EVE Fiction

It's fascinating really, what can and cannot rouse the most feral of urges within ones being, how sentimental and attatched you can become to a few hundred thousand tonnes of metal, and yet not blink at the thought of the crew who were vaporised in its untimely destruction. What such occurences will drive you to is something I have had a great deal of time to think about.

Mothers Ruin, a repaired and repurposed, virtually rebuilt Vexor. A measly T1 Cruiser, but my god what a ship, running petty errands back and forth for generic and faceless agents, plowing through waves of gormless pirate scum. Now she is nothing more than a mass of smouldering scrap.

The bastards warped in just after I popped the last pirate cruiser, and I was being reckless, letting them eat into my hull despite the armour repairer and the technicians best efforts. The idea to see about salvaging for armour rig components had crossed my mind as three ships appeared in my overview.

The auditory warning that I was being locked wasn't notice enough as I was dapmened down, my drones sat idly in space unable to heed my commands through EWAR interference, my turrets as useless as my own targeting systems become as blind as my own body within it's capsule.

I sit their in space a useless mass of metal, waiting for the EWAR jamming to receed enough so that I can recieve the customary ransom request I have heard so much about, I even use my neocom to check my local transaction history to try and work out what I could afford.

there was no need, and no warning.

Artillery obliterated what was left of the ship almost as quickly as I realised I was being fired upon, my miniscule capsule riding a wave of destructive energy like a demented surfer as I despeperately let my conciousness flow into the smaller presence of the pod, willing it to align to anything. Again my efforts were too little, too late. I found my capsule in the grasp of a warp scrambler, and patiently awaited the phsychosomatic disconnect between being here, and then waking up in a new body, my mental state arriving in a prepared clone, decades before the feint light of my temporary demise glitters on the station I'll wake up in.

But instead all I heard was laughing. My attackors wanted an audience apparently, closing onto the wreck of Mothers Ruin and delighted in mocking my fittings on the common band, wondering what I was doing all the way out here all on my own, apparently the other wrecks I had gone to the trouble of supplying them with were of no interest though, the simply waited with me, trapped as I was, unti one by one the fragile husks of the ships I had destroyed, and their meagre holdings, succumbed to space, and collapsed.

Soon enough though, their humour tickled and their obscure desire to irk one of their own sated, I was alone again. still alive, still in my pod, and still a long way from a ship or secure space, my comms restored I recieve a message from the SCC stating that my insurance had expired. . . And I heard their laughing again.

Those three names stayed in my mind every time I undocked, each time I jumped through a gate, every time I decanted from my capsule in station and walked amongst my kin, meeting old friends, making new ones, but never did their names or faces appear again.

The great leveler I am assured, is the simple fact that everyone from Gallente to ammarian, the lowliest ore refiner, to even us, capsuleers, envoys to the stars no less, is that we all have to sit down to ****.

Perhaps a few too many drinks after this enlightening fact was given to me by an old trading aquaintance I had ran into, considering this fact whilst proving it to be true, I hear a grating, gravely voice echo through the ablutions.

I quickly finish my business, fumbling with my belt as I try to push the door open to my stall, befor eremember ing I need to pull it, and before me is are the heavy set features of one of the three, an Ammarian I think, although he could be a Jove and I would get it wrong in the state I am in.

He takes a second look at me, deja vu would have be bourn across his face had he one; known what that was, and two; had enough time before I drove the point of my nylon knife into the crown of his head, a silly little thing I kept on me just in case, must metal scanners these places use wouldn;t even notice it.

The poor bastards face was a picture of suprise. As he lands I do him the courtesy of putting an ear to his head and just make out the sound of the capacitor winding down from his integral neural scanner.

After retreiving my knife and washing it off, replacing it in its concealed sheath, and realising just how much sober I felt, I turned to leave in time to see the other two of my auspicious trio appear. again, suprise is on thier faces.

"Awfully sorry, old business and all that chaps. Where is his clone waking up?" I ask the dumfounded pair.

They look to eachother and with a grunt turn to leave. I would normally follow suit, but instead head to my friend at the bar to finish my drink, and maybe have an other, apparently I've just recieved a sizeable bounty.