0.26
Aviai Irta Anneto
Oct 4, 2025(0y)
Oct 4, 2026(116d)
Combat
Kills0
Losses3
Efficiency0%
ISK
Destroyed0
Lost144.08m
ISK Eff.0%
Solo
Solo Kills0
Solo Ratio0%
Final Blows0
Points0
Other
NPC Losses0
NPC Loss Ratio0%
Avg Kills/Day0.00
ActivityInactive
Caldari
Deteis
0.26
Aviai Irta Anneto
Birthday
Oct 4, 2025 (0 years old)
Next Birthday
Oct 4, 2026 (116 days)
Combat
Kills0
Losses3
Efficiency0%
Danger Ratio100%
ISK
Destroyed0
Lost144.08m
ISK Efficiency0%
Balance-144076041
Solo
Solo Kills0
Solo Ratio0%
Final Blows0
Points0
Other
NPC Losses0
NPC Loss Ratio0%
Avg Kills/Day0.00
ActivityInactive
No data available
Bio
The Faulty Component
They don't call me by my name much anymore. In the logs, I’m just a sub-optimal asset. To the boss, I’m a cautionary tale. To Donny D, I’m a line item that won't stop bleeding red.
I used to be part of the inner circle. I understood the math, the yields, and the cold beauty of the Caldari way. But I made the one mistake you can’t come back from in the Gospel of Green: I let my conscience interfere with the bottom line. I looked at a struggling colony we were stripping and saw people instead of planetary commodities. I hesitated. I chose "right" over "rich."
In this fleet, that’s not just a mistake—it’s heresy.
JesusOfGreen didn't exile me. That would have been too merciful. Instead, he kept me as a living reminder of what happens when "morality" infects a machine. He demoted me to the bottom of the ladder, stripped my titles, and handed me the keys to the rust-buckets.
Now, I’m the one who goes in first. When a wormhole looks unstable or a gas cloud looks like it might ignite, I’m the one Donny D sends into the breach.
I spend my days "rock munching" in the shadows of giants, chewing through low-yield Veldspar while the "real" miners take the choice ore. I spend my nights "gas huffing" in the silent, terrifying pockets of Anoikis, the hiss of the intake my only company as I pray the sleepers don't wake up before my hold is full. It’s lonely, dangerous work, and I do it in a ship that feels like it’s held together by spite and duct tape.
Donny watches my telemetry like a hawk, waiting for me to slip up again. He doesn't see a pilot; he sees a broken tool that hasn't quite been thrown away yet. He pushes me harder, gives me the worst shifts, and ensures my cut of the profit is barely enough to keep my oxygen recyclers humming.
I’m the screw-up. The one who remembered he was human in a temple built of ISK.
The boss preaches about the "Promised Land" in the deep dark of wormhole space. He sees a throne of minerals. I just see a bigger, lonelier cage. But I keep the lasers cycling and the compressors running. Because in the Gospel of Green, the only thing worse than being a sinner is being a scrap heap.
I munch the rocks, I huff the gas, and I carry the weight of my soul in a fleet that has no use for one.
They don't call me by my name much anymore. In the logs, I’m just a sub-optimal asset. To the boss, I’m a cautionary tale. To Donny D, I’m a line item that won't stop bleeding red.
I used to be part of the inner circle. I understood the math, the yields, and the cold beauty of the Caldari way. But I made the one mistake you can’t come back from in the Gospel of Green: I let my conscience interfere with the bottom line. I looked at a struggling colony we were stripping and saw people instead of planetary commodities. I hesitated. I chose "right" over "rich."
In this fleet, that’s not just a mistake—it’s heresy.
JesusOfGreen didn't exile me. That would have been too merciful. Instead, he kept me as a living reminder of what happens when "morality" infects a machine. He demoted me to the bottom of the ladder, stripped my titles, and handed me the keys to the rust-buckets.
Now, I’m the one who goes in first. When a wormhole looks unstable or a gas cloud looks like it might ignite, I’m the one Donny D sends into the breach.
I spend my days "rock munching" in the shadows of giants, chewing through low-yield Veldspar while the "real" miners take the choice ore. I spend my nights "gas huffing" in the silent, terrifying pockets of Anoikis, the hiss of the intake my only company as I pray the sleepers don't wake up before my hold is full. It’s lonely, dangerous work, and I do it in a ship that feels like it’s held together by spite and duct tape.
Donny watches my telemetry like a hawk, waiting for me to slip up again. He doesn't see a pilot; he sees a broken tool that hasn't quite been thrown away yet. He pushes me harder, gives me the worst shifts, and ensures my cut of the profit is barely enough to keep my oxygen recyclers humming.
I’m the screw-up. The one who remembered he was human in a temple built of ISK.
The boss preaches about the "Promised Land" in the deep dark of wormhole space. He sees a throne of minerals. I just see a bigger, lonelier cage. But I keep the lasers cycling and the compressors running. Because in the Gospel of Green, the only thing worse than being a sinner is being a scrap heap.
I munch the rocks, I huff the gas, and I carry the weight of my soul in a fleet that has no use for one.
Dashboard
Stats
Kills0
Losses0
Efficiency0%
ISK Destroyed0
ISK Lost0
ISK Efficiency0%
Solo Kills0
Solo Losses0
NPC Losses0
Blob Factor0
Active TimezoneUSTZ
Final Blows0
Points0
Activity Heat Map (EVE Time)
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Intel Profile
PlaystyleSolo (0 kills)
Avg Fleet: -