Chapter Eight Epsilon

Redder Pastures

ISK Balance: 8,401,545.90

After spending significant chunks of time flitting between the stellar objects of FAT-6P, hoping to spectate a siegebreaking expedition of apocalyptic proportions, I'd accumulated little more than screenshots and witnessed no more than ceaseless camps and the occasional gank. I had hoped - and even tried on a few occassions - to act the part of the vulture and snatch up some loot or salvage from one of the siegers' kills, but they guarded the carcasses of their prey too well.

Still, I was enjoying presenting myself as a freelance journalist, a no-holds-barred war correspondent who would stop at nothing to bring the EVE public the truth about the war that rages on the fringes of the galaxy.

In reality, it's nowhere near that noble. It's really just for all of our amusment, for a way to escape the more mind-numbing aspects of the game, for those who can't be there to get a taste of it, and of course for the selfish desire to see numerous expensive ships go down in flames.

Even though I was having fun being "that goddamned neutral cloaking Stabber" - to my knowledge, I have never been referred to in this manner, though I fancy I have in some private channel or another - there wasn't enough pod-juice being spilled. My map tempted me with the dying embers of a battle in OOYZ-G, and I plotted a route.

It wasn't long before I was deep in BoB-claimed space, and to my delight there was a roving gang of Knights of the Southerncross and Freelancer Alliance pilots terrorizing the space lanes. They seemed competent, and I figured they might get some kills despite how devoid of life BoB space often is - even near the frontlines.

I did get to see them get one kill; unfortunately, it was me. Understandably, they didn't take kindly to having a neutral tail them, and despite my best efforts at haphazard guesswork I jumped right into their formation just as they were aligning for their next jump. The bulk of the fleet seemed to waver with indecision; their sublight engines kept their ships aligned, but they did not jump. Then, with the mystical coherency of fleet communication, their smaller ships turned tail and began combing the fifteen kilometer radius around the stargate. It wasn't long before they found me.

Perhaps you remember those livestock I obtained along with the cloak that kept Lux Esto intact so long - the pilot that podded me, when contacted, told me the livestock had survived, and he would pass on the message that they were to be cared for and shuttled around the galaxy in whatever cargo hold they graced. I entertain the hope those livestock will never be destroyed, and each new looter will carry the cattle with him or her into the depths of the stars. It's a bit like Lord of the Rings. But with cows.

Time to obtain yet another Stabber, and head back south. I still haven't made it all the way to the southern edge, and the wartime diversions may have to be ignored if I'm ever to make it there.