Last ActiveJun 15, 2019
BirthdayJul 13, 2018 (8 years old)
Next BirthdayJul 13, 2027 (266 days)
Combat
Kills1
Losses5
Efficiency17%
Danger Ratio100%
ISK
Destroyed27.63m
Lost26.75m
ISK Efficiency51%
Balance+877.7k
Solo
Solo Kills0
Solo Ratio0%
Final Blows0
Combat Points1
Other
NPC Losses0
NPC Loss Ratio0%
Avg Kills/Day0.00
ActivityInactive
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Bio
A single light swings lazily above the table, intermittently illuminating only the files splayed before you and his hands as he leans on this table directly in front of you. One of these hands, the one with the gold watch and a plain band around the ring finger, temporarily leaves the table, and a few moments later, returns, with a small analog tape recorder. He pushes a button on the side and a soft whirring begins, accompanied by a soft click. The recorder is slid slowly and deliberately in front of you on the table.
It's cold in here. You haven't eaten in 18 hours. You've answered the same questions so many times you can't count them anymore.
He speaks, at last:
"First, you said the booty was in Ardar. See?" He points to your face, apparently proving his point unequivocably. "But just now, you said the booty was in Tash-Murkon." He puts his considerable weight on the table, leans forward, and for the first time, you can see that he's wearing dark aviator shades, his bald head, dry and gleaming under the gentle oscillations of the single orb of waning light. The table creaks under his apparently formidable weight. "You know you just fucked up, right?" He chuckles, flashes half a grin and waits for your response.
As soon as the first syllable leaves your lips in retort, he says again, this time louder:
"You KNOW you just fucked up. Right?" And for the first time, you realize that it's not about the war, or the reparations thereof, nor pure vengeance, this exercise has nothing to do with truth. Again and again, answers are demanded. Again and again, you are chastised for attempting to answer.
Eventually, everybody breaks.
"Well, if you're not going to willingly share your information about the booty..."
He removes his glasses, revealing a solid, flat, socketless plain on each side of the nose where you'd imagined eyes should be, and as you look in horror at the featureless brow, he backhands the glasses directly at your left eye, which connect. As you recoil and fall backward in your chair, your knee bangs the underside of the metal table, confirming that it is, in fact, welded down.
Immediately he's upon your facedown body, pushing your face into the concrete floor and thumbing your belt loop. A deep and inappropriately soothing voice is so close to your left ear that the bass tickles the bottom of your eardrum:
"...then I'm just gonna have to take whatever booty I can find."
It's cold in here. You haven't eaten in 18 hours. You've answered the same questions so many times you can't count them anymore.
He speaks, at last:
"First, you said the booty was in Ardar. See?" He points to your face, apparently proving his point unequivocably. "But just now, you said the booty was in Tash-Murkon." He puts his considerable weight on the table, leans forward, and for the first time, you can see that he's wearing dark aviator shades, his bald head, dry and gleaming under the gentle oscillations of the single orb of waning light. The table creaks under his apparently formidable weight. "You know you just fucked up, right?" He chuckles, flashes half a grin and waits for your response.
As soon as the first syllable leaves your lips in retort, he says again, this time louder:
"You KNOW you just fucked up. Right?" And for the first time, you realize that it's not about the war, or the reparations thereof, nor pure vengeance, this exercise has nothing to do with truth. Again and again, answers are demanded. Again and again, you are chastised for attempting to answer.
Eventually, everybody breaks.
"Well, if you're not going to willingly share your information about the booty..."
He removes his glasses, revealing a solid, flat, socketless plain on each side of the nose where you'd imagined eyes should be, and as you look in horror at the featureless brow, he backhands the glasses directly at your left eye, which connect. As you recoil and fall backward in your chair, your knee bangs the underside of the metal table, confirming that it is, in fact, welded down.
Immediately he's upon your facedown body, pushing your face into the concrete floor and thumbing your belt loop. A deep and inappropriately soothing voice is so close to your left ear that the bass tickles the bottom of your eardrum:
"...then I'm just gonna have to take whatever booty I can find."
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