EVE Fiction

Submitted for the "A day in the life" Catagory.


A Game of Fedo

by

Kyle Yanowski





"Of all of the Amarrian hells, how long was I out?"

I am gripping the side of my head as I stare blankly at the motley crew at my table. They are all laughing hysterically. I don't know why.

"Are we in Jita?" I ask with genuine concern as they erupt into another round of hilarity.

My head is pounding as a few moments of the last hour creep into my brain pan. I concentrate harder, trying desperately to remember just what in the hell happened. I close my eyes, and see a hand, Horus Shorishi’s hand, bright lights, and then the tritanium floor of the shuttle’s in house dive bar.

"Horus, what did you do to me" I query, still clutching my favorite head.

" I hit you." He says nonchalantly.

"Well I ******* know that! Did you get it on holo-vid?"

They all start laughing again. Just when I am about to succumb to the fact that the hour of my life, the missing hour, will remain forever in the abyss, Kirgan Neechols spins around and faces me from the corner seat of dive bar’s only windowed booth.

"Are you sure you're alright?"

"Yes."

"Do you know where you are?"

"Of course, Jita."

He starts laughing again and informs me that we were in the Jita system about 30 minutes ago and that I had been asking the same 2 questions every 30 seconds since we jumped into New Caldari. I still don't know what happened.

---

"The concept of the game is simple. If you are caught drinking with your right hand, you can be called out by anyone drinking with you. When you hear the word, "Fedo" you have one minute to finish the drink in your hand, no matter how big, if it is a double or single, or how strong it is. The scum bag who then caught you, gets to punch in you in the face."

"I'm in, lets play." I shout with a cheery smile. "I'm going to be a cheap date, but I'll be damned if one of you can catch me"


"Fedo." says Horus Shorishi with a toothy grin. Horus is a rugged sort, soft spoken, but when he opens his mouth, people tend to stop and listen.

I look down, and sure as hell, there is a double of some noxious substance that was brewed in the cargo bay of the shuttle.

"Son of a slaver." I huff as I chug the drink to the last drop. I look at Horus and begin sizing him up. Weighing in at 230 pounds, it is no wonder why he had developed a reputation for being one of hardest hitters in the Militia. I should know, I once saw him punch through the wall of one them capsuleer pods. Or at least, that’s how the story goes…

We stammer out our filthy little corner of the bar and onto the makeshift dance floor. I holler to Kirgan to hold my hat and catch me after the blow. I pivot around and hold my chin up high.

"Ok Horus, you better not hit like a bloody wo---"

---

The celestials are passing faster as I take notice of the local flair in the Liekuri system. The surrounding planets are a mixture of Temperate dwarf worlds as well as several crater pocked moons. The cone of the warp stream darkens with each new planet we pass through. Black. Blacker. Cold. A metaphorical winter has reached The Forge region. I shake the daydream from my thoughts and continue the interrogation of my posse.

"Let me get this straight, after you hit me, my cigarette fell out of my lip as my legs gave out. Then, after 10 seconds of writhing about on that stained dance floor over there, I pulled another box of cigs and put in, yet another cigarette, all the while not even knowing my own name."

"That's about right"

"Well at least I knew what my priorities were."

"Don't forget about the part of asking the same question over and over for 30 minutes."

"How could I forget."

I shift my vision to outside the booth window. Space had given way to the slash, burn, and clear cutting hand of man. Stations with strip malls and restaurants as far as the augmented eye can see. Luckily my vision is still a bit blurry from the heavy hand of my friend, otherwise I might take offense. I notice my own reflection in the greasy booth window. I gaze long and hard at the contours of my face, the gnarly beard, the black hair. Words of Otro Gariushi begin swirling around in my bludgeoned cranium.

"He has a violent death in his face. But, I hope, no danger of disintegration."