Wednesday, January 20, 2010


Who the fuck? - singalong

Helicity called
when he got the word,
he said, i suppose you've heard
about Spectre
Well, i rushed to the window,
and i looked outside
But i could hardly believe my eyes
As a big Thanatos docked up
into the station

Oh i don't know why he's leaving, or where he's gonna go
I guess he's got his reasons but i just don't want to know
'cos for twenty-two years i've been having no clue about Spectre
(Spectre? Who the fuck is Spectre!)
Twenty-two years of not having the chance
To tell him who i am and maybe get a second glance
Now i've got to get used to not flying in a fleet with Spectre
(Spectre? Who the fuck is Spectre!)

We flew out there apart
two pirates in the dark
the clueless rookie
and the top shark
me and Spectre
Now he walks through the door with his head held high
Just for a moment, i caught his eye
As the big Thanatos undocked slowly
out of the station

Oh i don't know why he's leaving, or where he's gonna go
I guess he's got his reasons but i just don't want to know
'cos for twenty-two years i've been having no clue about Spectre
(Spectre? Who the fuck is Spectre!)
Twenty-two years of not having the chance
To tell him who i am and maybe improve my finance
Now i've got to get used to not flying in a fleet with Spectre
(Spectre? Who the fuck is Spectre!)

Helicity called back and asked how i felt
He said, i know how to help get over Spectre
He said now Spectre is gone but i'm still here
You know i've been waiting for twenty-two years
And the big Thanatos disappeared

I don't know why he's leaving, or where he's gonna go
I guess he's got his reasons but i just don't want to know
'cos for twenty-two years i've been having no clue about Spectre
(Spectre? Who the fuck is Spectre!)
Twenty-two years of not having the chance
To tell him who i am and maybe get a second glance
But i'll never get used to not flying in a fleet with Spectre
(Spectre? Who the fuck is Spectre!)

Tuesday, January 12, 2010


Cha raised her arms wide, and the fading moonlight brightly reflected off the datapad in her left hand, sprinkling fairy light drops dancing at her feet. She stayed relatively immobile for a while, her feet spread to stabilise the gentle rocking of the kayak, her decisions bouncing back and forth between throwing and reading.
The absurd juxtaposition of having a forgotten high tech gadget all lit up, while being in the tiny plastic boat in the heaving sea, absorbed the moment.
She had put space life to the side, and now it had come to retrieve her. The desire to be out there suddenly struck her with painstaking scrupulousness, and she leafed through it with a strange, almost guilty pleasure that had barbs and hurt her almost as much as it pleased her. She lingered over it, searching in vain for something that might keep her planetbound.

Six months ago she would have sworn that when she looked at the life down here from up there, she'd never return to it, because it was irrelevant in the bigger scheme of things. She remembered thinking her grandma's life had been absurd and pointless, but even more so was the fact that she had died, without ever having seen her granddaughter back. It left Cha with a nauseating, existential angst that plagued her being like a furball spiralling down the drain plied loose with unhealthy doses of Blood Raider Tonic.

The air was delicate with the moisty scent of the island woods mixed with the salt of the water. Now and then she heard an early gull, hung oppressively low in the heavens, screaming it's anger to the stalling dawn.

She ached for the tears to come, but they stubbornly refused, like they always had. The datapad stopped buzzing and she sat down, placing it carefully before her, avoiding to look at it.
She rubbed her hands together to stimulate the circulation and peered through the railings.
"Time for a wee dram," she thought. She unbuttoned her coat and removed a half bottle from the breast pocket, took a couple of sips and replaced the cap.
"I better not drink too much of this," she said out loud to noone, "otherwise I'll get lost again."

The cork bobbed, went under, moved sideways, and then stopped all movement. If she hadn't been trained so exhaustively by her grandma, she wouldn't have noticed the tiny ripple around the cork, and thought it false alarm. She snatched. The fish tried to shake the unpleasant hook out of his fish lips. Cha pulled again. He went motionless, and Cha relaxed. Suddenly he bolted towards the beach, over and between rocks and driftwood - Cha's fly reel whizzed as he took out line. She cursed. She couldn’t reel him back over the logs and rocks without breaking the line. "Outsmarted by a fish", she said to the gull, and she started laughing like a clown on weed.
She stopped abruptly, then hopped in the water and waded slowly down the rocks in the knee-deep water, reeling in excess line until she found the fish. It watched her, one-eyed, defiantly.
She grabbed it and unhooked it. The fishing was good; it was the catching that was bad. She knew it was torture, and unfair, and senseless; she didn't even eat fish. She was merely recreating the past, fishing for absolution and deliverance, baiting her memories like fish-hooks, casting them into reality, but they were sinking down through the cold, dark water of guilt.

She waded back to the kayak, and took the datapad. Standing in the water and leaning her elbows on the side, she went through the messages, skipping all the yadayada of polite condoleances. They were barracuda, all of them.
Two names caught her attention.
Eran Mintor, who, to her no small surprise, now worked for the Valklear Guard. Her very first fighting instructor now was a pirate hunter - the ways of the universe were inscrutable indeed.
The second name was Nakatre Read, now employed by PRETA. She pulled up one eyebrow. If she remembered right, that was Ghost Festival - and Ghost Festival, that meant Angels - pure and uncut criminal class.

And they had a job opening.

Friday, June 26, 2009


Yes, sorry, it's been a month since i wrote, and it'll be some more. Just consumed with real life, like finishing a master in fine art etc etc. But i'll be back!
And dang, i had this great idea for the next banter. Hmpf.

Monday, May 25, 2009

Blog banter 8: mentorship

Welcome to the eighth installment of the EVE Blog Banter, the monthly EVE Online blogging extravaganza created by CrazyKinux. The EVE Blog Banter involves an enthusiastic group of gaming bloggers, a common topic within the realm of EVE Online, and a week to post articles pertaining to the said topic. The resulting articles can either be short or quite extensive, either funny or dead serious, but are always a great fun to read! Any questions about the EVE Blog Banter should be directed here. Check out other EVE Blog Banter articles at the bottom of this post!
This month's topic comes to us from Ga'len at The Wandering Druid of Tranquility. He asks: "What new game mechanic or mechanics would you like to see created and brought into the EVE Online universe and how would this be incorporated into the current game universe? Be specific and give details, this is not meant to be a 'nerf this, boost my game play' post like we see on the EVE forums."

Cha did her utmost best to understand and execute what everyone was saying, in fleet channel, corp channel, alliance channel, Hellcats Pub channel, and kitten rookie channel, meanwhile also keeping an eye on the local channel and an ear to the audio channel. The fleet commander's voice was measured, firm and professional - each word carefully chosen but with a strong underlying tension that seemed to grow when she tried to keep track on every of Cha's actions, which were plentiful.

For starters, Cha warped to the wrong gate - everybody warped to Arnstur, and she went to Arnher. Then she warped to the right gate, only she should have stayed put. Determined to do better next time, she warped to the next gate and jumped - when she should have held her position at the gate. So she warped to the next gate and held, while the fleet jumped, and it only dawned to her that she should have jumped too when the entire fleet already was 3 systems further. She finally arrived at the killing spot only to discover she had forgotten her ammo - but that wasn't nearly as bad as that time when she arrived at the killing site to discover she hadn't fit anything at all. She forgot to untick the own fleet members option in her settings, which made her overview so cluttered that she couldn't find the enemy targets in it, tackling her own fleet members as a consequence and even once almost shooting one. She apologized abundantly, and when she finally did target an enemy ship it already was a pod and being ransomed, or killed.

She decided it maybe was better to learn some things on her own first.

She made warping spots all over Gultratren, only to realize afterwards that the nearest belt or moon was already beyond the reach of her onboard system scanner. So she decided to teach herself probe scanning, muddling and fumbling with the probe launcher that probably was family of her first hobgoblin drone, since it clearly showed signs of mutiny. She lost probes all over the place, without finding anything. She scanned for hours, only to find that when she finally had nailed someone's location down, her fuel, her time or her ammo was out.
She then decided she would skip all the scanning and just warp from belt to belt, smack right in the middle, so that a possible victim there wouldn't be able to escape. She herself almost didn't escape from some Angel bullies, without getting any decent kill. She vowed she would be more careful, and didn't jump the belts at zero anymore, but at a safe 30 km. Of course, the unexpected happened: she dropped on a possible victim when she warped into a belt. Although - it wasn't exactly dropping on, because she couldn't close the 30 km gap fast enough - he cheerfully warped out from under her nose. She found her victim had fled into the next belt, only right after those pesky Angels had gotten him.

On the way back she jumped through a gate, got tackled and shot to pieces by pirate hunters, was podded, and woke up in a clone bay with a light migraine and a lot less implants.

Still, she had a blast. Once out in space, somehow it just didn't seem to matter any more. The universe seemed full of possibilities; unexplained, undecided and only just around the corner. The pod goo felt fresh in her lungs, the many suns beamed down on her rifter and her whole body tingled with anticipation. She had not felt so good for years. She flew effortlessly, up and away, light as thistledown on a summer breeze. Soaring in an instant over rolling fields of asteroids, she plunged into dark and mysterious systems, then swooped up to dally in the sunlight of the next system. She would just warp from spot to spot and sat cloaked, enjoying the view.
But she sucked at the magnificent skill of piracy - and her flying hours didn't seem to coincide well with when most Hellcats and Bastards were ganging up.

There was only one solution: finding a one-on-one coach, a partner to teach her a thing or two.
Alas, there wasn't such a thing as a personal mentor search board or channel in the entire universe. She decided to put up a plain job ad instead.

"Seeking flexible candidates with a wide variety of experience, casual work atmosphere, duties will vary."
She thought of the perpetual chaos that seemed to surround her flights, and added "Upbeat personality: must neither threaten with any kind of lawsuit nor use drug & alcohol benefits." She hesitated a while, then wrote "Prior conviction of a felony or two no problem."
Okay, that sounded more like it. Although, maybe the job description needed more detail.
"Responsibilities include:"... she thought, and then thought some more, and then some. She eventually thought it best to be as clear as possible, so there wouldn't be any surprises from either side.
"Active, proactive, reactive, interactive knowledge of piracy business practices. Organizational talent for self-directed work team, to provide strategic, ballistic, and/or malicious leadership and bicoordinate fleet-wide planning and activities, including personnel management, both corporeal and incorporeal, along with pan-solar operations and information resources. Play a key role in the aforementioned spiritual guidance; continual management of the integrated coaching system. Instigate investigations into the new and unknown means and manners of exchanging acquisitions and ultra-graphic information between coach and pupil. Actively involved in national, international, interracial, universal, introverted as well as extraordinary piracy initiatives. Requires a demonstrated understanding of pupil's willingness along with knowledge of current trends in schemes, scams and operations. Participates in region-wide planning, policy-making activities, and fleet governance. Must deny vinegar wine. Be forgiving of equivocated and perfunctory communication skills; demonstrated experience as deus ex machina with senior level experience in modern clairvoyance; with progress-organic responsibility in technical services as well as humbuggery and miserly deceiving experience; ability to grasp and assimilate chaotic information on a dime; possess a commitment to serving the needs of an information seeking young woman, even when it's that time of the month.
Excellent planning, interpersonal as well as ultra-personal transcendence, with oral, written, and digital communication skills; the ability to please greatly and work with aggressive acquiescence in a dual team environment.
Instill a sense of piracy pride and fair play; behaviorally modify disruptive behavior, willing to tackle every possible ship without excluding any race, faction, corporation or size, except in cases of possibly suicidal outcomes, teach ransoming and raise self-esteem. Provide a safe learning environment, recognize signs of potential reckless behavior, offer advice, write letters of recommendation, encourage a respect for the cultural diversity of ships and their fittings.
Technical and services assistance for all aspects related to the acquisition of ships and ship fittings and materials in all possible, sizes, formats and amounts, including budget management, with the ability to communicate on a micro/macrocosmic level while providing guidance in the use of the technologies and skills yet to be realized. Teach the use of supplies, boosters, room decorations, duct tape, repair paste, glue, paperclips, note book paper, ship scanners, fluo markers and star maps. Knowledge of daily universal currency exchange rates and trends in fitting acquisitions, skill collection development; experience with the macabre nature of the market environment."

She pondered on what she had to offer in return - health insurance surely wasn't one of them. She concluded with what seemed reasonable:
"Apart from gaining an interesting experience, salary will be based on the whimsical nature of the universe’s sense of fairness."

Hmm. Maybe she had expanded a bit too much. She deleted the superfluous and kept to the essential.

"Looking for experienced pirate who loves getting booty and wouldn't mind showing his prowess while escorting a young fresh female pilot into unexplored territories."

She pressed the "submit" button, opened a bottle of wine and leaned back with great expectations.

More blog banters:
  1. CrazyKinux's Musing, EVE Blog Banter #8: Care for a little game of SecWars?
  2. The Wandering Druid of Tranquility, Wow, that new thing is so shiny!!!
  3. I am Keith Nielson, EVE Blog Banter #8 - Return of the Top Gun
  4. Once More from the Beginning, 8th EVE Blog Banter May 2009 Edition
  5. A merry life and a short one, EVE Blog Banter #8: In the Year of Our Awesome
  6. Inner Sanctum of the Ninveah, Planets
  7. Helicity Boson, Bantering the blog
  8. Achernar, Unique adventures
  9. Ecliptic Rift, OOC: EVE Blog Banter 8: Standings and secondary factions
  10. The New Edener, EVE Blog Banter #8
  11. Journey to New Eden, Eve Blog Banter #8: What new mechanic should be added to Eve?
  12. Life, The Universe and Everything, Blog banter 8: mentorship
  13. EVE Guru, EBB 8: Yarr! Prepare to be boarded!
  14. The Ralpha Dogs, Greed Is Good, Greed Works
  15. Rifter Drifter, Blog Banter 8: Strategic Gunnery
  16. More to come...

Sunday, May 17, 2009


All good things arrive unto them that can wait - and don't die in the meantime, and so Cha sat eagerly upright and started learning the noble arts of piracy.

The piracy manual spoke of qualities like "good awareness, the ability to make snap decisions and being able to gauge your opponent and the risk he presents to you", and although most of her previous time was given to reading chivalric novels, singing forlorn love ditties, and coping with drone subordination and defying fedos, she knew it was time to gather information in order to detect any anomalies. Caution and secrecy being of the upmost importance, she proceeded to do the bravest thing that can be imagined, a thing to make one shiver when one remembers how the piracy world is given to resenting shams and affectations: she started to look around the room. She took great caution in acting casual, glancing only occasionally - as if she had nothing more important to attend to (which, as we know, was the case anyway, but that's besides the point). In fact, it was a source of fascination to glimpse into the private lives of those in power.
And so Cha observed discretely the public in the Hellcat's Pub, and that public was of great variety. Trim built, handsome, graceful, neat, bright, educated. Experienced, industrious, ambitious. Or of slow and sluggish bearings, but with a soft heart. There: one homesick and crying. Next: huge and good natured. A dopey headed, lazy, sentimental fellow, full of harmless brag. A grumbler by nature at the back. And an extremely unwilling bartender.
From all this merry diversity Cha drew her first conclusions. In her notebook she wrote first: "There aren't many Hellcats in the Hellcats' Pub". Secondly: "There are plentiful gentlemen waiting for a Hellcat to show up in the Hellcats' Pub." And third: "When a Hellcat shows up, it causes a good deal of unsettledness in men's minds."

Cha's knowledge on piracy grew exponentially those days, for yes, the minutes grew into hours, and the hours into days. Patiently Cha waited amidst the idle nonsense and laughter, the holiday frolic and horse play. It was a pain to get a Quafe; kafak stayed non-existant. She hadn't been prepared for these difficulties, yet she wore the burden of neglect brave, and in silence.
How she longed for that first kill! Occasionally she tried to catch the look of a rare Hellcat, the way one does an Interbus flight attendant in turbulence: her smile was all Cha had. Invariably the Hellcat in question - all impeccable garmentry, flair and devastating elegance - would hurry by, nod friendly, and brightly say: "Soon."

She discovered waiting was an art that takes great skill. She learned why pirates sometimes don't do anything and also the process by which they don't do anything. They would be waiting "just a couple more minutes" regardless of how much time had actually passed already; those monotonous minutes were just a fact of piracy life.

Time ticking away, as she gazed idly into space turned out to be some of life's most quintessentially human moments. To wait is to stop reacting to the external world, and to explore the internal one. It is in these times of reflection that people often discover something new, whether it is an epiphany about a relationship (she came to realize that it wasn't going anywhere, but who cared? She was free, he was free, and inbetween his bedmanners were of extreme quality) or a new theory about the way the universe works (what if all of this was merely an illusion, a grand web of random data she was caught in; where she was no more than a digital toy, randomly exploited by some bored superentity with universal power and an aptitude for wasting time?).
Yes, many people emerge from boredom feeling that they have accomplished nothing. But is accomplishment really the point of life? Those were the days she was content with growing old here, withering away in the grip of her own thoughts, stuck like the oatmeal to the bottom of her daily bowl, the only minor setback being the absence of kafak. How time flies when one has fun!
"Soon" became a word of lesser relevance. One day soon she would be dead. People would look back at her life, and they would tell each other how her path to greatness had laid in total sacrifice for the greater good. So sure of victory at last is the courage that can wait.

Occasionally, she would jump out of her glassy-eyed drooling state of nothingness. Then she wanted to saturate these empty moments either with kafak (which always was impossible), or with productivity, communication, and the digital distractions offered by her less than slick mobile device. She then found herself amazed of the advantages that waiting actually could offer - so many practical benefits that she couldn't even begin to list them all.
She cleaned out her bag. She unearthed an array of peculiar things she didn't even remember what they were for, why she had kept them, or how they had gotten into her bag in the first place.
She made plans to relieve the murky economic climate of her wallet. Saving money on food by growing her own! She drew extensive plans for her very own greenhouse, right here at the bar. She was sure she could find plenty of sod around here, although she would have to collect it at night.
She polished her table so shiny she could see her face in it, and installed a daily tour of emptying all ashtrays, fruitlessly hoping an indebted bartender would bring real kafak.
She unsuccessfully explored all possible means of attaching the orphanaged heel back to her boot; duct tape of course proved to be withstanding the longest to the extensive tests she consequently subjected the boot to.
She made lists of Advanced Pirating Techniques (for instance: "during a fight, fighting insults are required. In the event both participants are still alive at the end of the fight, the participant with the superior insults shall be declared the victor." Or "no pirate shall attend a movie with less than an Arrrr rating", and "a pirate may tell any tale of swashbuckling without being called on the details, as long as at least 51% of the story is true".)
She practiced incorporating pirate terminology into her everyday speech. She learned that a pirate does not use the word "Fabulous". Ever. Furthermore, pirates do not say "please" or "thank you" - no sir, the phrase "yarrr, i'll probably kill you tomorrow" is an acceptable alternative for "thank you". Hmm. She scratched that, and clarified: "yarrr" seemed to be a perfectly acceptable answer to any question.
Finally, she learned to knit.

Waiting can have devastating effects on good people, causing them to go astray morally. Cha too fell victim to this truth.
One time, she jerked awake. She sat for a moment, and then realized that a/ before her was placed a mug of real kafak and b/ she had found, totally unexpected, a suitable victim for her first kill.
The coldness of the kafak slowly drifted to her dulled synapses. This was truely unforgiveable. The adrenalin began to rush through her veins. She grasped the rubber grip of her pistol (she always carried this with her, from ever since her childhood days when her grandma had taught her how to make apt use of it), and creeped slowly and singlebooted around the room. Nobody paid even the slightest attention. She jumped up behind her seated target and screamed: "Heat it, or i'll shoot!" The bartender indeed stood up, slowly turned around, hands in his pockets, and as Cha squirted the water at his chest, she knew from how he towered over her she had made a grave mistake. "Forgive me! Forgive me!" she cried, her hands clasped in an attitude of prayer. "I swear, i swear by everything holyl I'll drink it any way it is served!".
It was the only incident that she caused there, blinded momentarily by arrogance. The bartender never made any allusion to her error after that. She didn't dare to move away from her table anymore regardless, and never objected to the various states her drinks and meals were delivered in. Her politeness derived not from a recognition of the bartender's cooking qualities or serving virtues but from the fear he instilled in her. If so inclined, he could, and would probably kill her. Luckily he has not abused his power. In the exercise of his sway over Cha he was moderate, not the least bit capricious, and, one might even say, constitutional. He might have dismissed the idea of doing away with Cha - so long as she gives him no cause, which she up until this day doesn't plan to.
Cha lapsed into a slightly petulant silence as she pondered the implications. Waiting in great humbleness - such is the fate of Hellcat applicants. Soon.

Then, one day, the unthinkable happened.
Mynxee walked in, and said "Let's go." Yes, she simply said "Let's go", just like that.

Cha took a deep breath, shook off the giddy whirl of contemplation and, with detached countenance, stepped out of the bar, and into piracy.

Tuesday, May 12, 2009


The barroom Cha entered was huge and lavishly furnished with sofas, couches and all manner of soft furnishing, with some tables rearmost. The plush pile on the carpet deadened the sound of her bare feet. It was very crowded.
Cha caught an escaped hairtress back into her ponytail, settled herself down tidily at a table - and started getting extremely nervous.
Perhaps a casual trouser suit would have been more suitable for the interview. Less fussy and constraining than the slim line knee length skirt and white blouse she now wore. She crossed her bare feet back under her chair, in hopes noone would notice. Ahh - she should have just been sticking to her pilot suit, just like most of the visitors here did - more appropriate for an action lady. She put on the serious professional smile she had been practising in front of the mirror and waited.

Clearly the Hellcat's pub was one of them fancy, newfangled social networking sites. She sat in a cacophony of conversation, with her future colleagues immersing themselves in subjects as wide-ranging as the prospects for the total annihilation of a rifter to the pending eradication of an aeon. Nope, she definitely wasn't surrounded by a flock of mildminded sheep.

She smiled at the person next to her. When he asked what was wrong, she told him she was glad he was her new friend. He smiled so happily back to her, that Cha wondered whether she had worded that in the best possible way.
There was another gentleman all over her, blaming on his boots the faults of his feet. "Ahoy me hearty!", he grinned. She thought of an appropriate answer, like "Avast, young brigand, is that a yardarm in your dungarees, or are you just glad to see me?" or "You are giving me the desire to haul some keel in vacuum space", but she refrained. She smiled sweetly.
Another person, clad in a somewhat disorganized uniform, walked up to her table and pointed to her in unsteady manner. "Real pirates have chest hair. If you cannot grow chest hair, you are either a cabin boy, or a Hellcat." Dousing oneself in beer obviously was a perfectly acceptable replacement for a shower. If the stout fellow's breathing would increase even more, then Cha would run screaming for the exit. She informed him that he was a scurvy dog.
When the bartender told her that he was out of kafak, she felt a terrible rage build up inside her, spreading through her limbs; and when it would get to her fingertips she was going to jump out of her chair and start hitting him again and again and again. She told him a Quafe would do.

After some time and varying entertainment like described above, she started wondering where the Hellcats were. Or rather, that was not the question. "Why am i here, that is the question," she asked herself. But she was blessed in this, that she happened to know the answer. Yes, in this immense confusion one thing alone was clear. She was waiting for Mynxee to come.*

And as if those musings were a heavenly sign, the pub bar doors slid automatically open and she swept in, nodding queenly greetings about when being met with various forms of adulation.
Cha raised half from her chair, trying to decide if she would have to curtsey or not. With a swanlike assurance, effortlessly and swiftly covering the distance from the entrance to her table, Mynxee glided towards her as if being carried along on a magic carpet, rounded the table and graciously shook Cha's hand.
Cha was truely dazzled.
Mynxee was in a very good mood, full of energy and smiling expansively when she turned to Cha. Her grey eyes focussed like a bellicose on hers. "I am nothing more than a little heap of bones in the presence of a legend", Cha knew in all modesty. Mynxee cocked her head and scratched her chin. She was of undefineable age, and had an accent straight out of Evati. Her voice soothed like a lullaby, but Cha sensed that she could beat one silly if she had to. She interrogated Cha briefly, questioning her about her capacities and many other things, and at the end she told her she could not let her in yet.
"Just because the job's a bit unusual doesn't mean we shouldn't observe proper procedure", she said, and Cha completely understood.
"You will be picked up in due time, and you will get some proper educations", she said, and Cha nodded.
"We will know soon if you're a true pirate", she said, and Cha agreed - indeed: you arrr, or you arrr not.
Mynxee abruptly rose from the table: "And now, i go shopping!"
Cha knew she just had learned her first code. For it is clear that a pirate does not "go shopping". Unless by "shopping", you mean remorseless bloodshedding.

Soon, Cha would go shopping too. Soon.

* paragraph and boot problems shamelessly stolen

Sunday, May 10, 2009


A pirate does not ask for directions. He relies only on his gut feeling, a compass, or a treasure map. Cha packed all of her possessions, leaving her Gerek quarters utterly bare, and set course to Evati, sneakingly relying on her ship comp instead. It wasn't that far off in distance, but it would turn out to be a travel of epic dimensions, culturewise at least.

You can't spell pirate, without "irate". There's a reason for that, so Cha thought it wise to not anger the steadily growing amount of vessels flagged with white skulls on red fields when one after the other targetted her. She felt like a toy being picked up, tossed along and caught by the next one, waiting at the following gate. Twice an angry cloud of hornetslike ammunition rained on her armor, but she made it alive and well, and crashed rather than docked into the first station after the Evati gate.

She hummed contentedly as she made the short journey down from the docks to the Hellcats' pub, happy with the sound of her booted heels clicking on the floor. She didn't know if it was really important to wear boots - in fact she knew not much about pirates, except from the stories her grandma had told her, but there always seemed to be boots involved. And swearing. "Pirates shall always wear boots. Flip-flops are right out", her grandma had said, and so Cha wore boots.
The station turned out to be a gordian knot of endless corridors, stretching ahead in a perplexing amount of directions, with one common factor: pirates of the male kind criss-crossing her path. An abundancy of them, and all she could do was hope that they wouldn't physically act on the whims of the flesh, expressed in the most vivid wordings. On her polite inquiry a tall blonde ponytailed Gallente, his eyes remaining fixed on everything below her face, made the gesture of sweeping his hand in the direction she was supposed to go, and Cha complied hurryingly.
She tried to make her moves swiftt and elegant like a cat that knew her alleyways, but she tripped regardless. No pirate shall discuss his feelings, unless his feelings include gutting a man from stem to stern and spilling his entrails, and thus she did her best to ignore the rise of shameless comments. "Bastards!" she seethed.
She scrambled back on her feet and tried to act breezy and casual, wiped a rebellious dreadlock out of her face and looked down in shock. Her left heel had given out. She grunted, zipped both her boots down and off, and pushed them in her sack with most needed belongings. Barefooted, but in control, determination welling up inside her, she went ahead. Pirates do not cry, except in the case of the loss of a shipload of rum.