SGT Lambert

I wasn’t born in high-sec—I was forged there.
Wars for hire. Corp hits. Station-docking shakedowns.
If someone wanted a problem erased, they wired the ISK and I pulled the trigger.
Simple. Clean. Efficient.
My killboard grew into something people whispered about in local.

I didn’t fight for honor.
I didn’t fight for loyalty.
I fought because I was very, very good at making other capsuleers explode.

But the thing about living as a weapon?
Eventually someone points you at a target you can’t stomach.
One contract. One order. One line crossed.
And suddenly the blood on your hands isn’t just “part of the job” anymore.

So I broke the contract.
Burned the bridges.
Let the old me die with the wrecks floating behind me.

Now I fly under no master’s flag.
Trying—maybe failing—to carve out something like redemption in a cluster that doesn’t believe in it.

I won’t pretend I’ve turned good.
But I’ve stopped being someone else’s monster.
And if the darkness comes for me again…

…I’m still more than capable of sending it home in a pod.