NOTE: Please forgive the poor quality images. Someone in my house has misplaced my camera charger, so until then I am stuck taking pictures with my iPhone.

I know, I’m a little slow sometimes, but here is the current state of my office. This summer, I’m laying down some ancient hardwood, unstained or smoothed, and a new antique wooden desk. I think it will look nice, the contrast of old and new.

DAYTIME

TOWER 200

For when you can’t get up in the morning to get to the gym, or squeeze in time at lunch, and feel too lazy to go after work, the Tower 200 is a great pulley gym system to help maintain muscle tone.

REFERENCE MATERIAL

It’s important to balance intellectual pursuits. From comics to alternate history novels to 3D art training and actionscript development to a little bit of HBO on the TV, always keeping the brain engaged is a good thing. In the background, is the EON Magazine EVE Online Regional Map.

ROC’S DESK

They say you can learn a lot about a person by the way they keep their desk. So what do my desk items tell you about me? Collectible lightsabers on top, Serenity Steele’s EVE Strategic Mapbook at hand, DLink DNS-321 NAS, DIR-655 Router hidden behind, self portrait with smaller, personal picture, LG W2753W monitor. I’ll let you come to your own opinions and observations.

RIGS

My two gaming rigs: Firetail (left) and Rifter (right). Oh, and R2D2 on the right.

STAR WARS

Let’s get this out of the way now, I was a day one Star Wars Galaxies veteran, and played for 5 years. Before there was ever Eve Online, there was Star Wars, the greatest science fiction universe ever created. Ever since I was a child, I’ve loved Star Wars; in fact if not for Star Wars my life choices would’ve been very different so far as career, hobbies, intellectual pursuits, moral beliefs, etc, etc. And yes, Darth Vader was at my wedding last year with a full complement of Stormtroopers.

I almost forgot; that’s Darth Tater and Artoo Potatoo on top of the display case.

DARTH VADER

To me, there is no greater science fiction persona than Vader, despite what Hayden Christensen tried to do with him in the newer trilogy. When I had the chance to enter a 3D contest to win this $400 Sideshow Collectible Vader, I was all over it, and the Force was with me. On the second shelf is a collectible pin set of the six movies, and on the bottom shelf is my original Collector’s Edition Star Wars Galaxies: An Empire Divided box set. Such a shame. The original game had so much potential, but Sony Online Entertainment thought they would show how amazing they were at handling the greatest Intellectual Property of all time by not just destroying it once, but completely obliterating it twice.

Be thankful though. If not for that, Roc Wieler might well never have existed.

Also, I apologize to anyone distracted by the reflection of that incredibly handsome and well built man in the image reflection.

STUFF

Yes, that’s a real piggy bank. He even oinks when you put money in him. Up front is the best micro copter I’ve ever seen, the Falcon. It’s worth owning just for the Japanese manual translated into the funniest English I’ve ever read. For example, first troubleshooting tip, Controller power switch is “OFF”. Solution: Turn power switch “ON”. Thank God for the Japanese. Only other interesting item on the dresser is the Tim Horton’s gift card (I don’t drink coffee), and the Cult of Eric Cartman membership card.

THERE BE DRAGONS

When I saw this piece I thought it was very well done, even though not entirely my style. Still, glad I bought it. It’s interesting.

IRON TIDE

One of the single most impressive pieces of Eve Online I have seen is Iron Tide. Thankfully, EON did up a large poster version of this art which I proudly have on my wall. I hope one day I create such a work that people speak of in the same vein. Also, I have a bed in my office. I tend to overdo things and can hardly make it out of the room before collapsing.

FANFEST

Some more excellent Eve Online artwork postcards, and my Eve Online Fanfest 2009 Guest pass. Good times.

100% RECYCLED AWESOME

Two reasons this image made it into this post: 1. Christine Spar was the best Grendel, period. 2. That wood block Obi-Wan Kenobi toy has the coolest phrase printed on the side of the package; made from 100% recycled awesome. I liked it so much, I used it on my blog for a while.

MORE VADER

I get the coolest Christmas presents. My friends and family know not to get me lame Star Wars stuff. Instead, I get fully sentient R2 units, the Force Trainer (coolest toy ever made that you play with your frickin brain!), collectible lightsabers, and Darth Vader’s robotic arm. I mean, c’mon, it’s a great time to be a kid (or an adult that acts like one).

GOTTA ROC

Yup, I have a picture of Matar Colonel Roc Wieler on my desk. Helps me stay in character. I just glance over at him and think “WWRD?” That beautiful woman in the lower corner is my wife. I just glance over at her and think “What would she NOT do and kick my ass for doing?” It’s a good balance for my virtual life.

Below are some night shots, just for fun. I don’t actually turn all this stuff on at night, but figured might as well for showcasing my Eve Space.

Hope you enjoyed.

NIGHT TIME

Lots of pretty lights. Didn’t mention the CyberPower unit earlier. It’s the one in the bottom left.

From a lower angle you can see the lights of the Router in the back. And yes, I really am fond of Windows 7.

Lightsabers rock.

Ok seriously, not enough can be said about Hasbro’s Interactive R2. 360 degree hearing, infrared and motion sensing, flashlight, positional memory, orientation detection, seo services, beer arm, thick treads for plowing across carpet, voice recognition, personality, and the fact that his beeps and warbles start to make sense after a while… R2 really is the coolest.

Sadly, I just found out tonight that Vader’s lights no longer work. Shame really. His saber lights up as well as his chest plate and belt lights. It really is impressive, most impressive. Ah well.

Sony

A single droplet of blood dispersing in the water caught my attention. Its dance in the clear liquid was mesmerizing as it twisted and angled its way into oblivion, neatly avoiding the floating bits of shaving foam. My submerged hand shook in the sink, the coarse stubble from my head pulled free from the straight edged razor blade by the tension of the water.

I looked in the mirror, gently sliding my other hand along the contours of my head. Pulling away from my skull I saw a trickle of blood across my palm. A repressed memory from a separate lifetime flooded to the surface of my mind unbeckoned, unwelcomed.

—

I lift my hand and see a trickle of blood across my palm.

“Good fight, dog.” Master Cho says to me, though I hear disgust in his voice more than pride.

Our relationship had changed lately. He had been spending more of his time with the young boys, and while I felt jealous and somewhat neglected, I was also happy to be away from his beatings.

Ironically, it was those same abuses that had developed the mindset I now possessed; that enabled me to endure a beatdown in the slave arena and still stand afterward. My mind knew how to act when in shock. My body knew how to push aside the overwhelming rush of adrenaline, to subdue the fight or flight instinct, to a degree, and do what needed to be done to ensure I survived.

I put my fingers to my lips and taste the metallic tinge of my life’s essence. My head throbs, though I doubt it is from the injury I sustained in my last fight. Vitoc is still running through my nervous system, poisoning me until I die or get just enough antidote to keep me productive for another day or two. It is how the cowardly Amarr have always controlled us until they break our wills; how they indoctrinate us to their bullshit.

“Three” has been working on an herbal treatment for Vitoc dependency, a method that will completely eliminate the need for the drug at all. That would certainly change things around here. Unfortunately, every one of his volunteers has died from the concoctions, and fewer slaves are stepping forward for his tests. ‘Better to live with dependency than to not live at all’, they say.

“Rest up. You have another fight in ten minutes.” This time, Master Cho sounds genuinely excited, though I don’t think it’s for my continued survival. I’m sure he has a heavy wager on my death.

I have come to realize he has given up on me, and that our relationship will never be as idealistic as I had envisioned it to be when younger. He knows I won’t be turned. And though Amarrian Law prevents the outright killing of slaves without provocation, it’s easy to generate any valid enough reason in the eyes of the regional magistrate. “My slave gave me a dirty look. He had to be put down.” “He smelled of more filth than usual.” “He was breathing too often.” You get the idea.

Through sheer coincidence and greed, the spontaneous murder of slaves had become increasingly rare. Instead, the Amarrians had figured out they could profit from slave deaths through gladiatorial games. Lovely.

So once per week all the “rebellious” slaves were gathered up and pitted one against another, until a single champion of the day remained. His/her reward? To live for another week until the next combatant games, assuming they didn’t piss off their master by breathing too often in the meantime.

I had watched many friends from my caste die in the arena, which was nothing more than a glorified cesspool.

As Master Cho continues to speak I can only fantasize about what I would do to him in that arena if given the  opportunity.

My head throbs again, the Vitoc ravaging my body. My vision starts to blur. I need another shot of antidote soon, if Master Cho is even willing to give it to me this time. He’s been withholding it more and more recently, but I refuse to die.

“309, you’re up.” the guard says, gesturing towards me.

I hate that we are nothing more than livestock to them. I have a name; a name I have earned; a name given to me by my brothers and sisters.

—

“He fights like a rabid dog!” Serene said, as she easily dodged my sluggish attack. “All bark, no bite!” she teased as I missed another swing at her head.

“Enough.” said Three, whom ironically had kept his slave number as his name, a badge of honour as to how long he had endured the atrocity of Amarrian slavery.

“Do you remember your name, son?” Three asked. I shook my head back and forth. I couldn’t remember anything about my childhood. I didn’t know if I had parents anymore. I didn’t know if I had siblings. All I could remember was this wretched life. A feral glean sparkled in my eye, a burning hatred.

I was snatched up from behind in a full nelson by Tiny; lifted completely off the ground. I hadn’t even see the monstrous brute coming. Everyone laughed.

I hated them.

“He don’t give up. Give him that.” Tiny said as I thrashed about, trying to get free from the man tree. I kicked my heel upwards into Tiny’s genitalia, and as he dropped me instantly, bending over to grab himself, I smashed my elbow as hard as I could into the side of his skull. Disoriented, he fell onto his ass, much to everyone’s amusement.

“He is tenacious.” Three commented philosophically. “Hmmm” he muttered absently, stroking his beard.

“There is a legend of a far off planet in another galaxy, from whence all life in New Eden supposedly originated millions of years ago, though what is truth and what is not is anyone’s guess anymore. And on this planet there were animals bred for fighting; proud, aggressive, vicious beasts that were known to conquer foes many times their size. I believe the most legendary of those beasts was called the ‘Rottweiler’, a short, heavily muscled, majestic dog. Do you like this name?”

From the ground behind me, Tiny chimed in. “He’s solid like a rock. I’ll give him that.” As per usual, Tiny’s brain had missed the conversation entirely.

“Rott Wieler, not Rock Wieler, Tiny.” Three corrected with patience.

I smiled. It was a good name.

As I said, I hated them. Then they became my family.

—

“309, front and center!” the guard snaps, and I realize I have drifted. The following minutes are the usual cacophony of noise and anticipation. I tune it out, focusing inwardly on the fight to follow. I am physically exhausted, mentally drained, Vitoc threatening to overwhelm me with every step.

I hate the Amarr for doing this to me. The Vitoc, having to fight other Matari. I detest them in every way.

Their very essence is a blight on civilization, and one day I will make them pay for their wicked ways.

God isn’t with them. There is no Amarrian God, only fat and corrupt slavers creating rationalizations for their immorality so they can sleep at night with a clean conscience.

My heart races. My hands flex. I spit on the ground, ready to enter the arena.

The massive cell doors open, and I step forward into blinding light. When my eyes adjust, I can see my opponent on the other side of the arena, waiting for me, his look of shock and remorse almost as transparent as mine.

It is Tiny.

—

The straight edge blade scraped across the thin skin of my skull once more. I rinsed my head, double checking in the mirror to make sure I hadn’t missed any spots. It was good.

I toweled off, got dressed, and reported for duty.

Today more Amarr were going to die.

For Tiny, my brother, my friend. I salute you.

Arguably, those who perform above and beyond the call of duty are rewarded with rank and recognition. To a lesser degree, I could attest to this.

I had flown with many Valkear Generals in the war, from General Sasawong to General Fist, both very capable leaders and pilots. Each day it seemed the Republic was awarding its highest honour and rank to more and more pilots. It remained to be seen if this was a prudent move or a scenario where there would be “too many chiefs, not enough indians.”

There always needs to be a balance. Too many in charge and you get too many conflicting ideas, resulting in chaos. Too few in charge and poor decisions can be executed, resulting in chaos.

The mandate of the Tribal Liberation Force was to fight chaos, not create it.

I’d done my fair share of fleet command. I’d killed the enemy, captured military complexes, derailed aggressive designs against us, even led our forces into Old Man Star as a demonstration of unwavering commitment to our beliefs.

I’d been harsh and crass as a wing commander; I’d been supportive and led by example. I’d yelled. I’d screamed. I’d gone hoarse giving orders. I’d flown with squads that have needed little in the way of command and resigned myself to calling targets, letting my teams work as an experienced unit together.

Through it all, there had been two constant feedbacks I received:

1. Was an honour to fly with you, Colonel.
2. Why haven’t they made you a General yet?

I had wondered if either comment had been meant in seriousness, or just as friendly jest, and in the end not given it much thought.

Recently, that changed, as I had the privilege to fly with one of the Republic’s most promising new heroes, Valkear General Eran Mintor.

Eran Mintor had been a dynamo for the Tribal Liberation Force. His consistent pushes into hostile territory, his quick organization of resources to secure our defences, his natural ease and demeanour with leadership; it’s no wonder pilots were flocking to his banner, myself included.

I had no ego about command. If there was someone capable of getting things done, let me lend my hand to support them.

I had been flying under Mintor’s command for several hours, producing significant results, routing the Amarr wherever they were encountered. He was an impressive man.

We quickly found ourselves engaged in idle chat about command styles, politics on Pator, my personal life (which came up far too often in conversation with superiors), and eventually why I wasn’t a General yet. Ugh.

“No interest.” was my initial reply to the last question.

“What do you mean ‘No Interest’? It’s the highest honour a pilot can achieve within the Republic. To be decorated as a Valkear General is something of import, Roc.” Eran replied.

I didn’t want to argue with him. I didn’t know him that well. I wasn’t going to preach my stance at him, yet I wasn’t willing to let him dictate his to me.

“If it happens, it happens.” I replied casually, trying not to sound defensive. “Given my recent kill record, though, I don’t see it happening anytime soon.”

“If you were out on the front lines more often, Colonel, maybe it would happen sooner than you think.” Eran replied.

I noticed I was grinding my teeth.

How was I to explain that a shiny piece of tin didn’t make a lick of difference at the end of the day? That the Republic had other, more important issues to deal with internally regardless of the war with the Amarr? That if the war were to end today with Matari victory, we might find ourselves in a far worse situation as a people without this distraction from the real problems?

The answer was I couldn’t. I wouldn’t be the one to shine the harsh light of reality onto this young and rising star. I wouldn’t be the one to let bitterness and regret spill out from me infecting others.

“You’re right, General. I’ll request more rotations in my schedule. Can’t win this war from a dock!” I lied.

He laughed heartily. “That’s the spirit, pilot! Now, let’s clean up here and see what we can find in Ardar!”

Eran Mintor reminded me of myself when I was naive, not to say he was. As I mentioned, I didn’t know him very well at the time.

And maybe he was right. Maybe my own disgruntlement was getting the best of me. Maybe it was time for me to retire and leave the fight to those with greater passion for it, though that sentiment didn’t sit well with me.

I was a firm believer in seeing things through personally to ensure they were done right. It’s not that the universe revolved around me, but mine sure did. My life’s mission was to serve the Republic. Thus far, that had been through fighting in the war.

Perhaps there was a more effective way for me to fight?

It has been said that bitterness rots the soul. If there is truth in that, isn’t it a self-fulfilling prophecy? Think about it, if you’re bitter, and this causes the soul to rot, won’t that make you even more bitter, causing more soul rot? Vicious cycle.

It’s one of the reasons I could never buy into the concept of God. Every teacher/philosopher/holy leader has never been able to produce anything more than vague, common sense answers, fortune cookie platitudes that offer neither specific relative insight or individual direction. Religious answers tend to be “for the flock” as a whole, though the collection plate seems to find its way to each and every congregation member.

But this memoir today isn’t to rant about the various battles I’ve had with religious organizations and figureheads over the decades; no. Today’s entry is in response to a long lost letter I once had received, then lost; only to rediscover this morning by chance.

I was organizing my foot locker, given to me back in my days of basic training for the Tribal Liberation Force, making sure my old officer’s dress formals were still in good condition, though I doubt I could fit into them anymore. It had been a long time since I wore the uniform of the TLF, and I had been feeling nostalgic as of late. While sorting through the various other contents of the trunk, a thin sheet of flimsiplast fell out to the floor, to lay at my feet, beckoning my interest. With genuine curiousity, I read it.

Dear Colonel Wieler,

I’ve been a fan of your exploits for quite some time now. You are a hero to the Republic, to humanity, to me.

I think the Senate was foolish and short-sighted to reject your nomination for a seat on the council, but I think they prefer you on the frontlines where there’s more chance you won’t return to friendly space. You’re too much of an activist for their liking, my friend. You actually want to accomplish things, to produce forward thiking with tangible results. While idealistic and naive, it’s admirable, and I write this in support of your efforts.

Do not give up. Do not give in. Keep at it. I’m not the only one in this universe that believes in you. There are more of each us day taking up your cause. Do not let your bitterness consume you.

On a personal note, if I may be so familiar with you, why are you so bitter? You have everything anyone could dream of, and then some. Be happy in all that you have done. Life is too short.

With appreciation,
Minmatar Loyalist

It’s interesting what we skim over when reading, retaining only the parts that stick out to us, and usually within the last few lines of copy.

Why was I bitter? Did that question even need to be addressed? Was there ever really any doubt?

At the time, the Republic had been engaged in a war for over a decade against the Amarr Empire, failing to make any lasting headway. And instead of the Senate pooling its resources into a stronger military initiative, they actually granted asylum to some ex-communicated, brain washed Matari whom started preaching Amarrian dogma throughout the cities of Pator? There’s a good choice, Shakor.

In addition to political inadequacies and self-preservation, the larger corporation were more concerned with potential profit loss than with understanding that the fate of their businesses at all hung in the balance of whom prevailed in these military engagements. Mega corporations continued to build up their capsuleer staffing requirements, using them as flight escorts and glorified mercenary enforcers, while planets were stripped of their populations having not a single pod pilot to defend them. They were more concerned with retaining personal power than realizing that everything they knew would be stripped away from them should the Amarr be victorious in the war. The egotistical selfishness of some people stupified me. There was no better word for it.

Then there was Mynxee; a love/hate relationship of epic proportions. Sometimes I wanted to kill her. Other times I wanted to kill her after I slept with her. It was a dilemma. Don’t even get me started on the exploits of the HellFleet Alliance.

Billions of personal isk lost in ships and fittings. Thousands of lives lost in crew killed in action.

Complacent attitudes all around towards the realities of this life.

How could I not have been bitter? I saw the downward spiral of society long before it happened. In my gut, I knew what was coming next, and while I fought against it, I was but one man.

It has been said that change can begin with one man. Looking back over recent history, I wish that had been true.

I’ve lost everyone I ever cared for. I’ve outlived everyone that ever mattered to me.

The bitterness I knew then is nothing compared to the bitterness I know now.

And yet it is that same anger that fuels my passion. It is part of what defines who I am, what keeps me moving forward each and every day.

Why was I bitter? Why am I still?

Because the universe needs more people that care, and really there can be no bitterness if one didn’t care a great deal.