Wolf In the Flock: Day 2
Day 2: 468,916 skillpoints
A scent of blood is in the water, and my nostrils flare at the mention of every corp-killer’s favorite two words: mining op.
With no real intel to speak of on any pilots in my target corp who may or may not actually fly a blingy mission ship, or for that matter where and when they might hypothetically undock in my future bank deposit slip of a ship, I decide to spring at this chance given to me. Alts are poked awake, remote rep ships are moved into position, bitingly snarky quips are prepared for the post-betrayal salt-in-wound mockery; this is looking to be a very fun day.
When the Orca pilot suddenly gets called away and logs off to deal with something out of game, my perfect sunny day starts to get a little cloudy and overcast when its announced that the op will continue regardless. With a very abrupt and sinking feeling, I realize suddenly that if I don’t want to arouse suspicion, I have to actually mine rocks now.
I quickly dock back up my Thorax and remember that contrary to everything I’ve told this corp, I don’t actually own a mining ship; briefly, I pause and ponder the possibility that I’ve lied well enough here to fool even myself, and wonder further if I should be worried.
Someone gives me a Venture to use on the op, and then the skillbook to actually use it, and a second person gives me a Retriever, which I certainly can’t fly. Neither says anything about paying for or returning either of my new presents, so I don’t say anything and just keep both ships; a minute later, a third corpmate randomly gives me 75mil isk with the reason “investment in our future” and I truly have no idea how to respond. I begin to wonder if I’ve somehow found a special ed class that happens to play Eve together.
Mining; sweet tap-dancing Jesus, how in the world does anyone actually wake up and log-in to a videogame they pay $15 a month for in order to do this shit all day. Disturbingly, my already low opinion of silly carebears drops even further and I decide to start looking at my wantonly destructive mission as one of mercy.
Out of what can only be described as necessity, I begin drinking, heavily, as I begin to take part in the space-age version of watching paint dry. At one point, I mistakenly copy/paste the youtube link to Europe’s “The Final Countdown” into corp chat, when I meant to send it to someone I was talking to on a different client regarding the countdown to me going postal on this corp. The target corp however, more than half of which are Australian, loves them some classic rock. My wallet flashes again, this time with a round of what appear to be appreciative donations, and while I’m pretty certain this breaks some sort of copyright licensing issue, who am I to turn down a free lunch?
I go on a somewhat drunken posting spree of classic rock youtube videos, which apparently has the effect of making me A.) a genuine hero to this corp, and B.) about 23mil isk wealthier than I was before, as one guy just keeps paying me every time. The bears start calling me Rock God, and my alcohol-fueled pride swells. Only about 10% joking, I demand the title or medal of “Rock God”, which does result in more laughter, but does not result in a new title or medal. I make a mental note to include something to that effect in my list of ransom demands once I start murdering people.
A little while later, I’m in Pyfa theory-crafting instruments of death and destruction when the Op is declared a resounding success, and everyone is thanked for their hard work; I cry a little inside. “Soon”, I say to myself, arching my eyebrows Jack-Nicholson-style; “very soon”.