Entry 59 - Mobile

This entry is a basic format of audio recording via neuro-linguistic input. In place of an active camera feed is Senn's recorded DED portrait, along with a digital audio meter, date and time, and a panel displaying the internal system readings throughout the pilot's current vessel including heart rate, stress levels, organ condition, brain activity, blood oxygen levels, and the status of the capsule's nutrient feed to the pilot. 


At the time of recording, it is 0200 hours, and Senn's readings all appear within normal limits. The date indicates that he has been mobile for eight days. His stress levels have elevated slightly, though he appears to be able to ignore the initial discomfort of prolonged pod exposure. In his isolation, it is clear he has settled into the solitary mindset ingrained by military training. 


"At time of recording, I am in orbit above site Beta, distance three-zero-five klicks. Multiple targets confirmed."


A brief pause is punctuated by the activation of the ship's thrusters, which operate at just fifty meters per second, a "run silent" speed with little ambient signature. 


"Slow orbit is being maintained. Visual on advanced ship types - HAC's, recons, third-gens. Strobe confirmed."


The data attached to the video file, sent through secure channels, include captured images of a multitude of ships, bearing signs of all manner of armament, defenses, countermeasures and electronic superiority equipment. Along with them is a solitary image of an unnamed station.


"Primary objective complete. Secondary objective in progress, will advise on next contact with Mother."

Entry 46

The camera has been running for roughly forty minutes. Perched safely on the side of the room, the drone provides a somewhat elevated view of Senn in his casual clothes, pacing around the center of the barren station quarters. Pacing opposite him is a muscular, grey-brown slaver hound. It is not Voodoo, who lies a few yards away on Senn's cot, watching the new beast circle his brother. This hound is significantly larger, and since the camera activated, has been periodically attacking and wrestling with the pilot.


"People say slaver hounds are murderers unless they're raised as puppies," he says in an absent tone, bespeaking the concentration required not to have one's throat bitten out by this beast. "Usually that's true. They can smell fear. They feed off weakness. If they don't like you, they'll eat you."


Even as he finishes his words, the animal lunges for him and tries to close its lethal jaws around his neck. Senn sidesteps the hound and wraps an arm around its throat, catching his hands together and using his body's weight to pin the beast. However, within seconds it has thrashed and bucked its head free, and circles once more. The moments are tense as the two continue their juking, circling and twisting, testing one another.


"In the wild they run with alphas. Despotic hierarchy. The males fight constantly. Prove who deserves to lead."


Again the two lock horns, and again the pilot manages to overpower the larger beast. He never moves to harm it, only to prove he can overpower it, and each time the hound fights back. Slowly, the hound begins to lose its stamina, surprising considering its advantage in weight over the capsuleer.


"Some Blooder officer had this boy aboard his battleship. Mr. Caman found the leech in a complex, along with plenty of friends, crowding one of their cathedrals. Took all the ordinance we had to put them to sleep. When the firefight ended, the only escape pod had a hound in it. Either he had a personal one, or the leech had the heart to give up his own."


This time, the animal tries to jump upright to push Senn over with both paws, but the pilot uses its weight to his advantage and flings it on its side. The hound scampers to its feet and rushes in for a vicious strike, capturing Senn's arm in its teeth. The pilot grits his jaw and breathes through the sensation of fangs sinking into his flesh, blood seeping around the hound's jowls. It stares up at him with wild eyes, its ears flat against its skull, the fur around its shoulders bristled imposingly. Senn holds back its shoulder, sparing himself being clawed at, and leaving the two in a standstill.


"You're a fighter," the pilot says. He speaks through clenched teeth, staring squarely into the eyes of the canine. "I think you were waiting for us... I think you guided us to the leech."


After a few more minutes of struggle, the hound's features soften. With no strength left in its body, it lets its jaws part and sinks down towards the floor, lying on all fours and resting its jaw on the ground. Senn takes a moment to treat the bite marks in his arm, brushing away the clotting red fluid on his skin. He crouches down and sets his palm firmly on the hound's head, ruffling its fur slightly. The beast seems suddenly docile.


"You're 'Shaman' now," the pilot instructs. The hound makes no protest.


Voodoo lets out an excited panting sound, padding over to the newest member of the pack and biting his ear in a strange show of acceptance. 

Entry 44

At the time of filming, it is 0200 hours. The camera drone sparks to life and focuses slowly on Senn with a lowlight filter, capturing the slightly disheveled pilot sitting at his desk with his body half-turned towards his holoscreen, watching a competitive sport too far from the camera to clearly make out. The nearby ashtray is even more overfull than usual, visible only by the holoscreen's flickering blue light. Voodoo rests on the bed, having fallen asleep much easier than his companion. 

"The medics can't find a reason for the aches," the pilot states in a wearied voice. "Not a medical one, anyway. They're not sure if the lack of sleep is causing it, or vic versa..."

He takes a lengthy drag of his newest cigarette, following it with a long sip from a canteen in arm's reach. He lifts his hand to his head, pulling back his hair with deliberate sluggishness. It is clear the movement pains him, albeit very slightly. Frustration effects a bit of a shake from his shoulder.

"I can feel the ship around me," he continues in a lucid tone. "It'll catch me by surprise. Walking around, I suddenly find myself trying to activate thrusters that don't exist to move me where I want to go. It's causing a problem, but not one the medics acknowledge or know how to treat." 

The pilot pauses, as he often does, to consider his own thought before voicing it. On-screen, an athlete is driven to the ground by another, stronger competitor. The cheering crowd can be heard, like a rushing wave in the distance.

"I've been roaming more often. The aches stop once the neural jacks are in. Lately, I'm not even performing tasks handed down by my CEO. I'm jumping between systems looking for fights I never find. I'm fine for a day or so after that... then it starts again."

"I shut off my IGS feed, against better judgement... I can't take that sound anymore. Just the same complaints out of a hundred different mouths. Everyone thinks they have all the answers. Everyone thinks they're special. If anything got solved by talking, talking would have solved something by now..."

He finishes off his cigarette and extinguishes it against the mound of others, the ashes flaring up for an instant before dying out. He gets to his feet and staggers to his bed, slowly shoving the still-sleeping slaver hound to one side. "Lets try this again," he mumbles in a defeated voice, the camera feed shutting off as the two animals fall into a heap and the holoscreen shuts off. 

Entry 20

When the camera feed starts up, Senn is a couple yards away and engaged in his usual routine of exercise, swinging a metal kettlebell in a wide arc, the motion straining the muscles partly revealed by his casual outfit. It hearkens images of the traditional training of the Caldari military to one's mind. He finally pauses to set the weight aside, grabbing an already damp towel from a nearby table to clear the beads of sweat from his short-haired head. Voodoo lies on his side not far away, panting in his sleep.

"A Maller pilot drifted into Amod earlier today," he begins, letting out a quick exhale to encourage his lungs' purging of used air. "They were fresh out of the Imperial Academy, too young to recognize a probing covert ops ship. Milo's ship couldn't engage, but once we had a lock, Con and I warped to close range and put the target down. It was the first kill our CEO wasn't orchestrating. The first confirmed kill on my record."

He brushes the cloth across his synthetic eyes, removing the liquid percolated in the sliver lenses. He lays the towel in his palms and dusts them off as well, leaving the cloth in his hands as he continues speaking, his head slightly lowered.

"It wasn't too long ago I made the same mistakes. Three months later, I'm in danger of getting burned by the State, and picking off straggling prey." 

The pilot tosses the towel aside and returns to his desk, the camera drone following along with a gentle whir of its motors, settling near the edge of the desk and adjusting the focus of its lens. Senn reaches for the newest addition to his armory, a sturdy automatic pistol of higher quality than his older weapons.

"AP5 Kukri," he explains, fiddling with the pistol as he begins to strip it to check for damages the dealer might have neglected to mention prior to the purchase. "The action sends the recoil down into the fist. Twenty rounds on fully automatic, every one will find the target. I bought two."

There's another pause in his speech as he strips out the magazine from the weapon, checking its edges for nicks or burrs, momentarily seeming to drift into thought. It lasts only an instant, however.

"Galnet has been lighting up with hits on the Angel Cartel. Without solid evidence, I can only deduce so much. But it sounds like certain members are drawing too much attention and it's costing them dearly. Furthermore, one of the individuals attempted an infiltration of Stillwater. He was amateur, but it was cause for concern. I've been asked to step up security. The odds of a breach are down to almost nothing."

When the firearm has been reassembled, he lines up a shot against an imagined enemy and slowly depresses the trigger, testing the smooth action with an empty chamber.

"My employer is arranging a meeting with an Angel CEO. Sounds like someone in the real cartel is searching for collaboration with AI. Hopefully we'll be getting some work soon enough."

He reaches to switch the video feed off, the pistol still snugly in his hand in a ready position, the light glinting off the muzzle's sharp corner. 

"In this business, I'm sure I'll be getting my hands dirty in no time." 

Entry 15

The camera drone's lens blinks to life and quickly pans around the station room. Programmed to track movement, it zeros in on Senn, who is quietly standing at his desk. He's once again dressed in his ivory duster and BDU, seeming revitalized and eager. On the desk, beside the personal computer sits a worn music player, twangy Matari blues tinnily seeping into the audio feed. The drone whirs across the living space quietly and smoothly, turning to face its owner once in range. The two prosthetic eyes, still a relatively new sight on the pilot's face, are focused intently on his work.

Without picking his head up, he speaks and directs the camera drone's attention as he ambulates.

"We managed to pin down a Wolf several days ago. The pilot was impressive, nearly peeled the shields off my employer's Thrasher before I joined the fight in mine. Even then, she made us work for it."

Senn's hands draw the attention of the camera drone as he picks up a firearm from the desk, a brick of a weapon, boxy and rough in design. It is, however, only slightly larger than his old gun, easily concealed. It appears to have seen at least light use in the past. As he speaks, he field strips it out of habit.

"Fortunately, there was enough of that ship left to salvage a handful of rare parts. The money from the plating on that beast was enough to top off my security budget..."
He clicks the slide of the pistol into place, displaying it for the drone's lens and casting his artificial eyes on the screen, meeting the gaze of whoever might be watching the entry log.

"It's an old Kaisa ten-millimeter, hollow point rounds. Mean stopping power, low penetration. In a crowded room it'll put down one hostile and the rest will be untouched. Maybe a little bloody, but it won't be theirs."

He sets the weapon back down on the table, keeping his gaze on the camera as he holds his hands up in loose fists, displaying the black gloves covering the appendages, pockets of raised material present on the knuckles, the first phalanges, and the backs of the hands. 

"Jack gloves. The pockets are filled with powdered steel. Adds a lot of hurt, lowers the chance of an accidental murder if negotiations break down. Not to mention, it prevents cuts from teeth."

"I also had a galnet interface added to these," he continues, tapping the side of his eye implants lightly. "I have a constant connection on hand, the dive just requires a little concentration. I managed to use that to open links to company channels, audio feed, even affiliated pilot feeds if they grant access... suffice to say, I have my ear to the ground. Not a moment too soon either."

With a smooth motion he lights a cigarette and tucks it between his lips, the lighter disappearing into his pocket just as quickly as it was produced. He breathes deeply of the narrow cylinder, letting it gradually escape his mouth as he checks a number of other devices on the table, most notably his repaired stun knife.

"I finalized the internal security charter with my employer yesterday. Once operations get under way, it's going to be vital to maintain our anonymity in the private and public spheres.We can't afford a leak in our information."

Senn turns on his heels, apparently ready to depart for the day. Before he reaches the door, he pauses and about-faces, nearly bumping into the camera drone following after him. He reaches for the buttons of his trench coat, peeling the folds back to display a black, gridded vest.

"Nearly forgot, bought this too. Class two, stands up to anything below assault rifle rounds. Now, I've got to attend to some last-minute business. I get the feeling my employer will need some mobility if his plans start picking up speed."

With that, he closes up his coat and turns back to the door, opening it with a press of the keypad beside the door jam. If one were to pause the feed, they could clearly see the ignition key to a planetary wheeled vehicle dangling from his fingers.

Entry 11

As the camera feed awakens once more, it becomes apparent the owner has made some additions to the device. The screen, though still not top quality, is now that of a modest-quality camera drone, the resolution now clear enough to see Senn's station quarters. The drone whirs faintly in the background, hovering somewhere near the wall to give a clearer view of the room.

Other than the bare station walls, grey-blue metal and plastics of the most minimal construction, there is little else to define the living space. On one wall rests a flat holoscreen, just forty-three centimeters in size. Close beside is a tall, double-doored tool cabinet serving as an armoire and armory. A cot large enough for one body and lacking a headrest is tucked beside a simple yard-wide desk bearing papers, a perpetually full ash tray, empty boxes of cigarettes, a personal computer, and a stun knife. On the floor beside it sit two silver bowls, tarnished with use.

There are no personal effects outside of clothing and weapons to be seen.

The pilot himself is on the other side of the room, dressed in his uniform pants and undershirt, tossing a black rubber ball against the metal wall, producing soft clinks as he repeatedly catches and returns the item. Though the distance is decent, the motions are effortless. The camera focuses its lens on him, though he is at an awkward angle that cuts off the view of his head. His voice, however, is clearer than before.

"I've been promoted to head of internal security," he states flatly. "I am surprised my employer entrusted me with the position, considering my brief time in the corporation. But it provides me the opportunity to ensure both the company's safety, and my own. The last thing I need is to lose my only job opportunity and start starving again."

A quiet jingling is heard as Voodoo plods across the floor, his tongue hanging from his mouth and clumsy panting escaping therefrom, his tags swinging beneath his jaws as he scampers to his food bowl, ravenously devouring the contents. When he's thoroughly sated he hops up onto Senn's bed, laying on his side for a nap. 

"I'm saving a handful of ISK to better prepare myself for the position. I'm uncertain if I'll be expected to provide personal security as well. I am willing and able, should that be the case. But I could use a better firearm if that's the case, and my knife is in desperate need of a battery... and, knowing the people we'll be dealing with, some armor wouldn't be a bad idea."

He pauses in the game of catch he's been playing, moving close to the wall and starting anew - this time, however, he doesn't let the ball touch the ground, simply dribbling it against the flat surface with his fingertips in quick succession.

"Furthermore, I've rethought my pursuits in the field. We seem to run across more than our share of cruisers, battlecruisers, even battleships at times. We don't have the strength to fight with brute force. But subtlety and shock make better weapons than clubs... I ran further simulations using the stealth bomber bases. I was pleased with the damage readings. But just as last time, I ran into physical complications; trying to target at optimal range meant I was now putting all my visual focus into high-resolution feed at seventy kilometers. I nearly caused another overflow of information feed."

After a few minutes of his idly game he gives the ball a strong throw, making it bound around the room. As it comes up from behind him he throws his hand behind his back,catching the sphere just as easily as with his earlier practice.

"The good news is that the medics said the operation was successful. The nerve bundle and tissue were ideal for the procedure. I suppose I should thank AnimaSys for doing such a fine job of genetic screening. My sight is up to six-three. The digital feed is flawless and the miniaturized motion sensor array increases my all-around acuity of perception. Updatable, too, I'd be surprised if it didn't come into play with this security job, too." 

He pauses to look down at the orb in his hand, giving it a gentle toss towards the hound on his bed, who eagerly slides off the cot to toy with it himself. Senn walks towards the camera drone, passing his hands over his face in a calming habit, slicking his hair back in the process. As he picks up his head and the camera drone's field of vision captures him fully, his face is visible for just an instant as he reaches up to shut off the feed. Where grey-blue eyes sat in his sockets, two gunmetal caps have now been seamlessly fused into his bone structure, no more protruding or thick than a pair of snow goggles. Only a pencil-thin sliver lens and panel grooves break the smooth matte surface of the metal. 

"Signing off."

Entry 07

The camera feed begins, flickering as always. The man pictured on the screen is moving with tired motions. Senn comes into focus, his eyes rimmed beneath by petechia, a wearied expression on his face. He speaks in a voice concealing uncertainty with forced stoicism. "I managed to load the data on a Claw-class frigate into a simulator program. I ran it a few times, while I had some downtime."

He pauses and brushes one hand against his forehead, pulling back the short hairs on his head. Where he usually is seen wearing his ivory coat and uniform, he now wears only a sleeveless white undershirt and his BDU pants, exposing the pale skin of his arms. 


"I could handle it at low speeds. It managed to get up to almost a thousand meters per second, just like the Thrasher. The weapons systems can't penetrate much, but it's the immobilization features that I think will benefit the company. Those function perfectly..."

Again he pauses, lowering his eyes in a rueful fashion. He quickly fishes through his belongings, hastily bringing a cigarette to his lips and lighting it clumsily with the silver box he always had on hand. With a deep breath, he takes in as much of the smoke as he can fit in his lungs, exhaling it in a cloud that momentarily blocks the video feed.

"When I activated the microwarpdrive, the velocity reached two-point-five thousand. As soon as it hit three thousand, the simulator read my blood pressure spiking. I blacked out before I could deactivate the program." He glances up to the camera, the undersides of his eyeballs a misty color of red from multiple blood vessel fractures.

"From what I can tell, it's almost impossible for my body to handle speeds above three thousand. I couldn't target anything... even without the normal forces of physics affecting me in flight, my eyes can't track targets through the pod's interface, and my brain can't register the information... for lack of a better term, even in the pod, my optic nerves can't function fast enough." 


The pilot turns reticent again, gingerly touching the lid of his eye and wincing. He reaches away from the camera, retrieving a pair of white capsules and popping them in his mouth, washing them down with a gulp of water from a canteen.

"Much the same way pilots begin to feel 'phantom ship' pangs from exposure to the pod, it seems the speed of my ship affects my physiology as well. I can't think of a counteraction for that... I have the basic optic implants from the pod pilot academy, maybe..." 


He sighs heavily, standing up and looking visibly frustrated as he walks away from the camera. The words "not enough" are heard in his mumbling, moments before he returns and shuts off the feed.

Entry 02

The video feed crackles as it activates, and the audio picks up a subsequent series of clicks and scrapes as its owner fiddles with a multitude of connectors. Finally, the image settles, and Senn is once again at its center. 

On the mostly-empty desk in front of him are strewn the components of his pistol, some of them taking shape while others lie waiting for their attended care with the cleaning tools and solutions nearby. The pilot speaks absently as he methodically dotes on the weapon:

"I have taken necessary steps to acquire information on a number of ships. My employer has expressed an interest in shifting the company's focus towards frigate-class vessels."

He slides a spring into the body of the disassembled weapon, checking its alignment with barely any effort, suggesting how many times the simplistic, but sturdy projectile weapon has been field stripped. 

"I have therefore made efforts to study the common elements of such ships. My Rifter has been my solitary hull for years, but it pales in comparison to the data I've come across." 

A gentle press of his hand replaces the slide, a loud click sounding as the components join up snugly. He takes a few moments to tuck a cigarette between his lips with his free hand, lighting it in similar fashion, and setting the silver lighter aside. The ashtray just barely visible on the corner of the desk is nearly filled to the brim.

"Some of these ships reach three thousand meters per second. In particular I've noted those constructed with sensor-defeating compounds. It reduces their structural integrity, but diminishes their signature radii to nearly nothing... others can make use of cloaking devices. Altogether, it's a field that would benefit my goals as a pilot..."

One more firm motion fits the pistol's plunger into place. Now finished with his work, Senn brings the weapon up to eye-level and gazes along its edge, giving the slide a firm tug to test the action. He keeps his eyes on the firearm, turning it over in his hand as he speaks.

"I've fitted a microwarpdrive to my destroyer. It's taken a few tries, but I can safely pilot it at speeds above one thousand meters per second. I won't be able to test speeds higher than that until I find a suitable simulator, since I can't afford such a ship yet."

Senn pauses in his work, reaching for what appears to be a clear bag, the contents ovoid and rough in shape. He whistles in a low tone, and the slaver hound trots up to his side, its jaws open and tilted up. He retrieves one of the objects - a dead insect, on closer inspection - and lets it fall into the slavering creature's mouth. 

"I'll have an update tomorrow," he concludes, reaching to shut the video feed off once again, Voodoo still visible in the background opening his jaws in demand of another snack. 

First Entry: User Registration

A video feed activates after streaming coded data, bursts of static interrupting its work. When it settles, it briefly displays the time and date in the primitive font of the most basic programming. The color feed is under-saturated, nearly black-and-white, showing a cramped, minimalistic station room in too high of contrast. 

After a moment of inactivity, a figure comes into view; a young man, dressed in strict uniform clothing, bearing buzzcut black hair and grey-blue eyes, sharp features and a stoic expression. He speaks in a smooth, yet cold tone of voice. 

"My name is Senn Typhos. By request of my employer, I am beginning this entry log for the purposes of maintaining internal security. I have been instructed to provide regular status updates."

He pauses and glanced away from the screen, the minute changes in his expression suggesting he is calculating his words carefully. The high Nehru collar on his ivory trench coat twists as if it's part of his skin. 

"I was born on Osmon IV, second moon, in the incubation pod of an artificial birth facility owned by AnimaSys. It was a local research and development corporation that participated in the civilian re-population program."

Here, the grainy figure reaches off screen, returning with a thin cigarette and a worn silver lighter in hand, the latter object causing a bit of lens flare on the feed. He lights the cigarette with habitual method, then takes a slow drag of the smoke, exhaling it as he speaks.

"The company was terminated due to a lack of funding in YC92. The event stranded several groups of the so-called 'tube children.' I was transfered to a government-run orphanage affiliated with Lai Dai, and educated until age eighteen. I was handed over to an Akiainavas military training program when I passed the pod-pilot candidacy test. I was certified on January 12, YC106."

Again, he pauses and takes in a shallow breath of smoke, glancing off-screen. While more curls of smoke spill from his mouth, there is a sudden jingling sound from the back of the room, where another figure shambles around on four legs. The creature turns its head to meet the gaze of the young man at the desk, before bounding up and revealing itself as a wiry slaver hound. Senn reaches out to ruffle the beast's ears.

"This is Voodoo. He's had all his inoculations. I... think that does it for registration. Signing off." 

Senn reaches towards the camera, squinting one eye as he fiddles with the device while the slaver behind him pants and tilts its head at it curiously. The feed cuts off soon after.