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."