They call me Stan. Seismic Stan.

Actually, that’s bullshit. No one calls me anything, because I talk to no one. You see, I don’t exist.

I’ve been at this game for as long as I can remember, but that’s the problem – I never remember much. Everything’s fragmented and hazy. Most of what I do remember is when I’m in the pod, hooked up and swimming in my own piss.

But when I’m out of the capsule, I look at the fella in the mirror and realise I barely know him. That’s probably for the best as he’s a twat with a silly haircut and I’d don’t think I’d like him much anyway. But lately, I’ve been getting to thinking about stuff, big stuff, like existence.

Mainly mine. And that fella in the mirror.

I’m not much of a deep thinker, but even I’m starting to see the cracks. Things just don’t add up. I can’t remember anything beyond the walls of this damned Amarrian suite. How long have I even been here?

I know I’ve been in this life for a while. Looking at my GALNET details on the NEOCOM, I’ve got an employment record that stretches back nearly ten years, but it is recorded in some arcane calendar system I’ve got no grasp of. As best I can remember it’s YC 113, at least I think that’s right, I can’t even be certain of the year any more. In any case, it seems I’m employed, even if I don’t know what as. I must be reasonably good at it though, I’ve got the bank balance and the assets to prove it. But it all seems hollow and meaningless, like a scorecard in some grand game.

A game I can’t even remember how to play.

I take a seat on the miserable excuse for a couch and ponder the wider universe according to the holoscreen feed; more sovereignty changes, yet another incursion, some vaguely familiar bint with an obscene price on her head. I idly wonder if it’d be worth hunting her down for a cut.

I absent-mindedly browse through the endless panels and windows of my NEOCOM interface, looking for some sense in the gibberish. I find nothing profound, but I do come across an unanswered “conversation” from a sour-faced looking True Amarr hag called Karde Romu, based in Kor-Azor Prime. It says this;

Aiding an Investigator
Something just came up that’s right up your alley.
Greetings, pilot. Her Majesty’s Ministry of Internal Order wants your aid.
My fellow agent, Kandus Sandar, is currently investigating Sansha activity in Kor-Azor, more specifically in the Miyan territories. Are you willing to lend help to his investigation?

I can’t say I’m much taken with the idea of working for her, especially since there didn’t seem to be a conversation to be had, as had been suggested. Not sure I’d have much to say to her anyway. But it seemed for a cool million ISK, all I had to do was go talk to some Ni-Kunni fella in Nahyeen, a high-security system a couple of constellations away. And if it helps to screw those Sansha freaks over, all the better. I could even accept the gig remotely so I wouldn’t have to travel all the way to Kor-Azor Prime to deal with the crone in person, which was a bonus.

Who knows, maybe it’ll do me good to get out – it might get me some answers. Besides, I’m a Brutor capsuleer in an Amarr cell, perhaps working for these saps is what I do. At the very least it’s something to do.

I should pick myself something nice to fly and figure out the rest as I go, but I’ll be honest – I’m a bit nervous. I know that the moment I make that conscious decision to undock, there’ll be another blackout and then I’ll inexplicably be plugged back into my pod, apparently naked and with no recollection of who undressed me or where my clothes went.

That’s not even the worst of it, next I’ll have to deal with all that ‘nauseating-spatial-awareness, my-body-is-my-vessel, if-the-ship-slows-down-when-I-clench-my-arse-cheeks-then-how-do-I-activate-the-afterburner-without-having-an-accident?’ kind of lunacy. It’s humiliating. Maybe that explains why I can never remember it, I’m suffering from some kind of post-traumatic stress amnesia.

Oh well, I’m a capsuleer. Dealing with floating shit is what we do.

Wish me luck.