Death's Dick

Not a bad comeback I suppose.  Damay thinks to himself, cruising around The Bleak Lands.   Not a whole lot of kills to be honest, but I'm still in the green at least.  The Rifter he'd been flying was an unfamiliar shield fit sporting rockets.  He had to use the new loadout since the Empire mandated changes to all racial frigates made his favorite armor and nos fit fall behind the pack.  But he would be damned if his glorious return would be had in anything other than his favorite hull.

Sir, Fed Navy Comet in that small complex.  His on-board AI stated.

"Thanks babe, but you know as well as I do that if he knows his ass from a blaster I'd be turned into pulp in that fight."  He laughed in return.  That hasn't stopped me from taking those odds before... Maybe all the frig changes have made it a winnable affair. 

"Well shit I could at least see what this beauty can do."  He said, nose diving the Rifter right into the plex.

The Comet sat perfectly at the edge of scram range inside the Amarr military installation, Well that's probably not good.  Locked, scrammed, shot.  Damay's shields dropped to 3/4 in two volleys and the Comet hadn't even hit armor yet.  Shit.  The fight was short and communication from the Comet pilot came in immediately.

"Damn man I respect the balls it takes to initiate that fight but why the hell suicide into a superior ship like that?"

Damay smiled in his pod and replied, "Because sometimes you just have to punch Death in the dick and dare him to do something about it."

To Short Lives

The place looked exactly like he left it, though a thin layer of dust covered everything in the cramped Captain's Quarters of Damay Aprionati.  He threw his palm device on the table on his way to the liquor cabinet.  On it was a message signed: "Resa Lesnon, I'll miss you."

He downed the first shot and poured another before walking over to the couch, plopping down and commanding the room's AI to display his combat report on the main holopanel.  "Five months huh? That's far too much tannin', boostin' and fuckin'."  He muttered to himself, and ordered up any and all new ship, alliance, corporation, region, and market information on surrounding panels.  "Shit I missed a lot,"  He said, settling in for a long night.

Hours of learning information in antiquated fashion, and a good handle of rum later Damay closed his eyes and sunk back into the couch.  His dreams were an amalgamation of cold rusted steel and warm soft flesh, deep purple eyes and bright red explosions with an overwhelming sense of power, satisfaction and lust.

When he woke he poured one more drink and removed his coat.  A tattoo adorned his chest now, a rat standing on its hind legs, soaked in blood from nose to haunch, and screaming in defiance of some unseen enemy.  "AI, prep me a rifter." He said, and raised a glass in mock toast.

"To short lives and long battles."