Wednesday, October 10, 2007

Chapter Five Gamma

The Joys of Dying

ISK Balance: 9,571,086.28

Now, as we all know, in EVE there's dying, and then there's dying, the latter usually involving a pod. Pod-death is interesting because it means different things for different people, and among those people there are specific conditions under which being podded has different consequences. Take implants for example - nobody wants to die with those plugged in. I know a few capsuleers who have never been podded, and so keeping their corpse out of the galactic supply of frozen flesh is a matter of pride for them.

Then, there's being podded while you're trying to get somewhere. Having your ship disintegrate into so much salvagable debris while you're in transit - without any real urge to fight - is inconveniencing, but being podded is a real setback. It usually sends you all the way back to square one. Do not pass Go, do not collect 200 dollars.

This happened to me. Thinking I was outrunning the Curse on my tail, I ran smack dab into the interdictor-assisted gate camp that had been specially prepared for my arrival. What happened next is - forgive the graphic analogy - comparable to a prostitute realizing she's been hired to "attend" an Aztec blood ritual when she initially thought she would be walking into a room full of Japanese businessmen and easy cash.

I had made numerous mistakes that had resulted in me sitting inside of yet another interdictor bubble - pondering intensely in the direction of my computer screen - but as the burgeoning diciple of camp-dodging that I have become, I saw a way out. I was near the edge of the bubble, and there was - thankfully - a single object I could warp to without passing through the bubble. It was a moon, but I would have to take my chances. I slammed my engines into overdrive and with practiced timing engaged my microwarp drive. My maneuver sent me wheeling out of the bubble, pulling a tight turn to bring me into line with the moon. I hit warp.

I did not warp. I glanced down and noticed my microwarp drive just beginning to engage, ruining my carefully executed aligning. I suspected I had desync'd, but I didn't have time to fuel such suspicions as the Flycatcher and Curse caught up with me. I was double webbed, double scrammed, nossed, droned and rocketed to pieces. My assailants stopped halfway through my structure, and I thought perhaps they were responding to my offer of ten million ISK in exchange for my sorry hide, but instead they were keeping me chained and flaming in position so another half dozen ships could warp in and get their share of the killmail. A Rapier finally put me out of my misery with a salvo of artillery shells.

As with all post-gank stress syndrome sufferers, I have regrets after I die. I should have done this. I should have done that. In this particular case, I should have shredded that Flycatcher. It's doubtful that would have saved me, but it sure would have made me feel better to see that thing die.

After having a bubble dropped on my pod and being summarily executed, I found myself back in Paye, staring at the Rifter I'd abandoned. I sighed and saddled up.

In the words of their gang leader, "Venal is rough."

No comments: