EVE Fiction

I'll go on the record right now stating that I don't know the lore very well (or really, at all yet) and have only played the game for a couple of months. Someone in-game asked me what the background of my pilot was, and about twenty minutes later I had the below ramble.

Please forgive me for the myriad of technical errors or lore-murdering ideas that probably exist in there.

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Entry 0001

My name is Catastrophe Bloom. This diary is not my idea.
Computer psych-programs think they have an answer to everything, and this is apparently the answer for me. Or so they say. I'm supposed to make entries into this thing constantly, in the hopes that it organizes my mind and settles me into the new universe I've found myself in.

History – we all have one, but mine is pretty average. Two parents, who lived normal lives and who did not die under tragic circumstances. I know, it would be a better story if they were murdered by Caldari spies or even lost in a tragic accident but they lived as regular folk doing regular things.

They were both miners at an ore-working down on Clellinon VI. I grew up on the fringes of the mining colony, my sister and I chasing each other up and down the cracked and broken rock surface, occasionally finding bits of melted slag-ore that shone or twinkled. Of course, sometimes playing in rocks turns to throwing them, and we each had our fair share of bruises some days. It's a sister thing.

My sister – Calamity – was always fascinated with the stars. She would always be hogging computer uplink time, poring over news of star systems far away and peoples we would never meet. That fascination led her to the Self-Start educational program in the Clellinon system - government run studies for those with an interest in life beyond the atmosphere.

Not me though. Like my parents, I had no further ambition than the mines. They were dangerous, but not as dangerous as allowing your body to be riddled with cybernetic implants in order to become a Capsuleer in the depths of cold space. They were hard work, sure, but I never minded that.

Couldn't consider myself to be a scholar – not like Calamity, anyway – but I could learn fast enough to pick up the skills and talents I needed to go underground and operate the mining rigs. While Calamity set her sights on the heavens, my eyes turned to the hard rock and practical ores of the earth beneath our feet. My future was to be a good one – hard, but good.

I was sixteen when our parents took us aside, serious expressions with a hint of what I now recognize as resignation. The mines, they said, were closing. The time spent underground, the ISK outlay for ore returned, were miniscule compared to the plethora of asteroids that could be mined cheaper, faster and with less manpower. We were, in essence, out of employment.

There were two options available to us. Firstly, we could find new careers in new vocations. For my parents – and for me – that was unthinkable. We were miners, damn it, ore was in our blood, sweat and tears. The second option was repugnant as well – submit to the medical monstrosities that would develop our bodies into Capsuleers. All that would take was money, and a willingness to violate our bodies with technology.

Tears and angry words were said – to be honest, they were my words, their tears. The idea of space, of Capsuleers, of changing the life we'd comfortably led for so long was an anathema to me. I recoiled at the idea, begged my parents to reconsider. Calamity tried to help, explaining the benefits that included ever-living consciousness in a series of clones that meant one could live forever, see the sights of the entire universe if willing. I was harsh with her, too. All she could see, I thought, was space. Stars in her eyes and a smile on her face at the future that had been stolen from us.

First my father, then my mother each underwent the procedure. When they returned home, they looked no different, behaved no different, yet to me they weren't the same people any more. They were enhanced – or burdened - with cybernetic implants. Wires, circuitry and computer chips in their heads and a variety of internal changes made for the efficient care of a Capsuleer in their craft. Outwardly, they were my parents. Inside though? I don't know.

Then came the third shock – after losing my planned future and the medical changes within my parents, they sat us down again and explained that they were each taking a ship and going separate ways. They had purchased two mining craft – cheap, but reliable ships called Ventures – but each one only carried one pilot – the Capsuleer. Additional crew were minimal and came with the ship already trained and able to do their jobs. My sister and I were to be left behind.

Calamity, of course, already knew this. Her studies on space and Capsuleers had prepared her for this. It was news to me, and the next shock came right out of left field – we were to be put in stasis until they returned.

I won't bore this diary with the screaming-fest that occurred when I heard THAT news. Although the psych program will want me to expand on it, I'm sure, I'll just say that I reacted worse than they had hoped. In the end though, my objections were futile. We were not of age, and so could not legally live without guardian supervision and looking back the choices were either to hand us off to a neighbour who probably couldn't afford to keep us anyway, or stick us in the freezer until their mining expedition bore fruit.

The last thing I said to the two people who still claimed parenthood was this:

“Don't wake me up. Let me sleep forever.”

I have a feeling they seriously considered it.

(continued below)

This was pretty well written. I hope you will consider writing some more

Aw, well thanks both of you! :) To be honest, I hadn't thought much about taking it forward from here, but I might see what I can work up. Anything new that I do at this point will show a woeful disregard for learning the lore. ;)

I'm not sure I've ever been more imaginatively stimulated in my life. Esspecially not about eve. Really felt genuinely irritated at the short mustache man for giving you mood altering implants for profitability. That's just a greedy guy right there. Probably one of those damned Ammarians...

Anyways, yeah I'm aware that this is a fictional thread but I will be dammed if I don't enjoy thinking like this. Pease do more. I'm not opposed to paying isk if you need it. Purely a well written story in my eyes.

Thank you for this.