Faction Fireworks

You know that it would be untrue
You know that I would be a liar
If I was to say to you
Girl, we couldn't get much higher

I had been messing with my clone-capsule interface again, just to get an excuse to unplug from the life of a capsuleer and kick back and watch the reality holoreel I am such a fan of: Real Life - the story of a working father and husband. It’s not a thriller of a show - sometimes it is outright boring, but it certainly has a lot of excitement with it’s ups and downs. And capsuleer life had become a bit stale lately. 

But, watching reality-holoreels for weeks in a row isn’t much better, so I decided to get into a Rifter and go old skool solo roaming. It felt good. I felt a spark. 

Come on baby, light my fire

Come on baby, light my fire
Try to set the night on fire

Being back in the purest and truest tech I frigate you can find, felt like coming home. And what a homecoming it turned out to be.

“Guys. A Typhoon Fleet Issue just ran from me. And I’m in a Rifter! I’m picking up his drones.”

The R1DER communication channel was as usual in a very relaxed mode. I warped off from the anomaly and continued scanning. I noticed the Typhoon had not left scanning range. And on the next scan cycle new drones had been deployed. No way...

The time to hesitate is through

No time to wallow in the mire
Try now we can only lose
And our love become a funeral pyre

“Guys, I have the Typhoon scrambled! But I’m in a Rifter, so I guess it makes sense calling for backup...”

I probably wasn’t the only one calling for backup. I was constantly watching the local communications channel and my directional scanner. There were three other capsuleers registered in system, but nothing on scan so far. I was very slowly making progress through the mighty ships shields, but I was worried about what might turn up on the next scan cycle.

R1DERS reporting ten and six jumps away. A few more capsuleers enters system. One of them has the same last name as the pilot of the Typhoon. Thrasher on scan! Now. Keep it cool. Breathe. Think. Weapons deactivated. Reloading all weapon systems. Thrasher lands on grid. Target thrasher. Keep tight orbit on Typhoon. Fire at Thrasher! Keep point on Typhoon. Remember scanning. FUCK! Hurricane on scan! Keep guns on thrasher. Steady. Hurricane lands on grid. Calm, now, keep it calm. Target hurricane. Thrasher going down! FUCK YEAH! Hurricane is... What? Warping off? Warping off!

His backup has left! My backup is about to arrive. Weapons back on Typhoon.

Come on baby, light my fire

Come on baby, light my fire
Try to set the night on fire, yeah

Epilogue:

Shortly after this incident I found myself with a bounty of 100 million ISK attached to my head. I hate the feeling of waking up in a fresh clone, but for 100 million ISK I could manage a bit of headache and a moustache full of that sticky clone vat goo. And, as you might have picked up from different news sources, the bureaucrats in CONCORD are making a whole lot of new laws across New Eden and the bounty system is about to change. Finally it will be worthwhile hunting other capsuleers for theit bounty – not just letting your own associates collecting your frozen corpse and the ISK attached to it. So, I am now deployed in 0.0 space hunting the Angel Cartel on behalf of CONCORD, making some small amounts of ISK, but more importantly: Slowly getting into CONCORD’s good books – one kill at a time. High security space, be prepared for the return of the most sexy moustache in New Eden!

Only missing a moustache. Jim Morrison, famous ancient terran singer. Never seen in a spaceship, but was supposedly observed "very high".

Lyrics from "Light my Fire" by the ancient terran rock band called The Doors. This was supposedly their first big hit from the debut album named “The Doors”.

By the way, you might have heard the The New Eden cover band, “The Stargates”, playing their tunes, but they really don’t represent The Doors’ music with the respect they deserve – you need that ancient terran organic instruments to get the real sound. So, find some run down terran artifact shop in your local star system and dig up some old time recordings played on real instruments, kid.

The Voyeur

Five registered capsuleers in the local communications channel. Not including myself. Only three ships found by a directional scan around the main clusters of celestials. No stations. Two Drake-class battlecruisers hunting the local belt pirates on CONCORD salary. One Jaguar-class assault ship somewhere unknown. And me. In an Enyo. With active tanking, an energy vampire installed and a cargo hold full of the Federation’s finest antimatter charges. It is time to save the local belt inhabitants from the CONCORD-sponsored Drakes. My Enyo – will it handle two Drakes? And is that Jaguar a mate of them? And finally: That last pilot that has not been accounted for. 

I'm gonna poke you in the eye with this, OK?

The known unknown.

As I land among the asteroids, the two Drakes align out, but only one is allowed to turn his warp drive, the other one is swiftly scrambled. My neutron blasters start the elaborate task of overcoming the battlecruisers shields.

Will the other Drake return?

I am settling for a tight orbit and send a warm “thank you” to the Drake pilot for either forgetting the drones in his hanger or just forgetting to launch them.

“Planet X, Asteroid Belt 1. I could need a hand!”

The other Drake pilot leaves system. So they were not buddies then. Or at least not anymore, I guess. Friendship – such a fragile concept among capsuleers. But when will the Jaguar poke it’s nose into this belt? Will someone come to his aid?

The Drake’s shields are struggling under my relentless neutron blasters. We are getting closer to the point of no recharge. Time to fire up some heat. The shields crumbles. It will soon be over.

Smelling a dying ship, the Jaguar finally makes an appearance. Crouching at 50 kilometers off, he is ready to attack. The Drake is in deep structure as the big cat leaps towards my Enyo. It all happens very fast now, and yet it seems like slow motion. I finish off the Drake and make a hard left at maximum overheated afterburner speed straight towards the newly arrived predator. Targeting systems going wild. Warning sounds ringing in my ears, the scrambler has been enabled, the turrets turn and fire, webifier applied, vampire sucking from his capacitor, repair systems ready and preheated. The battle is violent. Big chunks of twisted metal litters the field.

Rapier uncloaks. The known unknown is now very much known.

I overheat my brain and hurl my Enyo into alignment towards the first celestial object I can get a navigational lock on. My guns are still working on the Jaguar that is going down fast. No targeting from the Rapier still. Jaguar explode. And I am screaming “WARP!” even though no-one can hear me through the pod fluids.

The warp tunnel has never been so beautiful. So quiet. So perfect.

Then silence was broken by a message coming through the system wide communications channel. The pilot of the wreck formerly known as a Jaguar address me:

“Kill the rapier and i will be impressed”
I grin and reply:
“I ran”

Then a sparkling sound and the Rapier-pilot joins the conversation.

“I was just there to help incase he wouldn’t get his one versus one fight. I was already watching the fight. I could have ruined the party”

I guess some like to watch.

Epilogue: The official kill report from the incident shows that the Rapier actually helped me with the Jaguar that arrived. I also got the loot later on as the Rapier pilot left the wrecks untouched.

(This log entry has previously been published at The Fighter at the Gates of Hell.)

Bad Facial Hair Day

"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.

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.

That fresh out-of-the-pod feeling.

This log entry has earlier been published at the collaborative space log known as The Fighter at the Gates of Hell.

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.

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

1001: A Space Odyssey

Today the largest public tracking of spaceship kills in New Eden, The BattleClinic Killboard, ranked yours truly as #1001.

Breaking the top 1000 has been a long term goal of mine for a while now and I am chasing it like a madman these days.

I’ll be back for further log entries soon, but I have work to do!

Saftsuze And His League of Extraordinary Scumbags

So. There is not much to report from my space travels. The past month has been a rather expensive one in terms of losses and it is mostly due to stupidity, complacency and a bit of burn out. On the good side: I have done some excellent office work this month showing me record high profits on my market activities! As much as I like to make wrecks in space, I too have to make this lifestyle possible by keeping a constant flow of ISK into my coffers, so I thought I would share some of my strategies for managing my wallet.

I make my ISK in different ways. Here they are, in the order of how fun I think it is:

1. Loot from other players. Obviously, this is the best way to make ISK as someone's ship has to explode.
2. Ransoms. This is the next best, as I feel so sexy when others hand me their ISK at gunpoint.
3. Trading. This is OK, since it is actually a bit challenging, and not so time consuming, and also it is other people’s ISK that end up in my wallet. As you probably understand now: I like other people’s ISK.
4. Planetary production. I always forget to follow up my facilities planet side. But sometimes I remember and I make a few millions of it here and there.
5. Stealing. I stole around two billions from a corp in my early days as I was fascinated by this possible avenue of profit. I am trying again, but it is so boring to spend time in an anti-pirate industrial corporation gaining trust, so I am not sure I see this one through. But I do like other people’s ISK...
6. Mission running and mining. This is something I do in the corp I am trying to steal from. Yes, I sometimes even enjoy it if I am particularly bored and tired.

For all these activities I have three active training licences for capsuleers and have hired several associates under these licenses. Here are my gang of scumbags:

Mr. Trader. My fence and main trader. Has a lot of the trading skills maxed out and flies transport ships. I contract all my scattered loot to him and he now and then makes a huge pick up round, then sort out the useful modules and contract them to Mr. Shopper. The rest he sells on the market. He is also a legit trader and my main source of income.

Mr. Shopper. Flies an Orca and transport ships. Runs some planetary facilities, but apart from that his main purpose is to spend ISK on ships and modules I want, and then deliver them to me. By keeping my trading activities and shopping needs split between these two associates I have a very good idea of my profit margin on my trader, and how much ISK I have for splurging.

Mr. Mission Runner & Miner. He is the one who did the big heist that kept me floating in my early days. A bad man. But I am considering relieving him of his dark and deceitful orders as it is very time consuming. Well, nothing much more to say about him. He flies everything from industrials, exhumers and combat ships.

Mr. Junior Trader. He is a completely untrained capsuleer, but he has the ability to use five market orders. So he can effectively station trade without any training. Has made me maybe 200 millions in a few months with very little effort.

So there you have it. I have a few other capsuleers contracted under my current licences, but they are not involved in wallet management, so they have not been mentioned here. It has taken some time, but finally I feel I have some control on my ISK situation and the infrastructure in place for a rather nomadic scumbag life.

Now. Let’s buckle up for some more exploding spaceships this month. Preferably not mine.