Log 048

Log 048

-Author: Rinas Rylos
-Rank: C.E.O.
-Corporation: Rinas' Raiders (R.R.A.S.)
-Date: 115.08.14

 So...guess who got to meet their bastard of a father yesterday? Yeah. Before I go into that, though? Cars. And support. Some things that need to be said about both.

Vehicles are...tricky. Can't live with 'em, can't seem to get them to drive over your anti-armor explosives. Not unless they're about to run you over, anyway. Admittedly, I've never been the greatest driver, so anything going faster than a tank tends to leave me internally screaming obscenities as I desperately try not to plow into either the environment. With this said, I generally don't spend too much on things with wheels, treads, or that can fly, outside of training to ensure I can use the guns mounted on them to a decent degree. I'll leave driving to the drivers, and I'll be the gal that throws down explosives and runs around with a goddamned swarm launcher to nail tanks in the back.

Speaking of shit people can't do, it's almost beginning to seem like the idea of support is somewhat disappearing amongst the masses at this point. Not sure if the major corps still have the brains to dedicate the occasional person to repairing armor and keeping everyone alive in their own private wars, but in public contracts? Forget about it. The whole sad affair isn't just when it comes to repair either; It's seriously been fucking disappointing how many war points I've managed to gain in my last few contracts with just the simple act of laying down a drop uplink, or hitting the battlefield with one of my load-outs that carries a nanite injector. These are not difficult items to utilize, people! A nanite field to replenish ammo or armor can take you so much further than just equipping yourself purely for battle! And with barely an increase to your suit's costs as well! It's fucking baffling how these people never seem to get it into their heads to lay down an uplink once in a while, or at least carry around a revival injector with them.

So I know I spent a decent part of my last log detailing why the empires were underestimating capsuleers and how they needed to get with the times, and how I shouldn't type cast them, understanding a pivotal notion necessary to adapt and survive in New Eden, blah blah blah. I know I said all that, but there was something about the idea of coming face to face with the son of a bitch that ran out on Mom and the rest of us that left me feeling a mixture of rage and emptiness, and I don't mean the pissy little kid rage either; This was the sort of anger that flows throughout the rest of you rather than just residing within your chest. The kind of anger that provides you with a purpose rather than merely leaving you swinging blindly at whatever comes into range. I spent almost the entirety of my fucking trip daydreaming about what I'd do to him, along with some idle wondering about how much I'd have to pay to get off for whatever I'd do to him. From customs to the ship to the shuttle to the restaurant where we decided to meet, all I could focus on was getting back at him for those long fucking years of trying to get by, left alone to keep my siblings alive while the son of a bitch went out and did whatever the fuck he wanted.

As I finally approached the cheap little place he'd decided we should meet at, I could feel my chest swell with each step, a combination of apprehension and uncertainty filling me like some kind of fucked up balloon until I finally entered the joint. It didn't take me long to spot him sitting alone in the corner, head down, like someone who was trying not to be noticeable and actually having it backfire because of it. As I began to walk over to his table, it felt as though the closer I got, the more and more aware of myself I became. From the looseness of my civilian clothes, to the heaviness of my hands and feet, and just when had my mouth turned dry? By the time I finally sat down opposite of him, I felt more aware of my body than I had in years, and despite every brain cell I had telling me that now was the time to unleash myself on the drunken bastard...I couldn't.

As much as I wanted to unleash every ounce of hatred I had for the prick, as much as I wanted to scream at him until my vocal cords snapped, I just couldn't. I looked him over as he gave me a what presumably would've been toothy smile if he'd still had all of his, and I realized that the man I'd spent years turning into a symbol of everything wrong with my life was just that; Another man. One that had screwed my family over badly, yes, but his appearance said that karma had fucked him over harder than I ever could have. From the patchwork coat covering what looked like grim-covered shirt, to the ratty beanie covering his head, to the pair of destroyed jeans that looked as though rabid animals had eaten off half of them. More than anything his clothes could say, though, was his eyes; There was...I'm not sure how to describe it. A dead look? A lack of life? I'm not sure, but I hadn't seen eyes like that since Chime had decided to come back to the world of the living. They were the mark of someone who felt dead inside, and with them it was pretty clear that what he'd had so long ago has abandoned him as surely as he'd left us.

Not long after I sat down, he began to prattle on about how big I'd grown, how much he'd missed me, and all sorts of other lies. He prattled on for a while, but the whole realization that life had dealt him what was most likely even a shittier hand than mine had left me feeling confused inside, and I don't think I did much more other than give a nod as I tuned him out. I knew that everything I'd planned on the way there was pointless; What would screaming at him accomplish more than what he'd been through?  No. I...as much as I still wanted to, I couldn't. God fucking help me, I know he deserved it, but I couldn't let myself sink low enough to scream at a guy that looked essentially homeless, much less one that was kind of the reason I existed.

So what did I do? Mostly I just sat and waited out his spiel, though I did order a drink halfway through. If nothing else, I have to give him credit for preparation, given he took up roughly a good ten minutes trying to flatter me before spending another ten going through a bunch of pleas and begging and other bullshit. Honestly, I ignored most of it, instead mentally pitting my current situation against his and realizing how much I'd lucked out. If I hadn't been chosen for whatever reason to become a merc, then I'd either be in prison or just flat out dead. But I had been picked, and while life hadn't miraculously gotten better afterwards, it was...improved, for lack of a better word. If nothing else, I didn't have to worry about providing for the kids or my brother, and I was personally rendered fucking immortal. I don't remember the state he was in the last time I saw him, but I'd have bet that shit had been on a bit of a downward spiral for him too, the only difference being that there hadn't been a second chance. No redemption for him, as opposed to my sorry hide that arguably lucked out with the whole mercenary deal. So I suppose if I was lucky enough to get a second chance, shouldn't I provide one? Or did he deserve to suffer even more after the hell he'd put me and mine through? That...that was a hard choice for me, for a bit, but I decided to at least offer him a chance. Nothing quite as fancy as killing for cash while living in a personal apartment out in space, but I could at least see if he was worth the effort for another chance.

Thankfully, he decided to pause for breath not too long after I had come up with a plan, and seized the opportunity to explain it to him. As it so happens, I occasionally check on the occasional cost of living on this planet, to ensure what I send to the kids is enough so that Rilan doesn't have to grab a job of his own. I told the old bastard I'd set up a separate bank account and send him roughly half of what I send the kids, on the conditions that he quits drinking, doesn't gamble or get involved with the gangs, and we'd talk every other week so I could make sure that he was keeping up his end of the bargain. A spark of anger flashed across his face for a second, but it petered out pretty quickly and he agreed to the terms. I guess he just needed the money that badly, though he might've been a bit more pissed if I told I'd also be keeping tabs on the bank account to ensure he wasn't cheating, but I'd save that for a conversation for another time. I also forbade contact with Rilan and the others until he'd straightened out, but he didn't seem too peeved about that.

While I was willing to give the bastard a second chance, I still didn't want to deal with him anymore than I had to, so with everything hashed out, I stood up to leave. To my complete and utter shock, the bastard hugged me. Or tried to hug me, anyway. Given that I was now a good foot taller than him, his arms made their way halfway around my neck while his head sat next to my shoulder blade. The familiar urge to throttle flared up as I realized he had mistaken my pity for affection, but it wasn't until he tried to hug me tighter that I finally pried the bastard off. I told him I'd send the details of the new account to him in a couple days, and...that was that. I left before I could see his reaction, before I did something I had to spend any more time in his presence.

As I got back to the shuttle, I gave Rilan a quick call and told him he wouldn't have to worry about the son of a bitch anymore. I think he assumed I dealt with him as someone in my trade usually would, 'cause he was silent afterwards until I clarified that I'd forbidden the bastard from contacting him and the kids before I felt he was responsible enough. I think he was relieved at that, but a crash in the background (which I later learned was the twins causing a ruckus) forced him to end the call a bit sooner than I'd have liked. Poor kid. He's gotten a lot better at dealing with the pair since I left, but I still think they occasionally run him ragged when they've got the urge to do so.

At any rate, I opened up the account not too long after I got back to the station. Given that I'm actually aboard a financial station, it's not too hard to find someone whose willing to put a few questionably legal surveillance measure on a new balance, much less ensure that no one else finds out about it. The whole thing was finished up by the time I went to bed yesterday, but I'm still going to wait until tomorrow to give it to him, if only so he can sweat it out a little.

Nothing says I can't have -some- payback against him, after all.

 -End Log

Log 039 - A

Log 038 - A

-Author: Rinas Rylos
-Rank: C.E.O.
-Corporation: Rinas' Raiders (R.R.A.S.)
-Date: 115.06.29

So I thought I'd put the whole debate about mercs fighting and why they did it and all that bullshit behind me, right? And yet every spare goddamned second I had afterwards was spent still wondering about it, still pondering if the answers I'd gotten were really that...important? No. More like if they were fulfilling. I know I say I'm just a mercenary, that money is why I fight, etc. But that doesn't mean I'll fight for anyone who just waves some cash at me. Mercenary or not, I've still got some goddamned dignity and standards despite whatever else was stripped away when I turned into a gun for hire. New Eden is a huge place, big enough that there's more than enough cash floating around even for someone who wants to be picky about their employers, and so help me I am. I'm not some cash-strapped whore. I am goddamned Rinas Rylos, mercenary atop the Federal Administration Bureau offices near Halle VII, and I am more than a gun for hire.

It was with this in mind that I called up Chime. Doc and I had been talking about her lately (hell, I'm on a shuttle to his place right now) and as much I'd tried to find some way to connect with her, I had come up with a grand total of fuck and all. I figured that this was about as close as I could get to a guess about her problems, given that I wasn't even sure what had originally caused mine. Still, I called her up, half-unsure about what the hell I was going to say, how I was going to phrase it, and pretty certain she'd just quit putting up with me altogether.

With that in mind, I decided to call her. A video feed, no less. I mean, I even took off my helmet, just so she could see I wasn't fucking around. She had hers on, along with the rest of her suit. It occurred to me that she might've just accepted a contract or was about to, but I had to tell her while it was still fresh in my mind, otherwise I'd just fucking mangle it later and she'd hate everyone even more.

Chime: What?

Me: What do you fight for?

Her: .....Why?

Me: Because that's not what just defines you. We aren't just our guns and our equipment. We're fuckin' people, no matter what others think and what the fucking empires decide. Just because we don't die anymore, just because we decide to fight for a living, that doesn't make us any more or any less than what we used to be. You're still you, and I'm still myself, we're just...just...we're different from before, but that doesn't mean we have to relinquish our identities because some dickheads try and mess us up.

Her: ....Where did this come from?

Me: Where the fuck do you think? I've been a part of your therapy more than once, hon. You think you're the first gal to just sit there and think that he doesn't know what we've gone through? Or maybe you didn't even do that. I did. I fought every goddamned step the Doc took with me because I thought to myself 'he doesn't know what happened, how shitty I feel, how screwed up I am' as it turns out, he does. Not from personal experience, but he understood me enough to help me out, just like how I understand enough to know where you're coming from.

At this point she finally took off her helmet, and holy christ she seemed to be the poster gal for depression. Most of her face seemed to have this gaunt look to it, between the rings under her eyes, the sunken look of her cheeks, her black hair hanging all limp, not to mention the large frown across the bottom of it. Her eyes seemed to carry a mixture of sadness and hatred in them. Couldn't say I was too familiar with the former, but I'd had plenty of time to deal with the latter.


Me: I know it's hard sometimes. Occasionally I'll still have nightmares where I'm just drenched in blood, literal mountains of bodies of mercs surrounding me. Sometimes when it's real bad, they'll be made of civvies instead. Doing this...it can fuck you up. But it won't break you unless you let it. And one of the first steps you can take towards beating it back is accepting help, whether it's from me, or Doc, or just having someone to chat shit out with.

She looked away after I said that. Like she was trying to figure out if it was worth it. Then she began crying, with these huge tears and giant red splotches appearing on her face, which was almost a relief given that she she looked like a fucking ghost otherwise. I'm pretty shit at consoling people, so I kinda just let her have it, though honestly? I think it was good that she did. It almost felt like she hadn't let herself cry before up until then, and given how much sobbing she did I think she really, really fucking needed to. I stayed on the line until she finished up, at which point I asked her if she'd finally start talking to Doc. Thankfully, she said she'd try to start participating more, though only if I were there. Gave her my word that I would before my alarm popped up, saying it was time to go visit Doc in person, which is when we finally said goodbye and logged off.

There isn't a whole lot of shit I do these days that gives me a warm, fuzzy feeling, particularly when it comes to interactions with other mercenaries, but I'll be damned if I couldn't stop smiling all the way to the shuttleport. Even if it's through a shared or similar tragedy, it's still nice to connect with people, and I think being able to actually give her the chance to do so will help out Chime immensely. That said, it was fucking mentally exhausting, heh. I almost considered rescheduling the trip to Doc's until I remembered they said the kids had something special to show me. So that's part one of today's log. I'll write up some more tonight or tomorrow after I get home!



-End Log

Log 031

Log 031

-Author: Rinas Rylos
-Rank: C.E.O.
-Corporation: Rinas' Raiders (R.R.A.S.)
-Date: 115.06.19

I'm not sure if I've ever mentioned this before, but there's a certain perspective one really only gets when you're sniping, though I suppose if you go high enough in aerial vehicle than you could gain something similar. That said, I think I'd prefer to stick to the former, as it lets me go without quite as many explosive projectiles being flung at me. Usually.

Anyway, there's a certain point of view gained from the usual ridges and structures most snipers take that lends itself to seeing the battle in a bit of a different light. Between the height and distance between you and most everyone else, the battlefields might almost seem peaceful for a bit, up until someone blows up a tank or another person remembers that they have grenades along with their gun. Everyone's reduce to a speck if you can manage to see them at all, and there's a certain...I don't know, calmness to the whole war and death stick we're usually stuck wielding that it winds up almost being a bit startling. I can't speak for every merc out there, but when I'm out on the battlefield, any thoughts beyond killing, tactical maneuvering, deciding what my next dropsuit will be, or where I can find a medic just about goes out the window. For those brief periods, there is nothing beyond my comrades, my equipment, our enemies, and the battlefield where we fight.

But when I'm sniping, it breaks the immersion in such a subtle fashion that I almost don't realize it. It's as though a switch flips back on in my head, and I can ponder things beyond our bloody trade again. One of my favorite things to do is look out at the battlefield; Not in terms of flanking, and viable cover and all that, but its colors and geometry and the wide open sky above us. We wage conflict across so many beautiful landscapes, ones that almost have me pitying capsuleers for being unable to see the gorgeous planets that are so far below them. That is to say, before we leave them littered with broken equipment and dead bodies, a lot of these places could even be considered pretty...Though I guess they're returned to that state after they send out the cleanup probes, so it isn't too great of a loss.

Another thing is the silence. Our helmets block out the sound of wind (assuming there even is any) which means that if I'm not hearing my teammates over the com and I'm not close enough to pick up the gunfire and explosions, then it's dead silent except my own occasional shot, even if I'm counter-sniped then I don't live long enough to hear the shot before it gets me. It's not quite as nice as the view for me, if I'm going to be honest, but that's because I'm a...well, I -was- a city gal. Back there, if things were dead quiet than it was either three in the morning or something was seriously, seriously wrong, and usually it was both at the same time. I gained an appreciation for silence in small doses, because anything that could help me was a blessing and was cherished to the highest extent I could do so, but prolonged quiet would just make me uncomfortable, because odds were the shit had hit the fan, and that usually troubled me in at least -some- way.

So I got used to the noise. You kind of have to, ya know? Sound meant things as usual, it meant city life and people and food and music and all sorts of other shit, blended together into the ambient background that was my city's going-ons. Even in battle, the chaotic cacophony that is us killing each other is still activity, it's still a sign of us moving, thinking, feeling, it signals that under all the armor and weaponry we're human beings moving with a purpose, however abhorrent it might be to others. When you're so far removed from that, yet still a part of the whole thing, it leaves me feeling disconnected, as though we're just robots or pieces in a game or some shit. Whatever the reason for fighting, there's still a person behind that reason, putting it into motion, and each bullet I put into their heads is another impediment...

But that's how it goes, y'know? A mercenary is paid to kill, not to wax eloquent about how I'm killing people with thoughts and feelings, even if they'll wake up not too long afterwards. Thinking about it too much isn't going to make my job any easier. I think that might be what's wrong with me, though.

-End Log.