Mercantile Club is what they call the station, he tells me. The place we’re going, though, is called Perish. Little bolthole where the zaibatsu suits can burn ISK doing off-the-books biz. Things you couldn’t do back home, like this circuit match. In Perish, your virtue is their vice.
And other corpro drek.
Cyber Knights are primo on the nets again, he says, and something about reissued nanocoatings. Buzz keeps building on this match; the right names in the right circles asking the right questions, and we’ll be pulling fast kreds. Just gotta finesse it.
Except odds are already slanted toward our corner, ojaabun.
Comms panel shows the station sweeping into view. Caldari architecture… it’s the only proof I need that these people have abandoned God. Flying as cargo in an impious country, Lord; may You guide this pilot’s hands.
Nerves? Just torqued for the fight. This opponent’s Matari, and beyond that a pod jockey like you. He’s leering. Quick netdive yields some sporadic chatter on enthusiast channels. A Stiletto pilot with a rep, complete with personal branding: lemon yellow splatterskull on fuschia gloss. Definitely synaptic overtuning, which wouldn’t interfere with capsule hardwiring, but probably no B4C boneweave, since she’s chipped for speed. No holos, though. This circuit really is off the books.
Hypothetical: tackler, she’ll strike first, pinpoint precision with maximum force, something like a herza-drebe. Get me off-balance beforehand to make sure it lands, then evade. Disable, then disassemble. Breaking those ferrimimetic joints will be the key: wrist, elbow, shoulder.
He’s on my ass again about listening. CAST will give you full sponsorship, he says, complete with gasalyon ranking. Go legit. Give them good rikkone here, sell the comeback story and we’re both stacked. No one back home has to know.
God and I will know.