The Offer

I've been in pilot training for so long now, everything before it feels like a totally different life; the memories play like an old home video, watching through the camera's eye and only feeling the emotions vicariously. Sometimes, I've felt like I'm stuck in an endless möbius, every day a repeat of the same, every week the same cycle. It gets dull after a while, though I enjoy the classes.

I've not had much to say to the others in training with me. Most of them seem shallow and self-absorbed; many of them don't seem to be capable of finding their own heads with both hands. I wonder that the academies let them stay on so long.

I have a Velator. She's not much, a bit clunky-looking and lopsided, but I feel a bit of attachment to her; like a mongrel puppy that wants so much to love you you just can't say no. I spent a while trying to name her, but nothing seemed fitting until I saw for the first time the massive police battleships patrolling the gates. I named her 'Pequeña', since she's so tiny by comparison.

I have so little to my name, it seems. We hear tales of the great capsuleers of New Eden, making their fortunes in great acts of heroism among the stars, but that's something which happens to others. It's a goal to aspire to which seems... so unachievable, like mere mortals striving to reach the summit of the mountain of the gods.

I have my winged horse, though, my Pequeña. And I have a chance.

It seems I've been doing well enough with my training that somebody's noticed. I woke up this morning to find a message from an agent from the Center for Advanced Studies, asking if I want to work for them. How could I say no? It's what I've been working towards so hard.

So here I am, waiting for docking permission for the station in Cistuvaert with an office number to help me find this Jarck Feritte. I hope I don't get lost in there; that's a big station....