The Vale

            In the beginning, before the breach of the Great Gate, the supercluster sat still as the natural order reigned over the virgin expanse. Vast swaths of vapor coalesced into stars, fusions of foundations formed the planets, and fields sat full of rock and ice. The remnant residues shrouded the space in tranquil tinctures, and the dust swirled into massive monuments circling the celestials. Slowly, the worlds whispered into the breadth of space beyond, a humble hymn of peace to propagate the picture of promise.

            But the stars stood somber, unsettled and unoccupied, biding their time for the first brave beings to receive the reclusive region. Softly, the stellar sirens sang their lonely lyrics to the lights of lands removed further still. A chorus of companionless chanting, the developing desire for dialogue with the distant domains. A crescendo of crying celestials, demanding the dismissal of the decades of deserted desolation.

            As the crying of celestials grew to a cacophony of candid craving, the cluster concluded the cradle’s creation, the coronation of countless calls to cease the continued confinement.

“A merging of two microcosms on the tapestry of time. A mirthful marriage of near and far.”

And so, the Great Gate was opened.

            Slowly came sentries to search for the source of the newly surveyed soft singing. Humble bands of humans began to hurry through the heavens, heading to their hopeful new homes. Growing groups of guardsmen gathered at the gateway, guiding travelers to their second genesis. Then the trickle became a torrent: a migration of a magnitude not seen before or since.

The virgin cluster was no longer.

---

            The new arrivals settled into the many regions, carrying their culture with them. Stars once shrouded in silence became the stage for both celestials and life to make their music in a hopeful new harmony. The Forge founded the folk hymn of fabrication, the Spire sang a symphony of speech within the soul, and Black Rise formed the berceuse to the battered seeking a new birth.

            But in the Vale between Tribute and Geminate, the majestic union of celestial and man formed music like no other. The people sang of peace and prosperity as promised to them by the great gate, and they in turn were rewarded with patronage for their psalms from the promised land. The region became a heavenly choir for the newcomers to behold, and they rejoiced their exodus from the crowded cities of the old world.

            In the center of the Vale lived the Tongues – the greatest voices of them all. Those who would sing to keep the sacred covenant between celestial and man. Those who would sing for the deliverance of the downtrodden still in the old world. Those who would sing to every ear in the far reaches of space as living offerings. They would stand eternally as a testament to the tranquility of this new Garden of Eden and would trumpet their tune unto the end of time.

Five Tongues reside within the Vale of the Voices.

            Staying faithful to the marriage between celestials and man, but then the Great Gate closed, and the honeymoon gave way to horror. One was sacrificed in the name of the covenant, but the pleas to the celestials fell on deaf ears.

Four Tongues remain within the Vale of the Voices.

            Mirthful singing turned to prayers for mercy as mother was removed from child. While married to their new home, they could not yet stand on their own. Another was weighed and found wanting.

Three Tongues remain within the Vale of the Voices.

            The beautiful bride of the virgin cluster revealed itself to be a cruel mistress, as the stations became prisons and colonies became mass graves. The jubilant singing was drowned out by terrified screaming, and another found himself upon the altar.

Two Tongues remain within the Vale of the Whispers.

            No longer singing to the beyond, now whispering their lore to the few that remained. Remember our covenant, keep us faithful, in times of both plenty and lean. Yet another offered to satisfy their mistress.

One Tongue remains within the Vale of the Whispers.

            One last voice to behold the end of the world - and to be claimed by the guttural growls of a new Dark Age. What was once viewed as a covenant was now damned as a curse. The handful hardly remember the old hymns of harmony.

But there are no longer Tongues to sing within the Vale of the Silent.

Tomb of the Immortals

"Tomb of the Immortals"

            In an age long lost to the races of the supercluster, and on a dead world circling a forgotten star, massive structures were built by human hands within a fertile river land. Dominating the landscape for many miles around, and the details of their construction remaining apocryphal, these pyramid-shaped stone marvels were built with but one purpose in mind: to commemorate the power and divinity of their leaders.

An ambitious monarch orders the building of their own stone monument. Huge slabs of rock are hewn from the earth, transported over large distances, and slowly stacked on top of each other in layer after layer. Using no heavy machinery or mechanized transportation, workers labor for many years, stacking block after block, until at last the final stone is laid, and the structure magnificently capped with precious metals.

And there the stone monument stands, until at last the final day comes to pass for the monarch, and their body is preserved, wrapped, and sealed within a sarcophagus of solid gold.

It is then that the structure slowly fills with the treasures accumulated by the monarch over a lifetime: thousands of coins stuffed into chests, handcrafted sculptures of figures and gods, texts detailing great knowledge and feats, jewelry of fabulous craftsmanship, and various items of sentimental value all begin to line the hollow chambers of stone. With the many long years of the monarch’s reign, so too does the treasure trove of items destined to forever lie within the stone halls alongside them grow ever more numerous.

As the monument fills with treasure, servants of the monarch gather within the stone halls, and consume toxins to still their hearts. One by one, they succumb to death’s embrace to join their beloved leader. With all in its proper place, the stone halls are sealed shut, the entrances buried under mountains of sand, and the monarch begins their eternal reign from their glorious palace of the afterlife.

Set upon by envious eyes with the greed of many hundreds, the monuments seals are torn asunder, its great walls begin to wither, its stone halls begin to crumble, the bodies of servants are disturbed, and the treasures slowly turned to dust. At the end of time’s great test, the decayed body of the monarch within rules as the master of a broken palace.

As time passes, so too does it betray a secret: great monuments often meet inglorious ends.

Ancient by the time that they were recorded in contemporary history, the stone monuments captured the imagination of untold generations since. Despite being a mere remnant of their former glory, history would preserve the monarchs of the stone halls, their memory living on for untold millennia after.

Tens of thousands of years into the future, great monuments are still being built.

An ambitious leader orders the construction of their own monument. Thousands upon thousands of tons of rock are mined from great stones floating within the dark void. The minerals are shaped and refined into great building blocks, stacked alongside of each other to form the structure, while workers give form to the labyrinth within.

The many miles of halls inside are lined with the crème de la crème of technological progress: sealed bulkheads, ammunition stores, crew quarters, launch tubes, medical bays, hangar arrays, sensor suites, and clone vats. Before long, belongings and treasures of the immortals begin to fill the chambers, and countless souls dwell within the corridors, giving a pulse of life to the cold metal construct. At long last, the monument’s construction is capped, bestowed upon with a weapon of unfathomable power to prevail against time’s long test.

And in the cold void the monument stays, until at last the final day comes to pass for the immortals within their capsules.

Set upon by envious eyes with the strength of many thousands, the monuments seals are torn asunder, its great walls begin to wither, its metal halls begin to crumble, the countless lives within snuffed out, and the treasures slowly turned to dust. At the end of time’s great test, the shattered bodies of the immortals within rule as the masters of a broken palace.

As time passes, so too does it betray another secret: great monuments often meet violent ends.

And the great monument’s scorched hulk remains within the cold void for all time, having been destined to serve as a bastion of power in life, and as the tomb of the immortals in the afterlife.

The Doorway

“The Doorway”

                “Within the floating city of the Emperor Family Academy, a gigantic complex houses the thousands of capsuleers residing within the station whilst they are docked up or otherwise inactive. The incredibly large structure, honeycombed with tens of thousands of individual cells purpose built for long-term residency, costs untold millions per year in upkeep: costs entirely offset by the billions made every twenty-four hours through taxes, broker’s fees, and other passive sources of sovereign income.”

                “The Amarrian Emperor Family Academy is not the only station to possess housing dedicated to capsuleers, nor is the housing structure in the Emperor Family Academy the largest: almost every station accessible to capsuleers completed similar construction projects in the summer of YC113. They are known publicly as ‘Captain’s Quarters,’ an expensive measure undertaken both to satiate the popular demand and to soothe the gargantuan egos of the ‘demigods’ that call them home. Each single cell in the structure provides living space for one capsuleer, with Spartan comforts available that include a bed, mirror, holoscreen, a small table with two holoprojectors (for their active ship, and for consulting with local agents, respectively), a walkway leading out to their pod with a false viewscreen of their ship in the hangar as a backdrop…”

“…and a final, odd curiosity: a doorway that remains locked.”

                “Sprawling trade hubs, lonely outposts, and even the most average of stations all share a single commonality: they are all incredibly filthy. The dust, dirt, and waste of thousands of permanent staff, visiting planet dwellers, and temporary contractors provides an extremely rich environment for microscopic organisms and pathogenic illnesses to flourish. While the tried and tested immune system of the average person allows for common residents to traverse most areas of the station interior in relative safety (provided they frequently wash their hands), pod pilots trade their immunity for the ability to command their ships.

“Being a sterile environment, a capsule does not provide the routine stimulation responsible for keeping the immune system functioning. While the occasional pod pilot has braved the risks to mingle among the common folk, most capsuleers are aware of the dangers put forth by illness and infection, and choose to remain in environments specifically dedicated to them.”

“How delighted the pod pilots were when the ‘Incarna’ project was announced, permitting not only access to the ‘Captain’s Quarters’ and the replacement of the outdated computer generated imagery on their pilot’s licenses with high quality photos, but entire station environments dedicated solely for capsuleers: marketplaces, offices, bars, and even casinos. As the day of June 21^st, YC113 came and went, however, capsuleers everywhere had discovered that the project put forth by the empires had been, of course, completely hamstrung by the usual obstacles of bureaucracy and red tape. As capsuleers eagerly shed their ships and docked their pods to the new living environments, optimism quickly gave way to confusion, followed closely by frustration.”

                “The ‘Captain’s Quarters’ project had what could only be described as a rocky reception. Capsuleers, having been promised the freedom to walk all throughout the stations as they wished, were instead given single rooms with the most basic of furnishings. The dream of being able to freely rub shoulders with colleagues and comrades outside of their ships had been utterly shattered by a seemingly half-hearted attempt to buy their silence with rooms that would make even the most basic of planetary apartments seem luxurious by comparison. The hopes of many a pod pilot had been dashed by a simple door with the taunting message ‘Station atmosphere not yet decontaminated for capsuleer consumption.’”

“Even the simplistic first stage was not without its unsavory flaws: the first iteration of the housing project had overheating issues with the electronics systems in the housing of a number of capsuleers, driving the internal temperature to unsafe levels. Having previously been able to view their ships in the entirety of their overpowered glory within the hangar, pod pilots widely complained of the restricted viewpoint offered by the balcony. The extreme claustrophobia of the space that they had traded their camera drone view for had allegedly resulted in temporary mental decline for all but the most conscious of pod pilots who resided within the quarters for any notable periods of time.”

“While the stakeholders of the project had been assured that the simple housing was an introductory measure, and that more environments would be rolled out as time went on, tensions came to a head in the weeks following the completion of the first stage. The discovery and release of unrelated internal communication, describing ulterior motives (the proposed sale of powerful items through currencies other than ISK being chief among them) falling well short of the good faith presented by the PR team, sparked a full blown riot among the space lanes as capsuleers attacked notable landmarks in protest.”

“When the embers of what is known today as the ‘Summer of Rage’ had finally been extinguished, the member states of CONCORD made extensive efforts to rebuild the good faith that had been squandered over the less than stellar housing project, and the controversial communications. Pod pilots were able to re-enter their ship hangars and view their vessels from their camera drones as they had before, improvements and optimizations were made to the capsuleer environments to make them less mentally taxing, and another project, codenamed ‘Crucible’, was put forward to widespread critical acclaim. CONCORD had then promised to redirect resources from the housing and environments project to other initiatives where quality of life improvements could be made. While initially threatening to cause widespread unrest, including a mass exodus of capsuleers from all contact, the debacle became a valuable learning experience for all involved. By popular demand, the station atmosphere decontamination project was placed indefinitely on the backburner.”

“Fast forward to YC118, and some small improvements have been made to the once bland and uninteresting living areas in the years following the release of project ‘Incarna.’ The quarters are now racially themed on the station in which they are located, and have a larger number of options available, having been expanded upon from the simplistic interfaces put forward by the initial grand opening. Capsuleers are able to enjoy smooth transitions from ship to housing, and vice versa.”

 “In recent events, with the upstart Upwell Consortium corporation wooing over capsuleers from stations by the day with promises of their own personal fortresses large enough for both their ships and egos, the decision to forego the ‘Captain’s Quarters’ entirely in citadels was not met with much resistance. After all, trading a claustrophobic room for the tangible tactical advantage of being able to see what lies outside seemed -  in the minds of most capsuleers -  to be a sensible decision.”

“And yet, there are a number of pod pilots who still gaze longingly at the doorway; a symbol of what could have been, had the circumstances been altered. Even as all attention is focused on the sweeping reforms of space-based private infrastructure, a handful of capsuleers still hold out hope that they may yet be able to, one day, open the door and walk amongst their peers on their own two feet once again.”

“This has been Tionscal Gaterau, on Scope News Netwo-“

The viewscreen abruptly went blank as a small click echoed from the background. The lights in the conference room slowly brightened, revealing a pale interviewer clad in grey and wearing a press ID, sitting opposite his interviewee: a ruddy faced Civire woman.

A soft, feminine voice broke the silence that followed:

“All the usual finesse of the Scope, albeit a little more… verbose than I expected.”

“Documentaries are a far different beast than a simple Flash Alert. We’re aiming at a bit of a… different audience than the average news viewer. Since people are sitting down to watch a more slowly paced informative piece, we can take some liberties with length and prose. Would you like to make any comments?”

“Of course. While I would like to gently remind you that there is a fine line between elegant presentation and voluble, long winded commentary, I found your program to be quite satisfying in explanation. You successfully danced on the tightrope between too much and too little, and produced something quite thought provoking.”

Once again, silence fell briefly on the room, as both interviewer and interviewee carefully considered their next input. This time, it was the interviewer who would break the silence.

“While I appreciate your satisfactory review on the presentation, I would like to ask for your specific input on the content. The Scope went to great lengths to ensure factual accuracy throughout the program, but I would like to give you the opportunity to mention anything you may have found…”

The interviewer choked on his words as the face of the woman across from him changed from neutral to stern.

“…missing.”

“I would, Mr. Gaterau…

“Please, call me Tionscal.”

“I would, Tionscal, like to make only make one comment: I find that everything you and your colleagues at the Scope have put forward to be factually accurate.”

“Weasel words,” Tionscal thought as he slowly sighed. "I figured that you would."

                As a capsuleer himself, he had taken up a position at the Scope after leaving his previous capsuleer industrial corporation, having suffered an expensive loss in a mercenary attack that had earned him universal ridicule from his peers. Not willing to continue mining due to the sales taxes that the Scope would impose on him, he decided to apply for an available investigative journalism position within the corporation that would give him the funds he needed to rebuild himself.

                After publishing some smaller stories to ease himself into his new career, he spent time searching for an opportunity to begin to make a name for himself. He was given a list of suggested subjects, as well as a deadline. He decided to adhere to neither

Tionscal now looked at his interviewee with frustration, who had only gone by the name of Ms. Damhel. After inquiring about potential interviewees three months before who could give any details related to the inner workings of project ‘Incarna’, she was the only person who came forward. Ms. Damhel promised all the insider information that Tionscal could ask for, and in a Capsuleer safe environment, to boot. However, she had adamantly refused to allow anything that could potentially be used to identify her to be in the program, even with her face darkened and voice distorted. Instead, she elected to give only a brief, historical account that Tionscal could have researched himself in a fraction of the time.

If Tionscal had known that he would be working with the most uncooperative interviewee that the Scope had ever known, he would have skipped the interviews and elected to avoid searching for potential subjects entirely. But for any meaningful story to go forward, however, Tionscal needed an interview with a living, breathing person. After gaining her consent to be interviewed on the restrictive conditions that she not be shown, Tionscal had worked tirelessly to fact check every detail she had mentioned, every person she had named, and every location she had advised him to visit.

And to his fury, it seemed like a wild goose chase from start to finish.

Having been told by his manager at the Scope that he needed to produce a program that would gain views lest he be terminated, Tionscal decided to try and steer the spotlight on to a controversial subject in an effort to boost his viewership. He had realized from early on that the apparent ease of creating a program on the subject was entirely deceptive, but he defied his gut feeling to cancel the project and find another subject.

While similar projects were projected to take up to a month at most, his project had dragged on far past any acceptable time limit. Despite his hope that the cultural sore spots still surrounding the events of project ‘Incarna’ would have made more information available (or, at the very least, blessed him with a larger selection of interviewees), he was falling well short of content appropriate for the imagined sensational breakthrough.

He needed inside information, and he wasn’t getting it. Slowly, his frustration over the hundreds of man hours spent and wasted on the project thus far had begun to eat away at his normally steadfast, calm demeanor.

Since this was the last scheduled meeting with his only lead, Tionscal considered his options. Politely asking had gotten him nowhere, and Ms. Damhel's careful choice of words in previous interviews prevented Tionscal from putting together a coherent picture. Further searches for potentially better interviewees had proved fruitless. Once again defying his better judgement, Tionscal decided to try and force her hand somehow, but confronting an interviewee over a question of fact, a lack of information, or in an attempt to catch them in a lie was an extremely risky move that called for very careful wording, a precise tone, and delivery at the exact opportune moment. Having undertook months of busywork seemingly for nothing, Tionscal lacked the patience to obtain any of them. He simply did not want to wait any longer.

“Ms Damhel... everything that you have mentioned is public knowledge, and widely available, if not widely known. You had come forward as our sole source under the impression that what you would provide us with insider knowledge surrounding what went wrong with the project ‘Incarna’ debacle, and if the stations would ever truly be open for capsuleers. So far, you have only given me information that I could have researched myself within an hour.”

                Ms. Damhel’s turned from sternness to anger: it became self-evident to Tionscal that he had struck a nerve. Under most circumstances, verbally berating an interviewee in this manner would almost certainly result in penalties and sanctions, if not outright termination. However, with his program looking to flop entirely, he calculated that he had nothing to lose.

“The program that you have just seen is lacking one critical element: a primary source. If we were to publish this now, the Scope’s reputation would likely be irreparably damaged. We would lose our credibility entirely. Nobody airs a documentary that lacks a decent interview, and even our Flash Alerts have at least one or two eyewitnesses.”

In his mind, Tionscal cringed at his flatfooted attempt to explain his predicament. No other attempts in a similar breath (and in a softer tone) had yielded any desirable results. Worse still, he had left himself open. Ms. Damhel could simply dismiss him by saying "I gave you everything that I was comfortable giving. Why did you continue working on the story if you had no other reliable sources?" Like a chess master who had finally noticed the impending checkmate of his king at the eleventh hour, Tionscal braced himself for the most humiliating moment of his career.

As nervous moments came and went, the unthinkable happened. While he expected Ms. Damhel to respond to his criticism in kind, instead - to his amazement - Ms. Damhel’s expression was beginning to soften. The stern, piercing gaze of his interviewee had changed to a withdrawn, considerate look.

Something was very, very wrong. Under a similar line of questioning, where an interviewee would be pressed with a demand for more answers, the common results would include a response that would be similarly charged, an assertive dismissal of the heavy handed request, or for the subject to relent. Tionscal could not remember a time when someone had ever met an interrogative verbal assault with consideration.

There were, of course, a handful of people who would meet any unexpected predicament (including a confrontation) with a thoughtful demeanor, and these were the last types of people that one would ever want to anger. Tionscal's instincts were screaming at him to apologize, change his tone, or do anything else that could defuse this new, potentially dangerous situation. In his mind, this was his absolute last shot at salvaging his program.

“I apologize for the unprofessional outburst, Ms. Damhel, but at this rate I am pleading with you. Can you give us any new information regarding the events of project “Incarna,” or can you comment on any future plans regarding when the doors will ever open?”

"...So you want to know when the doors will open, do you?"

...

"Be careful what you wish for."

                A short time later, in what could only be described as the fastest walk of his life from the conference room to the hangar bay, Tionscal quickly boarded his capsule, linked with his Velator, and took off toward the outbound stargate back home to Dodixie. The events of the interview faded to clutter in the corner of his mind: his only focus was getting back home alive. The trip back was marked entirely by nervously glancing at his overview and at local chat for anyone who could be following him.

                After settling back in to his quarters at Dodixie IX, Moon 20, he turned the all of the viewscreens, holoscreens, and holoprojectors off, and sat on the sofa of the quarters in the dim light, alone with his thoughts.

“I have provoked the wrath of an utterly calculating genius.” He muttered to himself. His thoughts were racing all throughout his brain, and he labored in vain to make sense of it all. “What will I do? What is she planning?”

                The deadline for his program was tomorrow. Tionscal turned on the Agent contact, and opened a correspondence message to the Scope agent managing journalists. He explained in a mail to his manager the response of Ms. Damhel to the internal showing, his notes on earlier interviews, and finally, a copy of the program that he had submitted. At the very bottom, he included an apology to his manager for squandering the extended deadline he had been given, and a notice that he would be resigning his position within two weeks.

      He no longer wanted to play with fire.

                Thoughts about the day’s events continued to weigh on him. “After he hears about what took place, I would be surprised if he didn’t just fire me tomorrow.” After sending the message, he turned off the Agent Locator, turned the lights in his quarters off, and climbed into bed.

                He was roused from his sleep late in the evening by an unusual chime coming from across the room. Stumbling clumsily to his feet, he sauntered toward the holoscreens near the sofa.

“I turned everything off. After five years, do these things STILL have…?”

                In an instant, he froze in his tracks. The sound was not coming from the holoscreens.

It was coming from the doorway.

                Tionscal slowly turned his head in the direction of the station access door, which had remained closed ever since housing had become available for pod pilots. The access panel wasn’t glowing red anymore, it was flashing green.

                It seemed like an eternity from the sofa to the access door. His heart was practically pounding out of his chest, and once again, his thoughts began to race. “This all a dream. This has to be a dream.”

                He finally stood in front of the door, and reached his hand out to the access panel. The previous message was nowhere to be found, instead replaced with one sentence:

“Are you sure you want to open the door? Confirm/Cancel”

Intense curiosity gnawed at his mind. No capsuleer had ever left the quarters. What could be on the other side. In a moment of foolish bravado, Tionscal prepared himself to risk his life to answer the question that had plagued him for almost his entire journalism career. And, in a moment of hesitation with the influence of his better judgement, he moved to cancel the operation. He consciously no longer wanted to know what was on the other side anymore.
Hardly a centimeter away from pushing cancel, however, the spark of curiosity roared into an inferno. His impulsive urge had finally got the better of him. He moved his outstretched hand and laid his index finger on “Confirm.”

And the doorway opened.

                In an instant, he was presented not with a hallway, a corridor, or even an open space. He only gazed upon a chute descending too deeply into the depths of the station to see. He immediately reached over to the panel so that he might attempt to close the closest thing to Pandora’s box that he had ever known. He had finally laid eyes on the terrible truth, and no longer wanted anything to do with it.

                But inside, he knew better. He knew that his curiosity would not go unpunished.

A sharp suction from the doorway caught him before he could reach the panel again. His entire body was sucked into the chute, and the door slammed shut behind him.

                After falling for an unknown length of time, he finally made an undignified impact on a soft, cushioned surface. He sat in total darkness. He felt around for lights, a door, anything that could grant him an escape or knowledge of his surroundings. Nothing. Nothing except more damned cushions. He stood within a padded room.

                In an instant, the lights came on, and he became blinded for a number of seconds while his eyes adjusted. His senses would bring him no comfort: the grey cushions he was surrounded with were stained with black and brown. Tionscal cursed himself for letting his curiosity get the better of him. While he was immortal within his pod in the expanse of space, in the room he found himself vulnerable, fragile, and entirely helpless.

                He wasn’t alone for very long. A familiar voice over an intercom spat out at him.

“Oh me, oh my. Capsuleers and their ego, blindly stumbling into obvious traps and thinking they’re invincible. You just had to know what was behind the door, didn’t you?”

                He recognized the taunting voice. It sounded like Ms. Damhel decided to fulfill her promise after all, in the most beautifully ironic fashion.

“I never actually expected you to deliver, for the record” he retorted. “it seems like you really were holding out on me all along.”

 If Damhel intended to kill him here and now, there was little he had to lose by getting some satisfaction in her frustration.

“Remarkably stubborn to the very end. You certainly found your calling as an investigative journalist. Pity that you gave notice, I think you had a fine future of the Scope.”

“Eyes and ears everywhere, eh? I knew I might have regretted letting my frustration getting the better of me, but, forgive me, Ms. Damhel, I never expected you to go to such lengths.”

“I have contacts everywhere, Mr. Gaterau, and please, call me Dame Hel.”

“So you decided to come to me under a pen name? How adorable.”

“Hardly a pen name, but I wanted to see if you would catch on. Unfortunately, I don’t think that Doomheim appears on the list of corporations.”

“...Doomheim?”

                If Tionscal were to die this day, he would take a grim truth to the grave with him. Permanently deceased capsuleers who suffer fatal accidents are automatically recruited into Doomheim, a holding corporation that serves as the final documented resting place for deceased demigods.

If it were an actual corporation, it would have the largest number of pod pilots of any in all of New Eden. Tionscal always interpreted it as a poetic reminder that pod pilots are never truly immortal, and Doomheim is the ultimate proof that even the capsule and the clone have their limits.

                And now, he found himself at the mercy of its very much alive CEO.

“Quite the accident you just suffered, Mr. Gaterau. Are you all right?”

“Just cushy, thanks. So, you arrange these ‘accidents?’ Why? Why go to all the trouble to kill off pod pilots?”

“There are a number of reasons for my organization existing, Mr. Gaterau, but at the end of the day, it comes down to a simple reason: even capsuleers must be kept in check.”

“I know of all people that pod pilots can be destructive, but you have CONCORD watching your back. What possible reason do you have for committing outright murder, and killing off an empire’s very expensive investment?”

                Almost a full minute of silence followed his verbal exchange with the closest thing New Eden has to the grim reaper. Tionscal heard a faint hiss in the upper corners of the padded room, and began to feel faint. After thirty seconds, he collapsed to the floor, completely paralyzed.

                He heard a door open, and faint footsteps approaching him. Two orderlies wearing full white hazardous material suits carried his motionless body to an adjacent room, and strapped him to a gurney. The orderlies inserted an IV in each of his arms, hooked the lines up to a machine containing three different colored liquids, and promptly left the room outside of his line of sight.

                Dame Hel walked up to him, and put an oxygen mask over his face.

“Forgive me, this isn’t exactly standard procedure, but I think after all you’ve been through, you deserve to receive some small comfort in the form of the truth.

CONCORD, as you know, does fine work keeping the more destructive capsuleers out of high security space, but they are entirely reactionary. By the time CONCORD lands on a crime scene, the damage has been done. They can only provide vengeance to the victim.

The large number of capsuleers that have been commissioned in recent years poses a problem, Mr. Gaterau. There are too many of you claiming too much space, and you are all as destructive as locusts. There must be a balancing force.”

                Tionscal knew that he was doomed. He wanted to shout, scream, roar, rage, anything to describe how he was feeling, anything at all to prove to himself that he could at least go out with some control, even if he was only kicking and screaming, but he could do nothing.

“You are correct that empires invest untold amounts of resources into producing capsuleers, all in the vain hope of preserving the delicate balance of power, but at the end of the day, there needs to be another force to provide the subtle checks and balances.

The capsule and the clone have removed the fear of death from strong willed individuals, and have eroded it to little more than an inconvenience. The only thing you lose on death is what you plugged into your own head.

My organization serves to put the fear of death back into the demigods, to remind you that all the wealth in the world cannot make you immortal, that all the defenses money can buy can only make you so safe, and that even your own power has limits.

We selected you as a candidate to our organization, Mr. Gaterau, not because you posed a threat, but simply because you were too nosy for your own good. I have seen your character sheet; you’re practically the definition of small potatoes. No real combat skills, no assets, and hardly any friends. And now that you have renounced your only connection to the corporate world, it will be a long while before anyone notices that you have disappeared.”

                Dame Hel removed the oxygen mask, and pushed a button on the machine. Tionscal’s ears would serve to torment him for the rest of what was left of his life. 

<BIOMASS PROCESS INITIATED, COMPLETION IN 60 SECONDS.>

“In short, Mr. Gaterau, dead men tell no tales.” This was it. This was checkmate.

<COMPLETION IN 45 SECONDS>

“I would like to offer you a position in our organization, Mr. Gaterau. I am sure that Doomheim can make excellent use of your faculties. What do you say?” So this is what she had in mind, all along. An invitation to the damned.

<COMPLETION IN 25 SECONDS>

“I will take your silence for your acceptance. Enjoy your afterlife, Mr. Gaterau.” 

                There would be no life flashing before his eyes. No last statement. No final display of dignity. Only the cruelty of hearing his very certain death approaching with each passing second.

<COMPLETION IN 10 SECONDS>

<COMPLETION IN 9 SECONDS>

<COMPLETION IN 8 SECONDS>

<COMPLETION IN 7 SECONDS>

<COMPLETION IN 6 SECONDS>

<COMPLETION IN 5 SECONDS>

                Tionscal heard the whirr of the machine as the drugs began to inject. He felt his consciousness slipping away.

<COMPLETION IN 2 SECONDS>

<COMPLETION IN 1 SECOND>

…

<CONFIRMED, BIOMASS PROCEDURE COMPLETE>

                Tionscal’s lifeless body was then dragged into another room by the orderlies, and cast into a gigantic grinder. Twenty-four hours later, the biomass was reconstituted into a fresh clone for a new capsuleer academy graduate.

               Dame Hel, the calculating mind behind the most effective control measure placed on capsuleer proliferation to date, was nothing if not efficient. Each capsuleer expunged in the name of justice, security, or simple overcrowding had their biomass recycled to feed the flame that had been lit by the capsule and clone all those years ago.

And so, the greatest secret to capsule-kind died with what was perhaps its most talented (and foolishly curious) NPC Corporation employee. But, as the story of one capsuleer came to a close, another one had begun.

...Somewhere in Minmatar space, a graduate of the Republic's capsuleer program breathes his last as he sheds his mortal shell to live amongst the stars. His immortal eyes opening to view his journey all across the supercluster, his first sight in his new body is the same guiding voice that mentors every capsuleer.

Timeless words echo in an instant, where the past meets the present...

"Greetings, Katsumoto Moliko. I am Aura. Welcome to New Eden."