The problem with boosters.

Everyone is trying to get their ship to go faster. Go farther, Be harder. Be Better. Some pilots spend years of time learning detailed mathematical algorithms directly from the science labs that most of our ship's come from, just to be able to tweak their equipment the slightest bit. Deep space pilots swear by their custom riggings and amped ships. In the deeps, there is no police force. No one will rescue you if your ship fails. These small modifications are often the difference between life and death.

And some of us, looking for that edge, start a downward trend into boosters and implants for the quick fix of combat ability. Three percent here, five percent there, and before you know it we don't even know our own names or how many thousands of ship crews we've slaughtered in the past hour.

It is with this introduction to the shortsightedness of boosters that I explain the details of my most recent death.

-Local is clear. Cargo bay is full on ammo. The pride of the Caldari fleet, her majestic wings and advanced shield systems being used to full effect; My Raven is on a lonely mission. See, many of my old friends back home would get very rich very quickly if they saw me, and it would involve an unfair fight to be sure. So here I am, alone in the bowels of Sansha's rearming facilities slaying countless many aboard the defensive guards that patrol this installation. Saving the precious tags to earn myself some respectability back in the empire.

My only solace is the company of my raiding gang, the subtle buzz of my neocomm only a slight distraction in the background as my salvos strike stolen Amarr armor plates. Any other night, and this would have been business as usual. I'm getting sleepy, losing focus.
Suddenly, I see a lone interceptor craft speeding away from the installation. Locking fails; his sig is way to small. He's going to get help...
Great.

I reach into my pocket and produce a green and white packet, designed to resemble a professional sports drink. 'Fentrix - helps block out all inessential thought processes to get the most out of your game'. I empty the contents of the package , and wait for these so called reinforcements.

It is about this time that I notice my fellow pilot Max addressing me on the neocomm, apparently being a bastard.

"[ 2008.03.11 08:42:38 ] Maximada > Kwitch you fail eve"
What?! Hold the Phone, Kwitch doesn't fail anything! That rookie! I would give him a verbal bashing, but I'm trying to keep my senses clear, waiting for the first ping of new hostiles on my scanner.

"[ 2008.03.11 08:45:15 ] Maximada > Kwitch, girl trouble?"
Thats it. I feel a surge of energy flow through me as I type furiously into my neocomm. I set Max straight, he's had it coming, and the subtle buzz of my neocomm prior is now blaring loud in my head, all of my attention is focusing on their voices and the streams of data it is producing. I make short work of the defense of my pride, my stance on women, and the virtues of the Caldari lifestyle.

I look up from my communicator just in time to notice the last and final salvo from 3 Alpha class Sansha Lord Battleships, enraged from the fate of their recently lost comrades, destroy the final remnants of my Raven's hull integrity.

*pop*

"[ 2008.03.11 08:46:12 ] Bruce Boyako > haha theres a lesson there"
I make it back to HQ, and stare menacingly at the now empty Fentrix package, hot with the anger of my negligence of noticing my surroundings, and read the small print.

"helps block out all inessential thought processes (along with the occasional needed ones.)"

Figures.