old. She had been living on the streets of Matar for five years, and in that time I garnered from her justified rant at me that she had learned more applicable and useful life skills than many of us ever could hope to learn. She had friends that were her “family”. She had a role to fulfill in her small community. She had learned about people, how to evaluate them, how to manipulate and get what she needed from them, how to be wary of them. She had learned about hypocrisy, sterotyping, judgementalism, and worked diligently to overcome them in her own life, while suffering those very abominable traits from most people she interacted with daily. 

In listening to her, I felt smaller and smaller, as I was guilty of nearly everything she had to say. My eyes and heart were opened to the harsh realities of what our world could really be. I had my own past, and traumatic as it was, I felt sickened to be shown just how uncivilized even we Matari could be to our own. Yet I felt no righteous indignation; I only felt shame.

“So spare me your pity,” she continued on, “People need to change their attitudes. Please.” she added with spiteful sarcasm. ” I won’t hold my hand over my ass waiting for that to happen.”

I don’t remember the exact moment the conversation was over. I don’t remember saying goodbye, or if she just up and left, or if I did.

All I remember to this day was her choice of words, “Spare change, please”.

She’s right you know. We all need to spare a little inner change, please.