So I wake up from cryo sleep, and There's this nice letter from our Fleet Commander with orders for me to get my arse clothed and hauling gear for a 'fun time to be had by all'. Nothing good has ever happened from an introduction like that.
I threw most of what I thought might be useful in whatever big surprise operation the bastard has planned this week, and reported to commons.
The 'invitation' read something like this:
MONDAY 13:00: YOU LADIES BETTER HAVE YOUR CRAP PACKED BECAUSE WE'RE.... Going camping!
glee.
amidst some grumbles and side-jokes, someone actually raised a hand and said "But sir, we just moved everything Last Week, don't you think this is unnecessary?"
...see, I didn't know they had installed miniaturized thermonuclear remote detonation devices inside our heads until that point. At least everyone was awake by then.
I'll spare you the details of putting batteries into secure canisters and refueling duties. Eventually we made it to base camp and set up shop.
These exercises are designed to promote teamwork, sharpen our combat skills, and exercise our problem solving... uhg, I don't think I can keep smiling about it much longer. If I have to spend one single more minute in some backwater system that was only ever populated 100 years ago during the tritanium rush in what is basically the jurassic age I may just self-destruct. Or fly my gang into a star.
We kill the unsuspecting shuttle here and there, and occasionally an off-duty Iteron but really, this is the pits.
Commander etheris: "Beatings will continue until morale improves."
If things get better, I'll have something to write about. In the meantime, enjoy the coverage of the recent DED raids, drink some Quafe, and wait for the bang.
20080428
20080312
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.
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.
20080307
"Lucky to be Alive..."
*** Receiving Feed ***
...hello?...lost....with fleet... some distance... bubble, they were....lucky to be alive...
I'm in my pod in UKYS-5, stranded from my gang after my ship was destroyed... I repeat; FALCON DOWN.
...Need to focus... Navigate back to fleet...
I never saw them coming; I was a fool to think the superiority of my Covert Ops Cloaking module would save my lazy ass forever. I guess it's fitting. The first rule of surviving in the fringes of space is 'Live prepared, or die surprised.' Our foraging gang departed from our home system in search of wrecks, salvage, loot, and the act of producing these commodities. We were well-informed of our surroundings, it was a well-traveled route. The pickings were slim, the practiced coordination of our pilots textbook.
*CRACKLE-Fizz*
"8 Goons entering system on local scanner! Get out of combat range!" yelled our FC.
I calmly engaged my cloak and rummaged through my belongings for a media-disk of the most recent Gallentean pop-idol. Dang, they didn't make women like that back in The Citadel. Another long op...A quick snooze and some quafe, and I was ready to go home. Local looked clear, comms were quiet. A little voice in my head whispered 'too quiet', but I disregarded it. I had Betty. I had my Falcon. And she had never quit on me when I needed her. It was going to be as simple as bravely running away the instant I saw a red.
"Kwitch, what are you doing at that Stargate!? You're not cloaked!"
"Oh, that's because I'm going through it."
The sensory overload of 15 hostile targets within a magnetic-field spatial-field-destabilizer bubble took a moment to sink in. I remember this happening before. Something very familiar, I just can't put my finger on it. Oh yes, the last time I was cloned.
No time to panic; Align, Cloak, count. 4. 3. 2. . . . Never got to 1. When I came to, I was tumbling through space without a clue what happened to Betty, where I was, or why claxons were blaring in my escape pod regarding 14% hull integrity.
I'll make it back to the fleet, but I'll be leaving behind my trusty wingmate.
...hello?...lost....with fleet... some distance... bubble, they were....lucky to be alive...
I'm in my pod in UKYS-5, stranded from my gang after my ship was destroyed... I repeat; FALCON DOWN.
...Need to focus... Navigate back to fleet...
I never saw them coming; I was a fool to think the superiority of my Covert Ops Cloaking module would save my lazy ass forever. I guess it's fitting. The first rule of surviving in the fringes of space is 'Live prepared, or die surprised.' Our foraging gang departed from our home system in search of wrecks, salvage, loot, and the act of producing these commodities. We were well-informed of our surroundings, it was a well-traveled route. The pickings were slim, the practiced coordination of our pilots textbook.
*CRACKLE-Fizz*
"8 Goons entering system on local scanner! Get out of combat range!" yelled our FC.
I calmly engaged my cloak and rummaged through my belongings for a media-disk of the most recent Gallentean pop-idol. Dang, they didn't make women like that back in The Citadel. Another long op...A quick snooze and some quafe, and I was ready to go home. Local looked clear, comms were quiet. A little voice in my head whispered 'too quiet', but I disregarded it. I had Betty. I had my Falcon. And she had never quit on me when I needed her. It was going to be as simple as bravely running away the instant I saw a red.
"Kwitch, what are you doing at that Stargate!? You're not cloaked!"
"Oh, that's because I'm going through it."
The sensory overload of 15 hostile targets within a magnetic-field spatial-field-destabilizer bubble took a moment to sink in. I remember this happening before. Something very familiar, I just can't put my finger on it. Oh yes, the last time I was cloned.
No time to panic; Align, Cloak, count. 4. 3. 2. . . . Never got to 1. When I came to, I was tumbling through space without a clue what happened to Betty, where I was, or why claxons were blaring in my escape pod regarding 14% hull integrity.
I'll make it back to the fleet, but I'll be leaving behind my trusty wingmate.
R.I.P. - Betty
Beloved Falcon
Don't stop Jammin'
4/20/158-3/7/159
Beloved Falcon
Don't stop Jammin'
4/20/158-3/7/159
Ramblin' Man
*** TRANSMISSION ***
Hello? Is this thing on? Hmm, that didn't seem to work. Banks and banks of humming machinery...I've never seen so many knobs.
Let's try this one. No...how about that one there. No, not that one either.
Oh, I have an idea, hold my hat will you, there's a good fella-.
*** END FEED ***
Hello? Is this thing on? Hmm, that didn't seem to work. Banks and banks of humming machinery...I've never seen so many knobs.
Let's try this one. No...how about that one there. No, not that one either.
Oh, I have an idea, hold my hat will you, there's a good fella-.
*** END FEED ***
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