Rettic’s Log: The Sickness, Part 3
Rettic’s camera drone eyes were fixed on a nebulae cloud’s eternal dance through the stars. Eternity. What a concept. And how long have you been reaching across these heavens, old cloud? What are you reaching for?
His daze was interrupted by the shadow of a Megathron class boat passing overhead. He was close enough to feel the turbine thrusters reverberate across the hull of his ship, like nerves would feel a low wind brushing over the skin. He returned his camera eyes forward to see the station—Trust Partners Warehouse. It was of Minmatar build, protruding antennae and raw solar panels raking the surrounding space. Aside from the Megathron and a few docking cruisers, it was quiet. There were no apparent signs of any of these ships looking to engage his Myrmidon.
After being released from his pod, he kneeled on the metal grated floor for a moment, allowing himself to take a few slow, deep breaths. It hasn’t started yet. So far, this fresh clone had reset his bearings, relieving him of the debilitating nausea and extreme disorientation he had suffered for countless months in previous clones. It would return though. It’s only a matter of time.
He wandered the station looking for the nearest public space. That’s where they’d meet him—where there was a crowd. It’s always safest that way.
In an open mall area littered with rusty shoppe signs, one in particular seemed to be winning the hearts of the stationsiders: Il Buono, Il Brutto, Il Cattivo. Matari loved to tease a little elegance with ancient dialect.
“Step back, coat open,” said the Sebiestor doorman as he gestured with a metal pipe. Weapon checks. This is definitely the place. The guard took extra time inspecting Rettic, as he certainly stood out amongst the body tattooed, leather strapped crowd. Rettic opened his grey overcoat showing an empty holster attached to his mexallon mesh body suit, glinting a dusty green in the dim light.
The bodyguard nodded for Rettic to enter.
He sat at an empty table far from the commotion at the bar. The room was pulsing with the heartbeat rhythms of Vherokiorian music as women danced above on walkways that doubled as rafters supporting the height of the reaching ceiling.
Some in the room were capsuleers, most were capsuleer crew, which, in null sec, are an equally dangerous lot. Any crew fearless enough to support a pilot’s ship in the outer rim is as unafraid of death as your average clone. They’ve not only accepted their temporary stay here in space…they embrace it.
The sound of breaking bottles nearly drowned out the music. It wasn’t but a minute longer before three men approached Rettic.
“I stand out that much, huh.”
“You need to come with us, Gally,” spoke the tallest one. “He requests to see you in private.”
“The rule was to meet in public.”
“Rules changed.”
Rettic nodded in defeat, put out his cigar and stood to follow them through a guarded corridor past the crowd.
Rettic’s Log are the accounts of Rettic in-character, his history, and the story of my experiences in New Eden as seen through his eyes. Read all of them here.
