EVE Fiction

space-entry-one-year-unknown

I sigh as I was driven awake yet again by the sounds of the station's test engine calibration. My lone silent hangar. A single bedroom big enough for a single spring mattress, a fuzzy tele for the local space news and my favorite morning brandy, Jim Nova. Unable to help myself I indulge for the moment and wonder which burns worse, the sweat in my eyes after being brought back into this abyss or the sudden smack of bitter taste so wrapped around my esophagus' loins.

I've no window in this rusty canteen I call home. No, that privilege is saved for the more lavish. The ones whom employ themselves in voluntary kissing of the emperors ring. Maybe in exchange for a couple shiny dog tags and a little demanded pseudo-respect. Dear lord. There's nothing out there to look at anyway besides a handful of dim stars in a rather uneventful sky and a couple floating rocks that given the chance would pull you and your ship in to use as fertilizer.

I'd like to just rest here and wallow in my drink, but this crap pod wont pay for itself. Luckily I came here on a friendly whim. An agent who decided to recommend me work in middle sec space. I may finally be able to get a decent nights rest and with the grace of the gods find myself a vacant residence in high sec. I heard the stations there are lined with fine soft silks with brandy flowing on tap in every room. Now that's a thought with merit and a dream worth waking to.

ps. I just remembered I need to register a new fuel card with the local high heads. I don't know what's worse. Having to bribe these royal peasants for some basic service or having to surrender my time to their degenerate stories about life in the pod and local space weather. I'm going with neither. Space has no compromise. fmsl