"Hell, yeah! That Dramiel douche bag is going down! Sweet sexy super-slicer, I love you!"
Yeah. I was excited. I had managed to catch a Dramiel inside a deadspace complex fighting the Amarr militia. Or most likely, just running from them in a wide orbit. That seems to be the winning strategy among the different militias.
But now, this Dramiel was going down fast.
The micro-warp drive made a terrifying sound. I had not been following it's indicators for a while as I was too busy managing the intricate navigation needed to keep my target within optimal range of my lasers. Now there was no more indicators. A sure sign that the micro-warp drive had burnt out. I sighed as I watched the Dramiel slip out of disruption range and then warp away to safety with shields and armor totally stripped off.
The super-sexy slicer really isn't much worth when it can't get the speed up. I aligned towards the nearest station with repairshop services and initiated warp.
The loss of a Dramiel-kill had clouded my mind.
"Mr. Saftsuze, due to your recent acts of aggression towards a certain pilot of a Dramiel-class frigate, we can not allow you to dock in our station. You know the rules."
"Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck!"
I knew the rules. I knew the rules very well. And I closed my eyes, sent a heartfelt "sorry" to my newly fitted Imperial Navy Slicer, and accepted the next incoming message. I just hoped the security officer on watch was of the dry and bureaucratic kind. I was not in the mood for Mr. Fun Facts.
"And as you also probably know, Mr. Saftsuze, since your security status reading shows a history of a rather excessive use of force against neutral targets, you have also been tagged with a "shoot on sight" order for the next 15 minutes. Or was this news to you? Please ready your capsule for space travel, we have now ordered our sentry guns to relieve you of that ship you have wrapped around you."
He didn’t cut off the sound at once. He probably wanted me to hear the laughter from his entire staff melt in with the sound of my exploding Slicer.
But worst of all, the Dramiel pilot got credit for his meager effort in the official report of the incident.
Yeah. It was one of those days. An Amarr station shot me down for shooting at one of their enemies.
Friday, August 24, 2012
Sunday, August 19, 2012
The Three Little Piggies
I studied my face in the mirror. I still had some pod goo in my moustache. I rubbed it in and smiled. What a beautiful feeling this was: Getting out from the pod instead of that terrible clone vat. But the sweetest feeling: Thinking about the three confused capsuleers now waking up in their new clones wondering what the fuck just happened.
It had been a merciless slaughter. An act of pure evil. The three fresh capsuleers, not even graduated from their training institutions, had been peacefully mining in two frigates and a destroyer. Then suddenly their overview had showed a pilot, yours truly, painted blood red by their default HUD settings, landing right next to them.
“Hello, hello, little piggies, will you let me join the party?”
Their horror. I could still remember it from my first visits to the lawless belts of low security space. He has opened fire! What kind of ship is he in? A Firetail-something? Who is this? Why is he all red? Fuck! We are taking heavy damage! All to the battle stations! Fire at will!
“Then I'll huff, and I'll puff, and I'll blow your spaceships up!”
The confusion was total. The inexperienced capsuleers must have been struggling with making the correct neural connections with their ships. None of them managed to do anything right. The tranquility of the isolated asteroid belt was now being ripped apart by burning projectiles and a screaming afterburner. Who is this capsuleer? Why does he do this to us?
I opened my eyes. Happy with what I saw in the mirror. A cold blooded merciless coward. Preying on the weak. The stupid. And the poor. Not the honourable pirate looking for fair fights and duels. I fled those stronger than me. I ran when the odds looked bad. I was a scavenger looking for easy prey and leftover targets.
What just happened? We are in our capsules! What the hell! He is still shooting at us!
I was their baptizer. Their saviour. Their revelation of immortality. I was death. I delivered this mind blowing experience to them all: The ice cold insta-freeze when the body meets empty space. The silence. The confusion. The blackness. And the existential fear. The horror of living through your own death. Waking up with the memories of a frozen corpse.
You may build your spaceships of rolled tungsten bricks. Then I will not come for you. Because I am not the big bad wolf. I am the lonely hyena.
I licked the last drop of pod goo from my moustache and opened up The Devil's Tattoo communications channel from my Neocom.
I'm the hyena with good looks and bad company.
This log entry has earlier been published at the collaborative space log known as The Fighter at the Gates of Hell.
It had been a merciless slaughter. An act of pure evil. The three fresh capsuleers, not even graduated from their training institutions, had been peacefully mining in two frigates and a destroyer. Then suddenly their overview had showed a pilot, yours truly, painted blood red by their default HUD settings, landing right next to them.
“Hello, hello, little piggies, will you let me join the party?”
Their horror. I could still remember it from my first visits to the lawless belts of low security space. He has opened fire! What kind of ship is he in? A Firetail-something? Who is this? Why is he all red? Fuck! We are taking heavy damage! All to the battle stations! Fire at will!
“Then I'll huff, and I'll puff, and I'll blow your spaceships up!”
The confusion was total. The inexperienced capsuleers must have been struggling with making the correct neural connections with their ships. None of them managed to do anything right. The tranquility of the isolated asteroid belt was now being ripped apart by burning projectiles and a screaming afterburner. Who is this capsuleer? Why does he do this to us?
I opened my eyes. Happy with what I saw in the mirror. A cold blooded merciless coward. Preying on the weak. The stupid. And the poor. Not the honourable pirate looking for fair fights and duels. I fled those stronger than me. I ran when the odds looked bad. I was a scavenger looking for easy prey and leftover targets.
What just happened? We are in our capsules! What the hell! He is still shooting at us!
I was their baptizer. Their saviour. Their revelation of immortality. I was death. I delivered this mind blowing experience to them all: The ice cold insta-freeze when the body meets empty space. The silence. The confusion. The blackness. And the existential fear. The horror of living through your own death. Waking up with the memories of a frozen corpse.
You may build your spaceships of rolled tungsten bricks. Then I will not come for you. Because I am not the big bad wolf. I am the lonely hyena.
I licked the last drop of pod goo from my moustache and opened up The Devil's Tattoo communications channel from my Neocom.
I'm the hyena with good looks and bad company.
 |
| That fresh out-of-the-pod feeling. |
Saturday, August 11, 2012
Sheep Farmer In Battle Potato Chased By Comet
The Federadion Navy Comet screamed as it entered warp. My associate had just located a Dominix class battleship engaging local Serpentis ships at a celestial in Hulmate. I’m certainly not an ally of the Serpentis, but I do like to help them every now and then, even though they seldom appreciate my efforts. I often find myself under fire while I’m grabbing the loot after an engagement where the Serpentis have been involved. Oh, I digress.
Well, I was in warp, towards this Dominix. Fellow Rebels and R1DERS had been informed as I was worried about my chances of breaking his tank all by myself.
I could have saved me the worries.
When I really want a kill, I say 150 millions and hope for a no.
Now, wait a minute! A sheep farmer? Not in my back yard!
Well, I was in warp, towards this Dominix. Fellow Rebels and R1DERS had been informed as I was worried about my chances of breaking his tank all by myself.
I could have saved me the worries.
Gustav GrayMan > STOP!!!
Gustav GrayMan > let talk about price!!!
Saftsuze > how much did this ship cost you?
Gustav GrayMan > how mach you want!!!!
Saftsuze > 150 mill
When I really want a kill, I say 150 millions and hope for a no.
Gustav GrayMan > dont remember 0__o i have 25 milion
Gustav GrayMan > thats all may money
Saftsuze > why are you flying a ship that costs 150 milions to fit, then?
Gustav GrayMan > may fren give my money/ and say taht good sheep to farm
Now, wait a minute! A sheep farmer? Not in my back yard!
Gustav GrayMan > stop attaking my!!!/ im give you 20
Saftsuze > too little
Saftsuze > you will die
Gustav GrayMan > bastard! faking bastar!
Saftsuze > that is my profession, yes
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