Intergalactic Summit

Admittedly, I've done deeds that others would consider abhorrent. I've also been subject to deeds that others would consider abhorrent. However, after 12,000 deaths you start to understand what is a preferable way to die and what isn't. I've had my head removed by plasma coated blades, I've been hit by 80GJ Compressed Railguns (you don't feel it), and I've felt what it is like to hold a Locus Grenade in the hand for too long.

Let me say that it is grating on the ears to constantly hear the same notices. 'Suicide is strictly prohibited in public areas', and 'Combat clones are prohibited from entering public areas'. There are people who say that infantry clones are... insane. Which, if you were forced to listen to those same berating, computerized tones every waking hour of your existence, you might be a little edgy yourself.

So what I've come here for is a confession, of sorts. Not out of some misguided sense of morality or because I'm trying to convert after a multitude of contracts with the Imperial Marines, no. This confession is simply one to address a question I've been asked frequently and I'm tired of repeating the answer.

Veal, if you must know. It tastes like veal. Though not akin to the veal that has been raised exclusively on Amarrian Wheat (yes, I've had that as well). You spend enough time with the Imperial Marines and eventually you taste some of the fine dining (I use that term loosely) that they seem to love so much. I digress - it just tastes like generic veal.

To elaborate on the story, it was a particularly drawn out battle in which the enemy simply never arrived. Their convoy was intercepted or they simply decided not to show, it doesn't matter - we were bored. There were perhaps eleven of us on post that day and one of them had the grand idea to put a round in the back of my head. The clone was there, we were there, it just happened. So as far as the twisted activities I have performed while on contract, that was probably in the top ten. The worst involves a rather embarrassing amount of my own dead clones and an airlock but that is a story for another day.

Chicken.

The clone. Well, my clone.... me. Listen, I'm not about that life anymore.

Finally, someone that understands my sense of humor. What do you say you and I go hand out Rail Rifles to the local populace and watch them break their arms trying to fire it?

You know you love it.

Oh.