5.01
Mark Szymanski
Aug 17, 2010
Mar 2, 2009(17y)
Mar 2, 2027(189d)
Combat
Kills11
Losses9
Efficiency55%
ISK
Destroyed1.16b
Lost1.64b
ISK Eff.42%
Solo
Solo Kills0
Solo Ratio0%
Final Blows2
Points11
Other
NPC Losses0
NPC Loss Ratio0%
Avg Kills/Day0.00
ActivityInactive
Gallente
Intaki
5.01
Mark Szymanski
Last Active
Aug 17, 2010
Birthday
Mar 2, 2009 (17 years old)
Next Birthday
Mar 2, 2027 (189 days)
Combat
Kills11
Losses9
Efficiency55%
Danger Ratio100%
ISK
Destroyed1.16b
Lost1.64b
ISK Efficiency42%
Balance-474003300
Solo
Solo Kills0
Solo Ratio0%
Final Blows2
Points11
Other
NPC Losses0
NPC Loss Ratio0%
Avg Kills/Day0.00
ActivityInactive
Nothing in the last 7d
Bio
Born in the dark. Forged in silence. Feared in the void.
He was born beneath the decks of a failed Gallente mining rig, long since abandoned and sealed by CONCORD for reactor instability. He wasn't registered in any database. No birth record. No education. No bloodline but rust and darkness. He learned to move quietly between cold bulkheads, learned to listen, and eventually—learned to steal.
At 13, he slipped aboard a salvager in lowsec. When the crew spaced a stowaway from another deck, he learned a second lesson: survival has no morality.
At 17, he jacked a Navitas off a quiet moon and started running courier missions no sane pilot would touch. Drugs. Implants. Guns. Bodies. He didn’t ask questions—only scanned gates and counted warp cycles. For every delivery, he rewired a little more of his clone, taught himself fittings, D-scan mechanics, and how to navigate the underbelly of empire space.
At 20, he was flying a Vexor like it was born into his blood.
By 25, he joined the war. Not for loyalty. For purpose. Federation High Command wouldn’t list his name. He didn’t ask for stripes. He asked for clearance and a nav beacon.
He flew missions others passed on. Quiet objectives. Cloaked deployments. Asset retrievals from Amarrian relic zones and Caldari shadowposts.
No glory. Just results.
After the ceasefires, he vanished from the scope. Some said wormhole. Some said nullsec. But stations in Solitude and lowsec Gallente space started showing signs of organized silence. Miners untouched. Pirates chased from belts. Wrecks looted with surgical speed.
They call him by different names now. “Voidwatch.” “Deadlink.” His clone imprint is never in the same place twice. But if you see an MTU vanish in the middle of a dead-end system, you’ll know.
He doesn't take contracts. He watches patterns. He bookmarks structures no one uses and waits three days to see who comes back.
Not a pirate. Not a savior. Just a survivor who outgrew the noise—and learned how to bend it.
If you're reading this, you've scanned too far. Turn back.
He was born beneath the decks of a failed Gallente mining rig, long since abandoned and sealed by CONCORD for reactor instability. He wasn't registered in any database. No birth record. No education. No bloodline but rust and darkness. He learned to move quietly between cold bulkheads, learned to listen, and eventually—learned to steal.
At 13, he slipped aboard a salvager in lowsec. When the crew spaced a stowaway from another deck, he learned a second lesson: survival has no morality.
At 17, he jacked a Navitas off a quiet moon and started running courier missions no sane pilot would touch. Drugs. Implants. Guns. Bodies. He didn’t ask questions—only scanned gates and counted warp cycles. For every delivery, he rewired a little more of his clone, taught himself fittings, D-scan mechanics, and how to navigate the underbelly of empire space.
At 20, he was flying a Vexor like it was born into his blood.
By 25, he joined the war. Not for loyalty. For purpose. Federation High Command wouldn’t list his name. He didn’t ask for stripes. He asked for clearance and a nav beacon.
He flew missions others passed on. Quiet objectives. Cloaked deployments. Asset retrievals from Amarrian relic zones and Caldari shadowposts.
No glory. Just results.
After the ceasefires, he vanished from the scope. Some said wormhole. Some said nullsec. But stations in Solitude and lowsec Gallente space started showing signs of organized silence. Miners untouched. Pirates chased from belts. Wrecks looted with surgical speed.
They call him by different names now. “Voidwatch.” “Deadlink.” His clone imprint is never in the same place twice. But if you see an MTU vanish in the middle of a dead-end system, you’ll know.
He doesn't take contracts. He watches patterns. He bookmarks structures no one uses and waits three days to see who comes back.
Not a pirate. Not a savior. Just a survivor who outgrew the noise—and learned how to bend it.
If you're reading this, you've scanned too far. Turn back.
Dashboard
Stats
No activity in the last 90d
Last seen Aug 2010
Intel Profile
PlaystyleSolo (0 kills)
Avg Fleet: -