PATOR IV, HEIMATAR REGION
SANMATAR OFFICE

Shakor stood facing his favourite window, feeling the gentle breeze of the city below against his face. On his desk behind him, his computer beeped patiently waiting for the verbal confirmation code to send the three awaiting outgoing messages.

He had never been a man to hesitate, but now he found himself second guessing his choices. What had caused his trepidation? When had he become this man afraid of consequences? The resounding answer caused his heart to sink; it was when he had first met Roc Wieler.

The Matar Colonel had shown such promise early on, but as time progressed, Roc was consistently the focal point in multiple storms of contention and controversy. Shakor’s friendship with the Brutor had become well known, and he had found his office more often than not busy with the task of damage control regarding the pilot.

Now Roc sat in a mental treatment facility, his fate in the hands of doctors that couldn’t possibly understand the complexities of capsuleer life regardless of their collective training. It was a dire situation for Roc, but one of his own doing, at least indirectly.

What had surprised Shakor more was the visit by Garlon Das, and the attached offer to Roc. To his credit, Roc had rejected the offer of political leveraging, being too keen to not suspect Garlon’s underlying motives to usurp control of the Republic.

Surprisingly, Roc had applied for the Council of Stellar Management, a political body even outside the Sanmatar’s juristication. Their goal was the improvement to the quality of life for every citizen of New Eden, though they tended to slant their focus towards the wants of the pod pilots.

After his initial shock, Shakor could see why Roc had chosen that path for his first attempt at entering the political foray. Just the same, it could not be allowed. He was still too naive to the way things really worked, too idealistic.

There came a time when duty even overrode friendship. Shakor sighed and gave the command.

The computer happily chirped and sent its three awaiting messages.

—

“Are you certain? I really can’t believe it.”

“We’ve confirmed the report. It’s accurate.”

“Collateral targets acquired. Initiating termination protocol.”

—

PIAK II, MOON 4, LONETREK REGION
HOUSE OF RECORDS INFORMATION CENTER

Piktun sat inside of her first Charon class freighter. It was brand new off of the assembly line, and she was only two days from being able to pilot it herself. She had focused her capsuleer abilities towards commerce these last few years, yielding billions in profit from the elite market of the pod pilots for herself and her clients. War was profitable, what else could be said?

She floated in the unfamiliar warmth of pod goo, still acclimating herself to the foreign sensations of expanded awareness and intrusion. Her thoughts strayed to one of her most prolific clients, Matar Colonel Roc Wieler, though she wasn’t certain he still held that rank given his latest set of obstacles. Still, the man had made her rich beyond her wildest dreams, not that he hadn’t profited a few billion isk himself in the process.

Most recently, she had been approached by representatives of Concord, whom requested a full audit on the accounts of Roc Wieler. They had provided proper credentials, and even informed her of his application to the CSM, and she had excitedly complied. Everything she had done on his behalf had been completely above board.

She gave the mental command to her Aura link, pulling up his accounts. It always made her smile to see the historical rise of profit margins.

“Aura, show me the latest trends for this region.” Piktun said, slowly becoming more familiar with her womb like surroundings.

There was no response.

She focused her will, mentally giving the command again. No response.

Her heart rate accelerated slightly, but she took a deep breath and focused once more.

The status indicator for Roc’s profits starting blinking red, and a small alarm sounded in her mind. In horror, Piktun watched as hundreds of millions of isk began dropping from his account.

“Aura, what is going on with account 661699191?”

Piktun felt panic rising in her throat. She wanted to be out of this pod now. She wasn’t ready. She began hyperventilating, her blood pressure rising.

“Aura, what is going on? Why aren’t you responding?”

Piktun was almost crying. Then there was a stab of sharp pain in the base of her skull, through her connection to her ship. A million volts of electricity surged through her body, liquefying her organs from the inside.

She gurgled briefly, then was dead, floating in the goo of her pod. There was no transfer to a new clone.

Pod goo swirled slowly, changing colour to a mix of crimson.

—

“Initial target confirmed terminated. Proceeding to next target.”

“And we’re 100% certain of the accusations?”

“If you have a problem with your orders, Fallout, feel free to take them up with our superiors.”

—

ORIS, MOON 4, DOMAIN REGION
EXPERT DISTRIBUTION RETAIL CENTER

Phillip Wessam was glad to be back in his pod as a combat pilot. He had spent far too long working as a “legitimate businessman” for the Empire. Truth be told, there was a part of him that missed the slave trade, but it was more hassle than it was worth in the end.

“Gold 3, tighten up formation. You’re straying.” the training commander barked.

Wessam focused his thoughts, bringing his Punisher back inline with the rest of his squad, then felt a surge of pain in the base of his skull.

The training commander watched as Gold 3, a new recuit in a Punisher, began to list offcourse.

“Gold 3, I’m not going to tell you again. Tighten it up and focus!” he bellowed into the squad comm channel. The Punisher continued offcourse, slowly spiralling towards a larger battleship in the fleet.

“Gold 3, this is your last chance! Alter course or you will be fired on!”

But it was too late. Phillip Wessam was already dead.

—

VILLORE VIII, MOON 7
FEDERAL INTELLIGENCE LOGISTIC SUPPORT

Minara Dawn knew her days were numbered ever since her betrayal and outright false testimony regarding Roc Wieler. As much as she had tried to put it from her mind, leave it in the past, her fear of eventual retribution had become an obsessive compulsion. She was completely paranoid.

She barely flew her ships anymore. Even more rarely did she leave her office or apartment.

When the day came for her to reconnect with Aura, a connection essential to all pod pilots, she did so with certain dread. She had her own technicians check and recheck the connections. Security was doubled in her hangar.

She was terrified to die.

When she was finally plugged in, finally feeling comfortable and somewhat whole again, she realized how foolish her terror had been.

It was her last thought as she felt a sudden jolt at the base of her spine.

—

“All secondary targets eliminated. Moving to primary.”

“Dammit Nova! At least let him explain himself.”

“Wouldn’t matter if he did. Orders are orders. And even if the proof has been falsified, it’s not my place to question it. Loki, you ready?”

“Ready.”

—

PATOR IV, HEIMATAR REGION
MAJANUNI INSTITUTE

Roc Wieler sat alone in his cell, just another day in solitude, left only with the constant questions in his mind. There was too much self-loathing, too much anger; he was slowly deteriorating, giving up the fight.

A low rumble shook the concrete foundation. He knew the tremor of an explosion when he felt it.

Alarms sounded throughout the facility. Roc had always known they would come.

For weeks, he had steeled his mind, preparing to fight against anything and anyone that would come for him, but the drugs, the mental probing, the interrogations; they had finally started to wear him down. He knew he would break soon, if he hadn’t already. He honestly couldn’t remember.

All he had ever wanted to do was make a difference in the universe.

A loud explosion this time, much closer, shaking dust loose from his very cell.

Still the mountainous Brutor didn’t move. He had accepted his fate. What other choice did he have in the end?

The wall across from his cell exploded inward, and he instinctively covered himself, dropping to the floor. When he arose, there was a single figure standing before him, covered in a sleek bodysuit, staring down at him.

“Roc Wieler, come with me. We don’t have much time.” she said.

An emotion Roc hadn’t felt in a long while began to rise within him, hope.

Slowly he stood and took his first step towards freedom. That is when his caution kicked in.

“Who are you?” he asked, realizing it had been the first time he had spoken in days.

“My name is Nzuri Sana, but that’s not important. What is important is who you are.”

Roc looked confused. He knew who he was. Didn’t he?

She picked up on his expression and spoke firmly, “You’re no longer Roc Wieler. From this point on, you’re nobody; just another pilot trying to make a living. Got it?”

She turned and started towards the hole in the wall before acknowledging Roc’s reply. He started after her.

“Where are we going?” he asked.

“Only place we can, flyboy; nullsec. You’re wanted by Concord. Only place you’re going to survive long enough to figure out what’s going on is where they aren’t.”

Roc nodded. He understood.

His life, as he knew it, had ended, and a new chapter begun.

He smiled.

“What’s so funny?” the woman asked.

“Oh, just been itching for a fight is all. Looks like I got my wish.” Roc replied, his boyish charm restored.

She looked at him sternly when she spoke. “This isn’t a fight you can win.”

Roc returned her stare with an intensity that shook her to the core of her being.

“Exactly how I like it.”

—

“Subject has eluded us. Orders?”

“There’s nowhere he can go. We’ll find him. Fraudulent ISK is a capital offence. Concord won’t take this lightly.”

Fallout smiled. “Well, if he makes it to nullsec, not much we can do at all.”

Nova and Loki both scowled. “No, there isn’t.”

Two years since you died, and still the pain inside me grows. The pain at losing you threatens to crush every good memory we had. It’s not healthy I know, but my heart cries out still upon every thought of life without you.

It’s not fair. There are millions out there more deserving of death than you. It was the truest tragedy if ever there was one.

I am still fixated, consumed on the last mental image I have of us; you laying there on your side, kissing me; me holding your face in my hand, tears flowing freely.

It tore out my soul as they gave you the needle, as I watched you breathe your last, as your eyes glazed over, lifeless, to forever haunt me.

No man should ever have to make the choice to end the life of someone he loves so dearly. It’s too painful a responsibility for anyone’s mind and heart to endure.

Yet it was my choice.

The doctors said we could try expensive medicines, and that it might buy you a few more months. Months in which I could watch you slowly wither away, suffering poor quality of life and growing discomfort, simply for the selfishness of having you with me for a little while longer.

I couldn’t do that to you. You deserved better. You deserved the release you got from the pain.

Still.

I had to step away just now to clear my eyes. I find it difficult to even write about you. My heart drowns in never ending misery.

This universe is worse off without you in it.

As time passes, I fear the loss of my memory. I fear not being able to remember every detail about you. I have nothing left but those memories; a few photos, videos, a few articles left that were yours.

And your urn.

I look at you often, hold you close sometimes. Without you I am not the man I was.

Life hasn’t been the same for me. I wrote another song about you, about life inbetween death, about being there until the end. Many love the song. It just moves me to tears everytime I listen.

So much has changed in my life that I would tell you about, but honestly none of it means anything without you to share it with.

Two years.

One day I will join you. We will be reunited. I will be made whole again.

Until that day, know I love you with all that I am, and miss you every day. I still kiss my ring every morning to honour you.

I don’t want to stop writing. I’m afraid when I do it will be as if you’re gone again.

You were my best friend. You understood me like nobody else ever has, and probably never will.

So many things we never got to experience together, to share. And now it’s too late.

I constantly second guess myself you know. Maybe I should’ve told the doctors no. Maybe we could’ve tried the other medicines. Maybe a miracle would’ve happened.

It’s my fault you’re dead. It was my choice.

I still believe it was the right thing to do for you. The pain I feel confirms it. You didn’t suffer. You didn’t decay. You shone brightly, and were extinguished quickly.

I will never stop speaking of your greatness.

I love you Taniqua, and you will always remain alive in me until we are one again.

Welcome to another special installment of the EVE Blog Banter, the monthly EVE Online blogging extravaganza created by myself, CrazyKinux. The EVE Blog Banter involves an enthusiastic group of gaming bloggers, a common topic within the realm of EVE Online, and a week to post articles pertaining to the said topic. The resulting articles can either be short or quite extensive, either funny or dead serious, but are always a great fun to read! Any questions about the EVE Blog Banter should be directed to me.

What could CCP Games do to attract and maintain a higher percentage of women to the game. Will Incarna do the trick? Can anything else be done in the mean time? Can we the players do our part to share the game we love with our counterparts, with our sisters or daughters, with the Ladies in our lives? What could be added to the game to make it more attractive to them? Should anything be changed? Is the game at fault, or its player base to blame?

—

Stigmas, stereotypes, demographically targeted marketing are but a few of the reasons that contribute to the low percentage of female gamers in general.

Historically, males have always been the tinkerers, the explorers, the gadgeteers, the inventors. Men are the wanderers, the ones filled with the desire to conquer everything they put their hands to.

Factor in a patriarchal, male dominated workplace, and other sexist practices, and you end up with virtual realities created by men for men.

MMOs are the modern day version of a “Boy’s Only Club”, and they are marketed that way, for the most part.

Thankfully, the women of this generation have been statistically proven to be more apt with social media and associated technologies, and are making huge strides in the virtual arena.

Game producers, developers, marketers and advertisers are picking up on this trend and adjusting their outdated ways of thinking to better capitalize on the sheer volume of women involved in technology.

It’s a smart move.

But until every company starts realizing that women are just as capable as men when it comes to technology, there is only one solution to attract more women to Eve Online.

More Roc.

Brilliant in its simplicity, I know. More Roc posters, more Roc music, more Roc animations, more Roc merchandise. CCP needs to capitalize on all the bad ass sexiness that is associated with the package of Matar Colonel Roc Wieler.

It’s the most realistic solution to the problem. Always has been.

CAILLE, LUMINAIRE, ESSENCE REGION

When it came down to it, all men liked tits and ass, but there was always a stigma attached to preferring one over the other. Being an “ass” man could automatically find you kindred spirits, sad pathetic souls with nothing better to do than compare women’s asses.

Reducing women to the mere objectification of body parts was uncivilized, sexist, insulting and just wrong.

In my experience, it was always the fat, ugly, and/or older women that couldn’t fit into an Achura’s form-fitting latex body suit that held this opinion of objectification. Not once had I ever met a young, hot, firm piece of meat that didn’t enjoy strutting her stuff, tantalizing, teasing men, intoxicating them with sensuality, making them pay for every moment of fantasy and hopeful pleasure they would never receive.

Me? I was a breast man.There was just something primal about a nice rack. Some scientists had theorized it was instinctual from our long distant evolution, and that breasts looked like ass, and cleavage was arousing to men simply because as animals “doggy style” was the most natural of sexual positions and after millions of years still held that same hypnotic affect on our loins.

Others postulated it was survival of the fittest, and our unconscious brain selecting the healthiest traits in potential partners, and since breasts meant life for our young, we were naturally attracted to women with nicer tatas.

Whatever the reason, I enjoyed everything about them: the way they bounced and swayed, the feel of them like large, ripe melons at the grocer, the smoothness of them, the scent, the taste while sucking on them like a hungry infant.

I became greedy when it came to breasts, grabbing at them, fondling them, holding them with the hope of never letting go. I could easily fall asleep in their warmth after several hours of marathon sex.

I was definitely a breast man.

When I first was accepted into the Capsuleer program, a few of the other candidates and I decided to party it up, to celebrate our good fortune. At the time, I had no idea becoming a capsuleer would lead to the neverending misery of being immortal.

Typical of a pack of males with far too much alcohol in their systems, we were loud, obnoxious, ready for a brawl, but mostly just out and about the city of Caille having a good time.

Why Caille, the shining jewel of the Gallente Federation? Aside from the crystal walkways and other unparalleled attractions the city had to offer, there was a darker side to Caille where only the finest of whores would be found.

You seem surprised in reading this, I can tell.

The group of guys I was with were incessant in their praise of Achuran hookers. I had never been with one, having only ever experienced intercourse with the love of my younger years as a slave. This, of course, was seen as a challenge, and my cohorts were hellbent on getting me laid by an Achuran. I was too drunk to argue.

I told them what I liked in a woman as we trolled the late night streets. Breasts.

It wasn’t long afterward that I found myself in a cheap hotel with a cheap Achuran, passionately making out on a filthy bed. My hands molested her chest, my tongue licking every inch of her skin from neck to nipple. I was drunk. I was horny. I was an aggressive animal. To her credit, she gave as good as she took, and I found myself consumed with the need to fuck this woman. The painful throbbing I felt needed to be satiated, and I began undressing her.

Her shirt quickly found the floor, and I was reaching under her skirt to violently yank off her underwear when I felt something poke at me. You heard correctly.

To my credit, I hesitated for a moment, and you really need to understand what was going through my head at the time.

As I said, I was drunk. Have you ever been so drunk and so horny that you’d stick it in a wall just for the sweet release it would bring? Sure, you’d regret it the next morning when your manhood was nothing but ground beef, but that’s the thing about men, we weren’t great thinkers of consequence.

Penis want. Penis gets.

She looked nervous on the bed. Or he. Or whatever. I could understand why. I wasn’t even sure what expression I wore on my face at that moment, but I knew if it was one of grimace, far greater men had withered beneath that scowl, let alone a confused trans-gender hooker.

Whatever.

I shrugged, leaned forward, and kissed her, continuing to make out, filling one hand with luscious perfection.

Hey, she had fantastic breasts.