Shutting down my feeds to the InterGalactic summit and rubbing my temples I realize that I need a vacation. For the safety of my crew and the safety of my alliance’s crews, I need a vacation before I snap and go on a rampage that would do a Sansha strike-team proud.
It seems that our efforts in Molden Heath have been noticed, and all sorts of complaints have come from the mouths of our dirt-side immortal brethren. “Its not fair,” they cry when they were the ones who refused to send in their own capsuleers to ensure orbital superiority, “Why should they be able to bomb us at will while we are fighting their troops on planet?”
Sometimes immortals are worse to deal with than children. If they would only realize there was a whole universe outside of their petty planetside wars. Some of them have, and those are the ones cackling with glee as fire rains down from the skies on their foes defenses. Maybe if they realized the cost of orbital superiority, they would quit complaining. Almost a billion ISK lost defending our planetary bombers for a single, unimportant battle.
Granted, that was a bad day. Sometimes no one is even in system to stop us, but the risk is always there. Our operating costs are orders of magnitude larger than theirs and they whine about it not being fair? It makes my teeth ache.
Then some baseliner hussy, connected through their capsuleer-consort’s broadcast system starts giving our boys hell for being who we are, AFTER trying to taunt us with her own sexuality. The others played nice, but I’m not known for that. She disconnected pretty quickly after I blistered her ears a bit. She seemed genuinely shocked at the reaction.
I expect that kind of thing from the masses of humanity though. Most of them don’t even know they lack the brain power to light their own neurons, let alone try to light a cyno. I do expect more from our allies though.
So when word came down from command that a ground force looking to march under our banner was asking for round the clock fleet support for their fighters, I damn near lost it. I could FEEL my muscles spasmodically twitching in my pod. The forces he was asking to be assigned to him were ridiculous, even from a brainless ground-pounder. His earning in a week wouldn’t cover the cost of a single day’s deployment.
I wanted to hurt something. Not the cold, disembodied violence of spaceship combat, or the searing burn of plasma-death that the immortal ground troops experience. I wanted the hot-blooded streetfights of my youth, the hard smacking sounds of flesh on flesh. The hollow pop as the other man’s orbital bone collapsed under your own bare fist.
That’s when I realized it was vacation time. When I start thinking about the past like that, there is a very real danger to the next person to anger me. I needed to unplug and relax. Take a few days among the baseliners, soaking up hot sun and cold spirits in equal proportions.