Their ground transport thundered along the rough terrain, bumping its occupants freely, despite their secured harnesses. It had been a long and uneventful mission thus far, and they were all starting to show signs of fatigue.

The unit commander knew that sometimes the key to maintaining high spirited team morale was humour at the expense of others… particularly civvies.

—

“Attention passengers. The 8:14 express train heading West to Union is experiencing ‘equipment issues’ and will be delayed indefinitely. We will keep you informed of its status as we learn more. Thank you for riding with Interbus.”

He grumbled to himself, standing on the platform, as did many of the other waiting commuters. Some of them went to another track, to take the local “all stops” train, which sadly stopped short of his destination.

What the hell, he thought to himself. I might still make the connecting train since the express train won’t be showing up anytime soon.

52 minutes later, with 3 minutes to spare, the local “all stops” arrived in Union station. The conductor thanked everyone for using InterBus, and wished them a pleasant day, apologizing for any inconvenience their delay might have caused. What he didn’t mention was the platform number for those passengers wishing to continue West, and by the time Gunnery Sergeant Lance Degan ran downstairs to the nearest digital schedule board, the connecting train had left.

He didn’t get angry, as many would do. Instead, he thought of how funny civilian life could be, watching other delayed passengers venting their frustration on some minimum wage customer service representative.

His mind drifted, as he smiled, creating ironic parallels to his military life.

“What do you mean ‘equipment issues’?”, the unit commander screamed through the secured comm line. “You had one job, pilot, and that was to make sure you and your effin’ ship were here at 8:14 exactly for this operation. There are lives on the line, and we have a small window of opportunity to execute this run. Late is not acceptable. Do I make myself clear?”

The pilot on the other end responded cooly. “I’m sorry, sir, but it is what it is. I can have another ship there within the hour. I apologize for any inconvenience this may have caused.”

Could you imagine? the gunnery sergeant thought to himself. His unit commander would blow a gasket.

Civilians. They thought themselves so important. So they were fifteen minutes late for work. It was almost as if their ultimately meaningless jobs were somehow of universal importance. “You don’t understand! If I don’t get that report written fifteen minutes earlier, all of Minmatar space will implode!”

He chuckled.

Civvies… can’t live with ‘em, can’t kill ‘em.

—

She waited in the doctor’s office for four bloody hours before he finally was available to see her. Four hours! What the hell was the point of even making an appointment if he was going to be late by four hours? Could she bill him for that lost time? Of course not. It was ridiculous really.

Lance Corporal Sheila Gates had plenty of time in the waiting room to spin many stories about the doctor in her mind.

“Requesting immediate assistance! Ground Sector C has sustained serious damage. Send all evac teams stat!” the Dispatch Officer relayed through her team’s helmets. Lance Corporal Sheila Gates gave the orders, and her team mobilized on foot. The debris from the bombings was too perilous for even their ATVs to negotiate.

They ran from street to street, covering each other, helping injured civilians along the way. The dead they left where they were found, there was no time for field cremations today.

“Help… help me.” she heard faintly, and immediately turned her attention to the wounded man she could see partially obscured beneath nearby building rubble.

With a hand gesture, her team mate covered her back, and she raced forward, coming face to face with her own personal physician.

“I.. I can’t move.” he said, clearly in shock. ” Help me. I’m in so much pain.” he croaked.

“This is Lance Corporal Sheila Gates, requiring immediate medivac on my location. Flare is up, lock into my position. I repeat, this is high priority alpha clearance.”

She let her helmet sound system play externally, hoping that the sound of help coming shortly would reassure the doctor laying wounded in front of her. Sometimes, that’s all that was needed, a comforting word.

“Negative Lance Corporal. We’re backed up here. Best we can do is … say 4 hours?”

Sheila shrugged.

“Sorry doc.”

—

Teran Race looked in his rearview mirror again at the man leaning on his vehicle’s horn, swearing silently behind his windshield, his hands flailing wildly at being delayed.

Teran looked forward again, at the line of cars completely stopped in front of him, wondering where exactly this road raging moron expected him to go?

The sound of the horn was causing his ears to ring.

He sighed. There were far too many things civvies felt falsely empowered about.

The convoy of military vehicles had come to a stop unexpectedly. They were travelling in the dead of night through open enemy territory, trying to minimize their presence.

Lieutenant Commander Teran Race was the driver of the rearmost vehicle. “C’mon already!” he muttered to himself, being the sole occupant of the vehicle. “What? Is there a red light out here? Get moving!”

He leaned on the horn, blissfully ignorant to its piercing and echoing throughout the night time landscape. Again and again he pushed the horn, knowing that if he used his horn enough, the vehicles would magically be on their way again. Such was the power of the horn.

He saw the C.O. of the mission, along with two MPs running towards him, and was thankful. At least now he’d find out what idiot was delaying things. Don’t people know how important it is that they keep moving that extra thirty seconds?

One MP yanked open his door, as the C.O. and the remaining MP yanked him from his vehicle, quickly pinning him to the ground, pulling his arms behind his back, and securing him in cuffs.

“What the bloody effin’ hell?” Taren screamed, only to be quickly muffled by a makeshift gag.

The C.O.’s gaze was venmous, but before he could speak, there was a high pitched whine.

“Cover!” the C.O. yelled before the night sky turned white around them all, the enemy having pinpointed their location with ease.

Yeah, civvies were idiots. Taren thought to himself, looking in his rearview mirror. Guy would probably shit himself if I got out of my car.

Teran wasn’t in a hurry. Maybe he would just not move his car even when he could, or maybe he would back up first, making sure the vehicle behind him couldn’t even get around. He wasn’t sure. Whatever he chose, he was confident it would brighten his day with a smile.

—

“But I’ve been waiting seven minutes for my order!” the small man shouted at the nightshift manager of the fast food restaurant. “I have better things to do than wait seven minutes for my meal!” he raged.

And yet you can waste more time berating these underpaid workers that couldn’t give a rat’s ass about your life, and will probably spit in your meal now, you dumb shit? Evella thought to herself.

Not only was this buffoon making a spectacle of himself, but it was causing the other workers to be distracted thereby delaying everyone’s orders. Nicely done. Feel special now? You’re the center of attention. All for $3.99.

She took a deep breath, and exhaled slowly. Civilians; they really just don’t get it at all.

“I want my rations now!” the recruit screamed, bordering on a full-fledged tantrum. “I don’t care if lunch isn’t for seven more minutes, I’m hungry now!”

Matar Colonel Roc Wieler stormed across the hangar bay floor plating, his long stride bringing him to bear on the young pilot quickly.

“Pilot, what is the problem here?” the Colonel growled.

“Lunch isn’t for seven minutes, but I don’t want to wait that long. I want to eat now.” the pilot said defiantly.

Colonel Wieler stood fully erect, his shoulders pulling back, making his already broad and muscular shoulders even more menacing. The other pilots, who had moments before been standing around the new recruit, had quickly and instinctively backed away.

“Really?” the Colonel said, with obvious sarcasm lost on the young recruit.

“Yes.. yessir!” the pilot said, hope in his voice.

The silence stretched on. Not a soul breathed, blinked or dared to move.

Finally, the Colonel kneeled down and began untying his boot lace.

The young recruit began to speak, but the Colonel silenced him by simply extending his index finger, and when the new recruit was silent, continued untying his boot laces, slowly and methodically.

The new recruit squirmed awkwardly, looking around for support and finding none. He didn’t quite know what to do with himself.

The Colonel took off his untied boot, neatly placing the laces inside.

“Blade Commander Evella!” Roc Wieler snapped, and the recruit jumped reflexively.

“Sir! Yessir!” Evella replied, coming to stand at attention in front of the Colonel.

“Please hold this.” he said, handing her his well-worn but well-shined boot.

“Sir!” she yelled, holding his boot as if it were the most precious object in the universe, and slowly backing away.

The Colonel began flexing his toes underneath his sock, while talking to the noob pilot.

“I want to explain how things work around here, son.” he began. “In our world, I say, you do. That’s how it is. When I say jump, you jump with every ounce of strength you have. When I say run, you run as if the entire Imperial Crusade is chasing you. When I say eat, you eat as if it’s your first and last meal. Do you understand me?”

The young pilot eagerly nodded his head, excited at the prospect of food, momentarily forgetting that the good Colonel was standing in front of him with only one boot.

“I’m glad.” Colonel Wieler continued. “Now you’re probably wondering why I took my boot off. It’s actually to help you learn a very important lesson about patience.”

The young recruit was clearly puzzled.

“You see,” Roc continued. “I once lost my favourite boot. Long story and not important now. But, I learned a lesson from it. We all have lessons we need to learn sometimes. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Again, the pilot nodded vigorously.

“Lunch is in, oh, four minutes now,” he said, looking at his NeoCom. “But you’ll be eating before then, in a matter of speaking.”

The young pilot started to smile, as did the rest of us.

“This foot,” Roc said, pointing downwards, “is going up your ass. Right here, right now. Maybe even ankle deep, depending on just how hungry you are. And if you feel like sitting when I’m done, you’re more than welcome to join us for lunch.”

The new recruit went pale. The rest of us tried to maintain military discipline.

Evella laughed, remembering the rest of that tale, and several customers, including the small man that had still been ranting at the night manager, stared in her direction.

“Seven minutes.” she said, a broad smile on her face. “Seven effin’ minutes.” She was almost in hysterics as she turned and left, leaving behind a great many bewildered strangers.

—

The squad laughed, and the unit commander smiled. Sometimes you just needed to keep morale high.

In real life, they aren’t polite enough to fight one at a time.

I didn’t want to be the one to have to say it. I also couldn’t be the one not to say it.

We were all still new recruits to the Tribal Liberation Force. And while our appearance was uniform, we were as varied as were our life stories, I was sure. Some were younger than others, and some of those young ones had that innocent and naive exuberance that just made those of us not so young cringe inwardly; youthful idealism and all that.

It was mandatory for every pilot in the Tribal Liberation Force to undergo basic hand to hand combat training.

As I mentioned, many were green around the gills, never having experienced anything even remotely akin to physical labour, let alone an up close and personal violent encounter.

I had grown up a slave; fighting was what we did to just survive another week. There was never quite enough food to go around, and while I know it amused the Amarr slavers who “enlightened” us, it reduced us to the lowest rank of animal, turning on one another aggressively, our individual survival paramount even over long friendships. I had heard stories since from other former slaves of a much more civil existence amongst the Amarr, but I attributed that to the drug addiction that was commonplace amongst slave raised capsuleers.

When I had claimed my freedom through the blood of many Amarr, it was through violence. When I killed the pilots of the shuttle I stole to get offplanet, it was through violence. When finally I was recruited by a mercenary group in Hrober, having made my reputation known in that constellation, it was through violence.

I took no pleasure in violence.

Like anything else, it was something to be employed when needed. And like anything else, it made sense to be efficient with the tools we employed.

You wouldn’t find a pod pilot speed tanking a Drake; it just wasn’t a good use of the tool. Similarily, modern “martial arts” fit very nicely into the same analogy.

Which brings us back to the beginning of my story.

I didn’t want to be the one to have to say it. I also couldn’t be the one not to say it.

Our training commander had brought in a special guest to demonstrate to us the rewards of mastering the martial arts through years of discipline and hard work.

His performance included kicking melons from the heads of others, hanging in a perfect split between two chairs, leaping, rolling, screaming, all kinds of acrobatic feats, which while impressive by their own right, just didn’t seem effective to me.

At first I said nothing, merely content to keep my growing disdain to myself.

The “master” had one of his students “choke” him, that is to say, lay his hands on his neck in the loose position of where a choke would occur while applying none of the force to the choke itself. The “master” then proceeded to demonstrate a lengthy and impractical method for countering the “choke”.

This was followed up by a student attempting to “punch” the master, except the punch was directed beside the master’s head, and stopped four inches short of his face, posing no real threat in the first place. The “master” then countered, and did some type of leaping crescent kick at the student, who promptly fell to the floor, as the “master” landed on his feet, took a side stance, and yelled while exhaling, frightening his enemy into submission by the power of his inner “chi”.

Many of my fellow pilots clapped in appreciation for the display. I harumphed, tasting the rising bile of bullshit in the back of my throat; that’s a figurative phrase.

Then the “master” decided to show one of the higher disciplines, not to be treated lightly, and proceeded to engage “multiple opponents”. You’re probably noticing a lot of quotation marks in my draft, and if you aren’t, please look more closely. I really want to make sure you don’t miss any of the sarcasm I am putting into this.

Where was I? Oh yes, multiple opponents. And when I say multiple opponents, what I should say is “five men standing around one man, each waiting their turn to individually attack said man.”

I’ve been attacked by multiple opponents. I’ve laid on the ground, covering up, while they kicked at my ribs, my face, my head, anywhere they could connect boot to body.

In real life, they aren’t polite enough to fight one at a time. Hmmm, that’s going to be today’s Rule for sure.

My corpmates applauded once again, with renewed enthusiasm. I shook my head in disgust, wishing I could go back to my quarters. I’d rather be catching up on some muchly needed sleep than having to sit through that crap.

I chuckle to myself, remembering how undisciplined I used to be. Back to the story.

The “master” then asked for a volunteer…

While others raised their hand, or stood to be acknowledged, I had already pushed my way forward and had surged onto the practice mats.

Some of my corpmates chuckled. My commanding officer frowned, knowing me too well already.

“Spear Lieutenant Wieler, I assume you wish to volunteer?” he barked at me, inciting much laughter.

“SIR! YESSIR!” I said with loud formality, coming to complete attention, demonstrating earnest respect and discipline. He put his gruff face against mine, whispering/spitting into my face.

“You’re gonna be a good soldier, understood? No funny business today, pilot.”

“SIR! YESSIR!” I yelled as loudly as I could. I swear I heard someone fart in the audience they were laughing so hard.

My C.O. walked away, and the “master” bowed towards me, beckoning me to come to him, so I did.

“Chorkuh meh.” he said, and I obliged, bringing my meaty hands up to his throat.

As he smiled, I crushed his throat, not releasing my grip. He dropped like a sack of potatoes, tapping my arm to release. I immediately released him, and helped him to his feet, feigning complete ignorance, as he choked, gagging for air.

“I am SO sorry.” I said, my expression sincere, though inwardly I was laughing my ass off.

“Iz orkay. Re rill movah to nextah demonstation. Trowooh a punchah at my head, Spearooh Rieutenant!” he said calmly, backing into the same side stance he used for most everything.

The problem with side stances, in my opinion, was that they telegraphed your every move. There was no way to surprise someone from that stance. They knew the rear would be the power, the front would be the quick; it was simple biomechanics. The fault in it lay in the hips and shoulders. You didn’t need to look at your opponent; you could see everything they could do simply from looking at their center line.

I preferred a full frontal stance, just casually facing you, hands and feet shoulder width apart. Think about it for a moment. Where would I attack from? Which direction was I going to move? Where was my balance vulnerable? It was a much more difficult read.

The “master” awaited, in his side stance. I approached slowly, and stood casually, waiting. He misinterpreted my hesitation for fear, and as he went to speak, I struck him, hard. I had aimed two feet past the back of his head. The loud crack of fist to face made me fairly certain I had reached my target.

By this time, my corpmates were divided. Half were laughing in hysterics; half were as silent as lambs.

As I turned to smile at my corpmates, I was expecting my C.O. to grab me by the scruff of the neck at any moment, leading me to the nearest latrine and leaving me there for the next month.

Instead, I heard the “master” shout what I think was a challenge. I really had trouble understanding him, and I hope that doesn’t racial in any way, as it wasn’t my intention.

I had turned my back to him, and reactively spun back to face him. It was a rookie mistake.

The “master” kicked me in the head, hard, and I have to admit that given the speed and flexibility required to successfully perform such a feat, I was impressed. It actually hurt, but nowhere near enough to end the fight.

He bounced around, from side to side, and I was tempted to let him tire himself out, but back then I had no control of my emotions whatsoever.

He wore a giddy, child like expression, and I found him infuriating.

I saw his hip twitch, and quickly drove myself forward diagonally towards his opposite hip, his kick moving beside me. With my forward momentum I grabbed his extended leg, putting the heel of my front foot behind his, and drove him into the ground, driving the wind from his lungs and possibly cracking a rib or two. Without missing a heartbeat, I snatched his arm, and bent his elbow against the joint around my knee, which bore my full weight on his chest.It was a perfect joint lock. I could snap him like a twig from here, drive the air from his lungs, or do both while rolling away in case any of his “students” decided to intervene.

He tapped twice.

“That’s enough!” our commanding officer bellowed, and the entire room fell silent.

I immediately released the “master” and stood at full attention, my eyes never resting on anything but the small point of space directly in front of me.

I don’t remember what the C.O. screamed/spat at me. I don’t remember the punishment he had declared. I don’t remember anything but being stoic on the outside, while smiling with pleasure on the inside. I was distinctly pleased with myself for no other reason than having hopefully educated at least one person on the follies of putting foot to face.

It was the last time in my life I gave any credence to any sport with the name “martial art” in it.

As we were summarily dismissed from the practice room, what I failed to notice was a young man staring after me, a look of bewilderment and disillusion in his eyes.

I had left him with questions he didn’t want to know the answers to, but knew he must.I had challenged what he believed he knew about combat, but wasn’t foolish enough to dismiss what he had just seen.

He had been forced into a choice: continue along the path he now knew was false, living in conscious ignorance, or explore the study of biomechanics, of leverage and effective use of force, and pursue an entirely different path.

I would never know what path he chose, this young man. I would never know his name was was Escoce.

There is a very fine line between “hobby” and “mental illness.”

“You’re just wrong. How else can I put it so that you understand? Really, it’s not that hard a concept.” I said sarcastically, my temper only just starting to boil.

“And you’re a hot-headed, stubborn fool of of an oaf that thinks he knows better than everyone else!” Feint snapped back at me.

Involuntarily, the muscles in my shoulders and arms tensed up, and I knew I needed to calm down before saying something I regretted. Jared Feint was a colleague now, a friend of a friend, so to speak.

When I had visited the Gallente Federation months before, and encountered former pirate Hallan Turrek, we had secreted a meeting before our time together had passed.

“Look, Roc, like I said, I don’t support this personal war you have against pirates. Things aren’t black and white; there’s a lot more to piracy then ransoming ships and breaking laws. Piracy offers something for those that think they have lost everything. It gives a sense of identity, of family, to those that thought they would never have those things again. I’m not trying to take the moral high ground and say piracy is good, but at least they abide by a code of conduct not unsimilar to your own!”

He backed down slightly then as he saw me tensing up, knowing I was getting angry. It wasn’t out of fear on Hallan’s part, rather he really wanted to impart something of importance to me, and knew if my mind was clouded with anger I’d miss what he had to give.

“I have a contact in nullsec.” Hallan began, and my curiousity was piqued, diffusing my anger. “He specializes in the Minmatar/Gallente designs, the same ones the Angel Cartel use.”

Hallan definitely had my full attention.

“He says it’s rumoured that the designs of these ships were originally reverse engineered from Jovian tech, and given the way the Cartel hoards technology, I’m inclined to believe him. Anyway, Roc, here’s his info.” Hallan transferred some data to my NeoCom quickly and discreetly.

“I’m not betraying my own people.” Hallan said, standing fully erect, speaking loudly. “I simply believe that all of us, together, can make the needed difference in this universe.”

I had no idea what he was on about, but assumed we were being watched, or tapped, or under surveillance of some kind, regardless of whatever Hallan had done to buy us the short time we had.

I saluted him, and we had gone our separate ways that day.

After having arrived in nullsec only one day prior, I had immediately looked up Hallan’s contact, one Jared Feint. He was difficult to find as I struggled to maintain a low profile, but eventually my inquiries had made their way back to him, and he found me.

After the initial distrust was overcome, we actually got along pretty well. In some ways, he reminded me of a younger version of Sam, but where Sam focused on the science of I’m not sure exactly, Jared was all about his ships, and his talent equaled his passion.

The first thing I had purchased from him (probably for far too many isk, but I didn’t care), was a Dramiel frigate. It’s sex appeal rivaled the Republic Fleet Firetail I so loved, at least in my opinion, and it was of utmost fascination to me to be educated in the nuances of the ship design.

Jared took his time showing me where the Minmatar tech had been combined with Gallente design. He would go over schematics, tear open panels, dismantle entire sections of the ship to show me how it worked. I particularly found the propulsion core systems interesting, as they were completely alien to me in my limited experience, though Jared swore  the technology was Jovian.

I scoffed, brushing away his claims as hubris, which led to our current heated discussion.

“The Jovians aren’t even real! They’re a children’s story meant to frighten, a religious figmentation meant to give hope to those unable to think for themselves.” I was finished with this conversation.

Jared was red in the face with rage. His body shook, his arms stock still at his sides. A single vein wormed its way to the surface skin of his forehead, looking close to escape. I wasn’t worried. He weighed 50 kgs, if he was lucky.

He lifted one hand, pointing a single finger at me, and opened his mouth to speak. After a silent moment, he clamped his mouth shut, turning his head away.

“Look, I’m not knocking what you believe, kid. I’m just telling you that as cutting edge as this frigate looks, it’s just an illusion. A beautiful illusion I’m glad you’ve shared with me, but that’s it.”

Jared Feint walked away, and instinctively I followed. I was just warming up on my rant, and didn’t appreciate my audience cutting me short.

He was quick for such a small man, and I had to skip/shuffle every few steps to keep up. He was on a determined march, and I knew I had hit a nerve.

He rounded a corner, and I saw dozens of technicians working on a draped ship. At a guess, I would’ve said cruiser sized, and while I understood the need for privacy, I would’ve thought being in a private, high security hangar would’ve been enough.

Jared yelled at the crew foreman, waving his arms to get his attention.

There was some gesturing back and forth, but finally it looked like Jared got his point across. The canvas drape fell and what I saw before me shook my beliefs to my core.

It was a Jovian ship.

Jared was beaming from ear to ear, his hands proudly on his hips as he breathed in every moment of my shock. His expression said “I told you so” without ever having to utter a single word.

“How… how is this?” I couldn’t even form a complete sentence.

“It’s a Cynabal, Colonel.” Jared said with pride. “Minmatar pride, Gallente style, Jovian powered. It’s the crowning jewel of the Cartel fleet. I’m risking all our lives showing you this.”

I knew I had to have this ship. It was perfect for the next stage of my mission into pirate infested nullsec territory.

“How much?” I said, unable to pull my eyes from the ship.

Jared waved his arms at me, shaking his head from side to side. “No, no, not for sale. I was just illustrating a point. I wanted you to see for yourself that…”

“How much?” I repeated, more sternly this time, making sure Jared understood that I wasn’t as much asking a question as I was politely telling him to make a profit while he still could.

The smart boy finally picked up on my meaning.

“190 million isk.” Jared said, obviously picking an arbitrary number. To a non-Capsuleer, it was more money than could be imagined. To many capsuleers, it was more than they might have ever seen in their own account though they knew it wasn’t a large amount in the grand scheme of things. To me, it was isk I was happy to part with.

“Done.” I said, and watched with my own smug satisfaction as Jared’s mouth fell open. He, and his crew, and their families, and their friends families, were now all set for life.

“Now”, I said. “Teach me how to fly it.”

“By Wensley’s balls, you’re serious aren’t you?” Jared said, as I put my arm around his shoulder, the two of us walking towards the Cynabal.

Dead serious, I thought to myself, smiling the entire time, Jared and his crew already celebrating their good fortune.

“Now made with 100% real shepherds!” That is how I was going to start this recipe, but regrettably, I couldn’t work the joke in.

A more apt history of how this recipe came to be in my possession was during my initial foray into nullsec. I can still remember rummaging around the food supplies aboard my Vigil frigate, cursing myself for not really taking the time to pack real food; protein paste via pod tube was enough to sustain.

Paste tasted even less appetizing than it sounded, which wasn’t saying much to begin with.

As I laid out the assortment of unrelated food stuffs on the galley counter top, trying to figure out a way to relate the seemingly unrelatable, I was hit with a wave of inspiration, as occasionally occurs.

So for a quick and hearty meal even a Brutor can make, enjoy!

Shepherd’s Pie

INGREDIENTS:

• (1 package) 6.6 ounces instant mashed potatoes
• 1 pound ground beef
• 1 medium onion, chopped
• 1 can (14 1/2 ounces) diced tomatoes, undrained
• 1 can (11 ounces) Mexicorn, drained
• 1 can (2 1/4 ounces) sliced ripe olives, drained
• 1 envelope taco seasoning
• 1 1/2 teaspoons chili powder
• 1/2 teaspoon salt
• 1/8 teaspoon garlic powder
• 1 cup (4 ounces) shredded cheddar cheese, divided

METHOD:

1. Prepare mashed potatoes according to package directions.
2. Meanwhile, in a large skillet, cook beef and onion over medium heat until meat is no longer pink; drain.
3. Add the tomatoes, corn, olives, taco seasoning, chili powder, salt and garlic powder. Bring to a boil.
4. Cook and stir for 1 – 2 minutes.
5. Transfer to a greased 2 1/2 quart baking dish. Top with 3/4 cup cheese.
6. Spread mashed potatoes over the top.
7. Sprinkle with remaining cheese.
8. Bake, uncovered, at 350 degrees for 12 – 15 minutes until cheese is  melted.

Serves 4 – 6 average adults, or 1 hungry Brutor.

It ain’t the jeans that make your butt look fat.

FOR THE FALLEN
LAURENCE BINYONE
SEPTEMBER – 1914

With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children,
England mourns for her dead across the sea.
Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit,
Fallen in the cause of the free.
Solemn the drums thrill; Death august and royal
Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres,
There is music in the midst of desolation
And a glory that shines upon our tears.
They went with songs to the battle, they were young,
Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted;
They fell with their faces to the foe.
They shall not grow old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.
They mingle not with their laughing comrades again;
They sit no more at familiar tables of home;
They have no lot in our labour of the day-time;
They sleep beyond England’s foam.
But where our desires are and our hopes profound,
Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight,
To the innermost heart of their own land they are known
As the stars are known to the Night;
As the stars that shall be bright when we are dust,
Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain;
As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness,
To the end, to the end, they remain.

“Let us never forget those who have fallen in the name of freedom”, Sanmatar Maleatu Shakor began. “Let us never grow too busy, too self-important, to remember the price we’ve paid to even reach this point together.”

The Scope News team had several crews broadcasting the Sanmatar’s Remembrance Day speech, or “Khu-Matar” as it was officially known.

It was one occasion I could not belittle politicians their hidden agendas. It would be an eternal insult to the spirits of those who fought before us, giving their lives for their ideals, as we give ours.

By the end of the Sanmatar’s sombering speech, there wasn’t a dry eye in the live audience assembled in the inner courtyard of the parliament buildings on Pator.

My heart ached, my soul burned. It reminded me of how very proud I was to be Matari.

My thoughts are with all of us in remembrance and thanks, at the 11th hour.

I awoke.

I didn’t know what year it was, let alone what day or what hour.

I was ravenous with hunger. I couldn’t remember the last time I had eaten, but I needed to feed now with an urgency that threatened on obsessive.

My joints creaked from lack of use, my vision dulled and blurred on one side. Perhaps I had suffered sickness while in cryo sleep? It wouldn’t matter soon. Soon, my hunger would be satiated.

I remembered the days when I never suffered from illness, from when I was a capsuleer. They told us we would live forever. They lied.

Things had changed when Empress Jamyl Sarum I married Tibus Heth. That was the end of immortality for all of us. What made things even more interesting was the fact that our bodies then began aging at an accelerated rate. The top scientists of the Union (the new name given to the merging of Caldari State and the Amarr Empire) couldn’t find a cure.

Many of us believed this genetic virus had been engineered all along by Sarum towards the extinction of all capsuleers. Not surprisingly, very few Amarr capsuleers took ill, and none suffered this genetic mutation condition.

When we had fled New Eden in our Hel carrier, there were only a few hundred of us; time and necessity had seen our numbers grow.

The alarms blared. The attack had already begun. By now, some unsuspecting vessel would be locked in our tractor beams, having already been disabled by whatever fighter drones we still had functioning. Our existence was a risky one, jumping into high sec for a quick ambush, then retreating into the nearest wormhole we could find.

We were always cautious. Our scouts were very thorough. Over the countless years we had learned what could happen if we were reckless, having had our wormhole collapse on us previously, leaving us stranded in high security Empire space. CONCORD was quick to react to our presence, and it took us decades to restore our ship to fully operational status. Many lives were lost that day, but it was fewer mouths to feed in the end.

Still, maybe today we would be lucky. Maybe today we would pillage and burn, topping up our cargo holds and stuffing our faces until we could gorge no more.

Limping slightly, I left my room, if you could call it that. Even though we were on an old Minmatar Hel carrier, space was at a premium. There were thousands of us aboard, maybe tens of thousands, it was hard to keep track. So a room? No, more of a storage locker really.

The hallway was packed with fellow crew mates, all of us staggering forward to our posts. We reeked of body odour, not a one of us having had the luxury of a shower since before I could remember.

I made my way to a landing bay. As part of the assault team, it was my duty to get into the enemy vessel quickly once it was within our docks, neutralize any onboard threats, then return to whomever was in command that day. We were not to loot, or feast, before any others.

It was a rule.

My anticipation grew as I entered the main hangar deck and saw what we had captured; the largest luxury cruiser I had ever laid eyes on. There would be thousands of people aboard, enough to keep us going for years. I could feel the saliva building in my mouth, and my stomach growled, audibly chastising me for not fulfilling its needs already.

Three dozen of us boarded the ship.

The electrical systems had been shut down via EM pulse, knocking out not only the ship’s systems, but any energy based hand weaponry they might have aboard. The dark didn’t bother me; it never had.

Immediately upon entering the boarding ramp, we were attacked.

A male in light armour took a swipe at me with a weighted baton. My left hand thrust forward, open palmed, catching him in the muscle of the forearm, twitching reactively of their own accord, his hand opening, dropping the baton. The stunned look on his face was quickly erased as I drove my forehead into the meat of his cheekbone.

I grabbed his shoulder with one hand, his jaw with the other, twisting his neck perversely until I heard it snap. The saliva in my mouth threatened to spill outwards.

I was hit across the back by another security guard, and while I acknowledged the blow, it didn’t hurt. I turned, my one clear eye glaring at the terrified man who was already backpedaling away. He stumbled, falling onto his rump, and I winced a little at the thought of him damaging himself.

He rolled over onto his front, clawing and crawling, trying to escape. I reached down and grabbed him by the ankle, pulling him towards me, eyeing his meaty legs, but my planned attack was interrupted by a fellow crew member diving on top of the man, ripping through his armour and shirt with his bare hands, blood spraying everywhere.

I pushed forward more deeply into the ship.

There was screaming to be heard reverberating in every direction, and it was music to my ears. My heart raced with excitement. It had been so long, too long, since I had been awake. I was going to savour every moment of it.

I turned a corridor and came face to face with a red haired woman. We both stopped for an eternal moment, her horrified at my appearance, me shocked by an ageless memory of a woman I once loved.

She shrieked. My hand snaked out, grabbing her by the throat, hard, stifling her shrill voice. She grabbed at my arm with both hands reflexively, already weakening from my vise-like grip. Her knees began to buckle.

I punched her in the face, so powerful was the memory of that other red-headed bitch. I drove my fist into her nose, her jaw, watching her lips split, her eyes swell, knowing I was committing a horrible sin amongst my brothers, knowing I was bruising our food, and that I would be punished later.

I didn’t care.

I continued pommeling her as I lowered her to the deck of the luxury cruiser. I drove my knee into her sternum, rewarded with the rushing sound of what little air remained being pushed from her lungs, and laughed as she spit up teeth onto the deck.

She could barely struggle now, and I was so sexually aroused by the indecent act that I was performing, I could hardly contain myself.

I smashed my fist into her face once more for good measure, then leaned close to her, taking in a deep smell of her fear.

I licked at the blood on her face, delighting in its metallic tinge. Her skin was so soft, so lovely. It would look beautiful on me.

Unexpectedly, she reached for my ear, ripping the earring out of it, taking a piece of my precious skin with it. Again, there was no pain, but I was filled with such rage at her defiance.

I drove my fist into her face. And again. And again. I could feel my knuckles splintering, and laughed with glee as her visage became more and more unrecognizable.

The sound of bones breaking, the canvas of blood, I was nearly orgasmic. I knew she was already dead, but I couldn’t stop. I wanted to reach into her face and pull out her spine, sucking on the tangy sponginess of her marrow. I wanted to consume her, strip her flesh, add it to my own.

I was tackled by three of my own crew mates before I could fulfill my dark indulgence. I was furious and turned against them with animal savagery.

It was my last mistake. As a pack, they surrounded me, inching closer, and I knew my miserable existence was at an end.

I had broken a rule.

I cast one more look towards my fair-haired prize, filled with a momentary regret that I would never get to feel her skin from the inside, that I would never get to eat her organs, or suck her bones dry.

With a guttural howl, I attacked fiercely, but was slowly, and literally, torn to shreds.

I awoke.

I was trembling. Aura had gently brought me to consciousness within my pod. My Vigil class frigate had arrived at my preset destination.

I had arrived in 0.0 space.

I tried to shake my mind free of that horrific and disturbing nightmare I had experienced, but failed.

Clearly, there was something wrong with me.

Don’t worry about what people think, they don’t do it very often.

UNDISCLOSED 0.1 SYSTEM
ENROUTE TO CURSE REGION

My Vigil class, exploration fit frigate rocked again against the missile volley from the Serpentis ships. They had setup a gate camp on the jump gate I had just made use of.

It was terrible luck really. Had I been travelling the other direction, I tentatively could’ve broken through their blockade and accessed the gate controls before they could’ve locked me down. Unfortunately, it hadn’t gone down that way, and as I had tried to align the nimble frigate towards the next jump gate along my destined path, the Serpentis had surprised me with their competence.

Now I was suffering from my underestimation of them, two Daredevil frigates raking me with missiles and turret fire while keeping my frigate webbed and scrammed, allowing the turrets of the much larger Vindicator battleship ample time to track me.

Aura warned me that my shields had dropped as I felt the metallic structure of my ship groan and strain. It wouldn’t take long for that battleship to incinerate me.

I had decided to head towards Curse Region, following a lead I had received from a contact within Republic High Command. There was growing concern over the Angel Cartel’s technological advancements, rumours they had been reverse engineering Jovian technology and selling it to the Serpentis, whom they were known to be closely allied with. The ramifications of Jovian technology in the hands of such a widespread and powerful pirate ring were staggering, if true. It was my job to uncover what I may, being the poster boy for the Republic’s current “Anti-Pirate” campaign. A victory would further help to restore my tarnished reputation, whereas a failure wouldn’t surprise anyone, and the blame would fall squarely on my shoulders.

I hated the situation I was in. My heart was pure, my motives noble, yet no matter what I seemed to do, the bureaucracy and political machine of the Republic was destined to spin things however they best saw fit to protect their own interests. But was that beneficial to the longterm prosperity of the Republic? Were the secretive directives of a few influential members of parliament really what the foundations of democracy were intended for?

I was beginning to see Shakor as more of an impotent figurehead than anything, and felt empathy for him. Him and I were very much alike, men with the ability to see right from wrong, possessed of the desire to improve the quality of life for our people, to do what was right, and yet surrounded by those lacking the forward thinking ability to enlist true and lasting change.

It was a growing frustration for me.

My travels had been surprisingly quiet through most of lowsec; there seemed to be a mass emigration towards Empire space recently, though I couldn’t be entirely sure why. Did it have to do with the very thing I was being sent to find out? I supposed only time would tell.

The battleship landed another heavy salvo against my frigate, penetrating my hull, venting oxygen from my ship’s life support systems into space. I had Aura seal off those sections immediately. The ship wasn’t responding at 100% anymore, and scanning the damage control systems, I knew I was done for unless I took drastic measures.

I had finally managed to align to my intended gate, and fired an ECM burst. I knew the Vindicator wouldn’t be in range, but I was hoping to at least shake the two frigates long enough to make the jump to lightspeed.

I felt, more than heard the burst, and was elated when I watched both frigates lose target lock. I was free, and made use of those precious seconds.

Moments later, my ship shook violently as I sped through warp, and I encouraged the ship verbally under my breath to just hold on long enough to make it to a station.

As I half-expected, there was another gate camp setup, awaiting my arrival. I blazed forward, Aura activating the jump gate, and I was away without further incident.

Three systems later, I docked up at a relatively non-hostile station, and engaged them for repairs to my ship. They overcharged me, but given the remote location I was in, I was more than happy to pay their fee without argument.

During the forced downtime, I reviewed my intelligence reports on the Guardian Angels. I had transferred every piece of RSS data I had been provided onto my NeoCom, and while most was vague assumptions and spun yarn from aging pilots, I put together a disturbing theme: from all indications it did look probable that the Guardian Angels had indeed advanced ancient Jovian technology.

My mission objective was clear. Achieving that objective would be an arduous task, and I had no idea what was going to happen next, but if anything, I was sure it would prove interesting, as life often was.

Blind girls never see you coming.

When I started EVE Online I didn’t know that once I created my character’s appearance, that would be it. I’m sure many of us made this same mistake.

Please understand I came from Star Wars Galaxies. In SWG, you could change clothes, wear accessories, have every facet of your appearance changed by an Image Designer for an ingame fee.

Even though EVE Online is all about internet spaceships, I foolishly assumed that I could change my character later on.

So Roc looks like he does.

Then I started messing around with Roc in 3D, as many of you seen, and I’m really pleased with the results. So much so, that I used an empty slot on an alt account to fool around some more with how I think Roc Wieler should look ingame.

Here’s the results:

This looks a lot more like his high resolution 3D representation. I like these lights because of the Minmatar feel they give to the image.

Then there’s this:

I like this one as well because it has darker glasses, and overall gives a more ominous feel.

The bottom line is that I’m considering paying CCP to have my avatar redone. Do I wait for Incarna? Does it really matter? Does anyone care?

Fill out today’s poll and help me make a decision!

Yes, actually, I will sign your boob.

UNDISCLOSED SYSTEM – MINMATAR WARZONE

Some people relax with a nice cup of tea. Others enjoy the luxury of slowly sinking into a thermal spa.

Brutor are an odd people this way; many of my pilots enjoy an extreme workout session at the gym, or going bare-handed bear hunting, or engaging in martial combat training, or any other number of equally aggressive, physically demanding outlets.

For me, I had decided to wind down a little by making use of the newly acquired skills I had picked up during my adventures pursuing the truth of the Wildfire Khumaak, namely Analyzing, Hacking, and Archeology.

To that end, I purchased a Vigil class frigate, and put together a quick exploration fit with my chief mechanic. We both agreed it was definitely not the ideal configuration, and that neither of us really had any expertise with this particular aspect of ship usage, but just the same, he surprised me, as he often does.

“You should be puttin’ a drone in the bay, lad. Least gifya a fightin’ chance.”

I looked at him incredulously. It had a drone bay? I thought to myself, not recalling ever having seen a frigate launch a drone.

He chuckled heartily to himself at my bewildered look.

“Ach, laddie; are you completely daft? They build some of  ’em with drone bays. Be why tis best ta leave the flyin’ to ya, and the brains ta me.”

With that, he started mumbling to himself as he headed off towards our drone supply warehouse, his hands expressively gesturing until he was gone from sight.

I had never trusted drones, but was slowly starting to understand their value.

Within the hour, I had departed from Dal, not sure of my destination, but anxious to hone my exploration skills.

I was always pragmatic, and it didn’t take long for me to settle upon the idea of scanning down anomalies in lowsec war systems. My first scan revealed a Major Minmatar Stronghold in the currently contested system I was in. I informed the militia channel, waited for interested pilots to arrive, then having neither the engineers onboard nor the need to oversee these newer pilots, I continued onto the next leg of my undetermined journey.

Several systems deeper into lowsec warzone, I finally got a positive response from my probe. There was a 6% strength anomaly insystem.

I felt a sense of youthful excitement at the find, and quickly set about launching five more probes to help me narrow down the exact location of the occurrence.

50 minutes later I realized I had to get better at this. With one eye continually on my overview, the other eye straining against my scan map overlay, I was relieved when a 100% sensor strength ping turned green, informing me I was ready to go.

I sent out the retrieval command to my probes, and as I waited for them to return, quickly brought up all the relevant information on the anomaly.

Rogue Drone Complex – DED rated 5/10, definitely beyond the means of this ship. Still, after all the efforts I had put into finding the damned thing, I was at least going to take a peek. In a worst case scenario, I could bookmark the location and come back in the Onslaught. Having made up my mind, and verifying my probes were securely returned, I warped to the complex.

A single acceleration gate beckoned to me, enticing me inwards. I happily obliged and felt my small frigate shutter as the gate’s tractor beams seized my ship, accelerating it onwards at warp velocity.

I fully expected to drop smack dab in the middle of a hornet’s nest, well, the rogue drone equivalent. I was ready to hear the sound of target locking alarms, of Aura’s voice warning me of incoming hostiles, and dozens of other equally unpleasant scenarios.

I wasn’t ready for what the reality of it was; the complex was empty.

Shipwrecks and debris littered space for hundreds of kilometers around me, stripped meticulously clean. My overview picked up several biomass signatures, frozen corpses floating throughout eternity, their faces forever etched in the terrible moment their lives were extinguished. Even within my pod, I felt a shiver work its way down my spine.

I was presented with a choice of two acceleration gates; one identified as an ancient acceleration gate, the other as a plasma acceleration gate. I had never heard of such a thing before, so naturally directed my ship that way. The whole point of exploration was to discover new things afterall.

The Vigil was a fast and nimble ship, and with the additional burn from my afterburner, I was clocking 1620 m/s, which was pretty impressive to me. Only my Firetail, the Renegade, matched those speeds from within my personal fleet.

Once within range of the gate, I had Aura activate it, but she rejected the command, citing I would require higher Plasma Physics skill to operate this gate.

In a day and age where everything was mind-controlled artificial intelligence, I was a little put off. That, and the notion of Roc Wieler, Plasma Physicist held no appeal to me whatsoever.

And yet I was stubborn and dedicated to my task. I was exploring, and therefore I would explore.

I had Aura pull up a quick search of the regional market, and coincidentally found a copy of the Plasma Physics skillbook insystem. Since I had barely started into the rogue drone complex I figured I might as well take some time, acquire the book, have Aura feed it directly into my subconscious mind as I continued exploring, and when she felt I was at an acceptable level of scientific expertise, come back to the gate in question.

Not long after, I was back in the complex, having driven forward through the ancient gate to whatever laid beyond. Again, I was anxious returning to normal space, my combat readiness felt by the adrenaline raging throughout my system. Nobody liked to be caught unaware.

Again, I was greeted with the inky blackness and eerie silence of nothingness. There was a joke I had heard among fellow capsuleers, “Nobody can hear you scream in space”, and it came to mind uninvited, its very premise haunting my logic.

Several unmarked containers littered the scene, many near small drone outposts, surrounded by more ship debris. Still, I had to know everything about this mysterious place; I moved the Vigil towards the nearest drone outpost, angling for a container.

My hands flexed subconsciously, my senses eager for battle at a moment’s notice, and I could feel my temperature rising within the warm comfort of my pod’s life supporting gel.

I launched my drone towards the nearby container, feeling the bay shudder and clang as the drone released. It reverberated throughout the small ship, making the hairs on the back on my neck stand on end.

There was simply something not right about this place. It was almost a graveyard, but there were no indications of whom would visit or care for these dead souls.

My drone opened the container, and I squeezed my hands once more, expecting some unknown alarm to trigger a swarm of rogue drones from the nearby outpost.

Nothing.

My drone quickly scooped up the contents of the container and proceeded back to the Vigil, unloading its prize into the cargo bay before returning to the drone bay.

I could feel every movement, could hear every action. This ship had thin walls it seemed.

I broke out in a small perspiration of sweat, noticing on my status HUD that my heart was accelerated. I forcefully pushed aside my growing fear; it wasn’t welcome, it wasn’t rational. My heart rate slowed to more acceptable levels.

The joke about the silence of space sprang back to mind. Nobody can hear you scream. The words were stuck on an auto-loop in my brain.

I checked the militia channel, always conscience that I was in the warzone, always aware that at any given moment the Amarr might ambush the unsuspecting. There was no traffic in the channel.

I switched to the TLF Intel channel and experienced the same thing; nothing but static. I put out a quick private comm to a pilot I knew that Aura had confirmed was plugged into their pod. Nothing.

An increasing sense of dread and isolation pushed in at me from all sides.

I physically shook when Aura interrupted with the notification that I had learned the equivalent of Plasma Physics basics. After laughing at myself and my own senseless uneasiness, I headed back towards the plasma gate.

Once within range, I activated the gate. Aura gave me the same warning, that I did not possess the skills necessary to activate this gate. I cursed silently, and asked the simple question. What do I need to know, Aura?

She stated I would need the equivalent of level 4 training in Plasma Physics, an advanced understanding of the relationships between the presence of a non negligible number of charge carriers that make plasma electrically conductive to respond to strongly charged electromagnetic fields. She was right; I had no idea what that was.

I bookmarked the gate, citing my notation to read “For future investigation”, then headed back into the complex.

It was a perilous cycle. Each new gate I warped through offered choices. Each choice led deeper into the mysteriously dead or abandoned facility. Each area was littered with an increasing number of shipwrecks.

But the loot was good. It gnawed away at me more and more at how effectively the ships had been stripped, and how organized the containers were. I had never even heard rumours of drones behaving in this methodical a fashion. Granted, I wasn’t a drone expert, rarely employing myself until recently. I knew there were those that swore by their drones, but I had always been wary of drones, for this exact reason. I didn’t trust anything not under my direct control.

I had heard horror stories of capsuleers venturing into the Rogue Drone Regions, never to return, their clones inexplicably failing. These tales were enough to convince me to face living, breathing opponents, not manufactured ones.

Hours later, I was still pushing deeper and deeper into the complex. It was a dark labyrinth of never ending options. My cargo hold was long since full, but I dared not leave for fear of never being able to find my way this deeply again.

This particular area was within a poisonous nebula, reducing visibility to almost nothing. I relied entirely on my instruments as I navigated towards the only acceleration gate out of here.

I had given up maintaining a normal heart rate, and noticed even my breathing had quickened, becoming shallow. I was genuinely and irrationally afraid.

The final gate sped me forwards, and my fists clenched to the point of pain as I anticipated another unexpected drone assault.

My jaw dropped at what I saw next.

I wasn’t entirely sure what it was, but it was massive and daunting. I had Aura perform a thorough sensor scan, and reactively readied my drone for launch as a precautionary measure.

I was mesmerized by this technological monstrosity. I thought I was able to recognize dozens of different parts from ship types I knew intimately: rifters, punishers, hurricanes, taranis, megathrons; there were pieces of everything put together here. Armour plates, engine clusters, shield generators; at least I knew what had become of all those stripped ships.

Aura had analyzed it and identified it as a Rogue Drone Hive, indicating a grave threat level to me. I scanned for hostiles, finding nothing. I wasn’t going to be put off having come this far, so swallowing deeply, I pressed forward to see more of this hive up close.

My mind staggered as I approached it until I was directly underneath what was geometrically its center. No matter which direction I looked, my HUD was filled with the hive. Its enormity beggared description. I cleared the HUD to get a better view, pushing ever nearer, inexplicably drawn to it.

My fear had subsided. My reservations didn’t exist. I wanted to be part of this hive. I needed to be closer to it. I didn’t even hear the warning alarms from Aura as a stream of dozens of drones spewed from the hive, instantly locking my small frigate.

I continued to stare, dumbfounded, as the stream of drones raced towards me. It was only then that I regained my faculties, but by then it was too late.

The Hive had locked me with three points, my velocity was held to 4 m/s. I couldn’t align in time. I couldn’t warp away. I could feel the drones reaching out to me, as insane as that sounds, then could physically feel the rear of my ship buckling, as my own drone responded to their call. It thrashed around in its cargo bay, weapons blazing, and I do not know which had sealed my fate; the rogue drones about to destroy my ship, or my own drone rebelling against my commands from within.

So much damage was done by the combined volleys of all those drones, that even my pod shook, taking peripheral damage. I feared I would be too late, and that the hive would respond before I could, locking down my pod, adding my body to one of the many littering its perimeter as surely as it would add my ship to itself.

To my bewilderment, the drones abruptly stopped, suspended in space. A few moments later, they returned to the hive, and somehow I noticed my own drone among them.

I was powerless to do anything but watch. I could feel the pushing presence on my mind, the peace and comfort it exuded. It wanted me to stay as much as I wanted to stay, but there was something deeper within me that rebelled at last; the need to survive.

I had programmed Aura earlier on with an escape vector in case of ambush. All I needed to do was will the auto-pilot to take over.

But I didn’t want to leave. I needed to leave. I wasn’t going to leave. It was time to leave.

My mind couldn’t focus enough to give the command, at war with itself.

Survive. It was a thought of growing importance as the Hive opened its lovely mouth to my pod, inviting me to come be a part of it.

Survive! Together with the hive I could become more than I ever could dream of, and that sounded just lovely.

SURVIVE!

And as had happened many times before, and many times since, the core of who I was, of who I still am, took over.

I was Minmatar. I was Brutor. I was Roc Wieler!

Aura warped the pod away, and none too soon. The hive screamed its anguish at my departure. I screamed in my pod at having to leave. So intense was the pain in my head. So intense was the pain I had inflicted on the hive.

I screamed, but nobody heard.

Several minutes later, I awoke, my pod hanging suspended in space, much like the drones had been at the hive.

The Hive. I had no idea what the hell had happened, or how drones could’ve developed the technology to interact with capsuleer minds on an electrical level, but sure as shit I was happy to be away from that thing.

As I gave the order towards the nearest friendly station, I filed a full military report on the Hive’s location, advising quarantine to all pilots until High Command could better understand the nature of the place.

Days later, I still couldn’t shake the feelings that encounter had left me with. No amount of showering, no amount of working out, no amount of Amarr corpses would make it go away.

I needed help, but didn’t know if help existed.

I was still afraid.