EVE Fiction

Occurred to me just now this must have gotten eaten (as the old forums seem missing, and as I've rage-resubbed.. don't ask) I'll re-post.

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No one liked going into the bridge on board the Anathema 'Good Omens'. It was normal protocol - required, of course - but that didn't make it any more comfortable for anyone, no matter how many times they had done it. If one was not careful and focused it could reduce the bravest man to memories of a softer childhood and the closet in which an unseen monster hid, filling the darkness with unshapable fears. Even if this closet was in the house of his wildest dreams - even if this monster never revealed itself - it did not reduce the sense of apprehension.

Lorien Pehin, along with the rest of the crew, had recently been assigned to the covert-ops frigate. There was no discussion or information as to what has happened to the person previously in the post he now filled, or any of the previous crew. Often whispered to him before his assignment offworld were the horror stories about serving Capsuleers in space, the nightmares that wildly contradicted the near impossible dream to see the stars, the two opposing ideas only sharing the trait of being nearly inconcievable in their truth. Though these stories did not deter him from his decision to serve aboard a starship, because of them he wisely decided to not let himself try and imagine who walked the halls before he did. However, the 'Good Omens' seemed to be aptly named, and the assignment to her crew compliment was a confusing blessing that he quietly thanked God for before every sleep-period.

The vessel was travelling solely in CONCORD patrolled Empire territory, and as of yet, the target-lock sirens had yet to scream through its halls while he was aboard. For an engineer who specialized in cloaking technology, especially with his high marks, there were unequivocally far worse possibilities of where he could have ended up - in this situation, his position on the crew felt oddly superfluous. For the past four weeks everything had been calm for him, almost comfortable; most of his time spent running diagnostics for a cloaking system only occasionally used to travel to anomalous signatures in space for quiet reconnoissance, or at random other times that seemed to serve no purpose.

Though station leave was not allowed for the crew of the Good Omens, commodities were brought aboard with a clockwork regularity. Messages were allowed to be sent out and recieved for those who communicated with anyone planet or stationside somewhere in the Empire and, for the most part, they had no need be censored as they truly had nothing more signifigant to relate than personal, day to day information. The small crew told jokes over meals - within proper limits, of course - and everyone got along beyond professional necessity.

It was far less stressful and horror-filled than the recruiting officers - and everything else - had led him to believe serving on a capsuleer's vessel would be. It was almost enough to entertain the idea that he could actually survive this assignment and be one of the rare people who could call themselves veterans. He had only dreamt to be among the stars, to watch 'his' fittings functioning as intended, to serve his Empire; even thinking of a life beyond that was more than he had ever asked for.

The intricacies of what needed to be done on the bridge were rote to Lorien, and it would have been considered one of the more relaxing parts of his job - if it was possible to ignore the hulking, contoured presence of the capsule. Heavy bulkheads curved snugly around its ejection port, and the collection of armored wiring channels and un-labelled control stations that recieved its signals dominated most of the room. There was a lifeless mechanical hum in the air here, and though the interior of an Anathema as a whole wasn't what would be considered 'homely' in a planetside fashion, this room sharply contrasted even that by being little more than unadorned metal and consoles. Gangplanks curved the room to the mannable auxilliary stations, and directional spotlighting that had lit when he entered brightened only what was necessary, leaving the bridge more shadows than light. This room was not meant to be optimal to the senses, and primarily served only one purpose.

Of course, though, the room was far from lifeless. There was a life here - through that thick capsule wall that dominated the room was a person. This was, of course, if one still considered an Capsuleer - he almost couldn't even bring his mind to conjure up the term 'egger' - a proper person. The general consensus was that there was not much humanity left in them. Some even whispered that capsuleers had forsaken their very souls - and only if it was discussed kindly of Amarr pilots would it be said it was done as the ultimate sacrifice for the Empire.

What could actually survive the process that made them into what they were, to live on as anything more than simply a biological fitting to crown the rest of the ship's complicated sensors and equipment? A stream of data implanted into clone after clone, and wedged in between those massive amounts of data necessary to operate a starship, the echo of a personality with aspirations, hopes, dreams? If stories and rumors of the actions of capsuleers told anything, the answer to what survived was 'very little'. It was true they could come out of their capsules, but what came out was not someone you wanted to meet.

Lorien finished his reviews of the consoles, and it took every nerve to leave the bridge with a calm, controlled stride. The directional lighting thoughtfully extinguished itself as he crossed the threshold, returning the bridge to darkness through the bulkhead door behind him.

He walked to the central data terminal in a daze, fingers gliding over the smooth surface as he flawlessly entered his report. He then pulled a set of tabs connected to a zipcord on his uniform and swiped each tag in sequence, finalizing the data entry for the inspection. At this point a polite chime echoed through the halls of the frigate, a non-verbal announcement of shipwide orders having been delivered, followed by a secondary chime that signalled the start of the division one sleep-cycle. He was in division one, the chime was at least two hours earlier than the group of six men in the would have normally gone to sleep.

He could have gone to the small lounge, to try and wind down for a few minutes, perhaps have a chat with the probe engineers. His feet instead took him to his quarters.

He would not let himself think about the brief conversation as he stretched in his bunk, the shipwide orders scrolling across the wall mounted monitor, lighting the currently darkened quarters with a pleasant amber glow, each word a reassuring candle. For 'tonight', he had to leave the door to the closet on Good Omens firmly closed, for his own sanity.
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(It's unfortunately written in fits and starts. :/ I started it um.. last.. May/June ... another couple weeks back in deepspace and I may some up with something more. ;) )