I decided a while back that when I returned to EVE I wanted to pursue the roleplay aspect of the game more than I had the first time around. As such, Havohej needed to be repurposed but without losing the core ideas I had for the character when I first created it in 2007. Given my experiences in the game so far (and of course that means Havohej’s experiences in the game so far also), I couldn’t very well jump right in to the ArPee pool without there being some sort of catalyst for Havohej’s IC change of direction.

So, deciding to incorporate my six-month-long RL break from EVE into Havohej’s story, I set out to write a (relatively) short bit of fiction describing the reason for his hiatus and the short series of events surrounding his return to action in New Eden’s capsuleer community. That short bit of fiction turned out to be pretty long! I wanted to keep it brief and readable, but at the same time I wanted to convey certain ideas about Havohej and the way he sees things — the way he thinks. For instance, the way he can feel sorry for the displaced refugees liberated from the Ammatar Mandate yet still place no value whatsoever on their actual lives. As it drew on, I decided to split it up.

I’ve been blogging off and on (mostly on) for a while now, some of which has been In Character and some of which hasn’t. However, this is the first time I’ve written something with the intention of having it be a short story or “fanfic.” Here is the first part of what will be a three post series. I hope you enjoy.

It seemed he’d been standing in line for hours before he finally reached the kiosk. The dark-skinned Thukker woman behind the counter barely looked at the disheveled-looking figure entering his PIN into the Trust Partners datapad to pay for his fare into Great Wildlands. He was only one of hundreds of thousands of faceless Matari and she had long since stopped wondering at why so many people would be willing to make such a dangerous journey. All but a few were “dressed down,” in inexpensive clothing so as not to make targets of themselves; after all, they were venturing into Thukker lands. Most were wearing long coats or jackets, quite a few of which featured deep hoods like that of the man purchasing his passage to M-MD3B. After a moment, the datapad blinked green and the woman slid his travel voucher across the counter. “Next.”

Walking past the security personnel into the cordoned off waiting area, he was careful to keep his head low. He was well known around the Trust Partners outpost in Hedaleolfarber, Molden Heath, and he wanted to keep his face obscured in shadow beneath his coat’s heavy hood lest word get out that a capsuleer was aboard this next transport – and one with enemies, at that. He was even traveling with funds from an account set up in an alternate name to avoid detection. Just as he’d found a seat toward the rear corner of the waiting room and was about to put his feet up to relax, another passenger plopped down in the seat beside him putting an abrupt end to any chance for rest before the journey.

“So, what’re you going out there for?” the stranger asked. He was a young man, Brutor and no older than twenty. His clothes were cleaner than most of the other passengers and his leather jacket looked nearly new. But the young man’s manner suggested he definitely knew how to handle himself – in fact, he had the air of a hustler.

“Go away,” the hooded traveler replied. He kept his baritone voice low, wishing to avoid any further undue attention. The youngster wasn’t having any of that, though.

“C’mon, now, that ain’t no way to treat people is it!” he proclaimed, his pitch rising just a little at the end and drawing curious glances from a few of the other waiting passengers. The traveler shrunk down in his seat just a little, pale yellow eyes glaring at the young Brutor. “You look like a man who really don’t wanna be seen. Whatcha runnin’ from?”

“What’s it to you?” the traveler shot back. He was growing more and more annoyed by the second.

“Not the sharing type, huh? That’s cool, that’s cool… no need to get all surly about it!” Met with only a glare, the young man sat back in his chair and looked to be considering a different approach. After long minutes of silence, finally he leaned in close to the hooded traveler and said, “Look, man, I know who you are. I think I can be of use to you.”

The traveler turned a little in his seat to take a second look at this young hustler, as if seeing the man’s eyes would be helpful in determining his gimmick. But the dark young eyes betrayed nothing more than confidence and greed. At least these were things the traveler could understand. “Who am I?” he replied at last. The Brutor chuckled.

“Calling my bluff, eh? Very well, I didn’t expect you to recognize someone like me anyway.” The hustler’s tone turned sour, his next words mumbled more to himself than to the traveler. “Your kind never do.” The Brutor chuckled again, the shadow passing from his face as quickly as it had come. “I served in the damage control crew of a Hurricane-class battlecruiser you piloted; you kept us quite busy with your penchant for overheating those 425-millimeter autocannons, Hav-.” the traveler’s pale grey hand shot out and gripped the Brutor’s forearm, startling him into silence.

“Alright. So you know me.” The Sebiestor’s voice was rough and cold. “What do you want?”

“Straight to business, huh? I don’t know why you’re hiding. I don’t know why you don’t just fly out to M-MD3B yourself, but I bet you’d offer any amount of ISK to make sure nobody else recognizes you, wouldn’t you?” The capsuleer’s face remained steady. When it was apparent Havohej didn’t intend to answer, the Brutor went on, “I don’t want your money. Not for nothing, anyway. I know people in M-M – people you’re gonna need to know if you wanna survive.” The capsuleer’s grip tightened threateningly on his forearm and he quickly continued. “Look, you might be able to pass incognito here in Hedaleolfarber, but you killed too many Angel Cartel personnel to go unrecognized for five minutes in the Wildlands!”

It made sense, and Havohej loosened his hold on the man’s arm slightly. “Why should I trust you?” he asked. “Why shouldn’t I just kill you so you don’t talk and take my chances in the Wildlands alone?”

“I owe it to you to help you,” the Brutor said. When the Sebiestor’s eyes narrowed impatiently, the young hustler went on. “Look, I’ll make this short, okay? When I was a kid, my family was travelling from Orien to Eram. In the lowsec part of the trip, an Amarrian ship intercepted the transport carrying us. Being defenseless, the ship was quickly crippled and boarded. They killed every single adult on board and were in the process of takin’ us kids back to their ship when a small Thukker caravan happened to come by. The Thukkers’ escort cruisers took down the Amarrians in minutes, savin’ all us terrified children from a life of slavery in the Amarr Empire. The Thukkers dropped off those of us who still had family in Ennur… but orphans like me went back to the Wildlands with them.”

“So you’re a Thukker,” Havohej surmised.

“I might as well be. Grew up in a caravan, seen every bit of space from Omist to Venal and learned just about everything there is to know about a spaceship. But anyway, that ain’t what I’m tryin’ to tell you about. About a year ago, our caravan’s leader made a deal to transport some mexallon belonging to the Angels from Muttokon to Skarkon and we came under attack by a capsuleer in a Vexor-class cruiser.” The Thukker shook his head as he recalled the encounter. “It was stupidity on our leader’s part. Four Hoarders, and with no escort… just a couple’a Angel frigates to ‘protect’ us in Molden Heath of all regions… place is as lawless as you get without leavin’ the Republic! The Vexor’s drones were targeting our Hoarders’ warp engines while the cruiser itself destroyed our escort.” He turned to look at Havohej, his face a mixture of fear and wonderment; much like it must have been the day these events took place. “That’s when a Wolf-class assault frigate showed up on the scene. A Wolf called the Wendigo.

“It’s rare enough to encounter a pod pilot to begin with, but two in the same day… the same system… the same fight! Well, we just knew you were there with the Vexor and were all pretty much ready to die by then. But you didn’t fire on us. Instead, you went after the cruiser. We all crowded around our ships’ view ports and watched your assault frigate speed into a tight orbit around the cruiser. We could see the waves of energy put out by your warp scrambler, the gouts of flame erupting from your autocannons as you targeted his drones one by one before finally turning your guns on the cruiser itself.” The young man looked away and his expression changed, his face clouded over. It seemed that he was remembering a detail that he’d let himself forget until now. “We watched you destroy the capsule and scoop the other pilot’s corpse into your cargo hold, too. When we saw that, our hearts sank. We were sure our rescuer wasn’t there to rescue us at all, but another pirate… and then the Wendigo warped away.”

“It’s rare that I take interest in a ship not piloted by capsuleers… unless I’m being paid handsomely,” the pod pilot offered to fill the silence that had followed. It wasn’t that Havohej was touched by the young man’s recollections, though. He just wanted the Thukker to get to the part about why he should be trusted.

“Yeah, I guess,” the Thukker said. “Well, our caravan lost a lot of ISK that day. Our transports couldn’t complete the delivery on time, so we got screwed out of our full commission. And what we did get wasn’t even enough to cover all of the repairs so our leader told us we’d probably have to find another caravan to take up with. But I didn’t want to crew haulers anymore – I wanted to crew a fighting ship, maybe even have my own command one day.”

“So you sought out the capsuleer who you felt was responsible for your continued longevity,” Havohej filled in the blanks.

“That’s right,” the Thukker answered. “I figured if I could be an outstanding crewman on a podder’s ship, and the ship survived long enough, that I might get said podder to vouch for me to one of the megacorporations.” He turned his face toward the capsuleer he once worked for again. “But then you disappeared.”

Pointedly ignoring the implied request for an explanation, Havohej merely asked, “Now what?” After all, no matter how efficiently this Brutor-Thukker had performed his tasks aboard the Perfect Storm he still wasn’t a pod pilot. Havohej had caused the deaths of literally millions of men and women just like this young man and would likely cause the deaths of many more before he died… he owed this insignificant crewman nothing, least of all an explanation. But the younger man wasn’t put off by the capsuleer’s attitude at all.

“Now,” he replied without missing a beat, “I help you get yourself some protection and maybe make contact with a friend or two in M-MD3B and in return, you get me in on the ground floor of the Republic Fleet as a Frigate captain.”

Havohej turned his eyes out over the waiting area and beyond to the mass of people going about their business in the bustling space station as he considered the young man’s offer. He had a few favorable acquaintances in the Republic Fleet’s Security division and he probably could get the aspiring captain a low-level commission. And as much as he hated to think of himself as being vulnerable, it was mental attributes more than anything else that made capsuleers so superior. If someone sought to do him physical harm while he was traveling about in secrecy and unguarded, he would be in trouble; the young man had made a very valid point about his being recognizable to the Angels and their wanting to do him harm…

“Alright,” the capsuleer said finally. “I’ll make you a deal: you get me to the Oasis in one piece and I’ll put you in touch with the right people in the Republic Fleet when I return to Molden Heath.” Havohej paused, considering the young man. “Of course, that means you’ll need to give me a name.”

“Jama’al. Jama’al Wisler.” Jama’al stared at the pod pilot, unsure of how to say what was on his mind without offending the man. Finally, he just said it. “You do know they don’t take just anybody to the Oasis, don’t you?”

“I’ll worry about that,” Havohej assured him. “You just put me in contact with the right people.”

---

They sat rows apart on the Trust Partners transport cruiser and Havohej took the opportunity to contact a Republic Fleet Security officer he’d worked with via NeoCom in hopes of learning more about this Jama’al Wisler character. His agent confirmed Wisler’s story about having been a registered crewman aboard the Hurricane-class battlecruiser Perfect Storm, but was “sorry to tell ya there’s just no record of the man before that. Though he might be connected to a Mr. and Mrs. Wisler who were killed in a Blood Raider attack over two decades ago.” Havo peered out through the view ports at one of the transport’s two Rifter-class escort frigates and tried to let his mind wander.

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