The fifth of my many entries for this year's Pod and Planet. The first eight are all very short fictions, entered in the 'Eight Thousand Suns in New Eden' category. This one is 750 words.

For the authors of the chronicles at CCP, who are far too devious and far too clever, a scenario they left implied, but that deserves further interrogation.

A companion piece to The Paths They Chose, though I would ask that you read this work first.

The Thunder That Announces His Passage

The artists have outdone themselves, he acknowledges. A hint of dark bristles around the jaw-line, a salt-and-pepper crew-cut and thin black eyebrows. The cheekbones, moulded to hint at some Caldari ancestry. He pauses, examining one half-closed eyelid. The Deteis features are stronger there, and across the nose. The jawline is similarly strong. It is, he reflects, excellent work.

“Thank you, gentlemen, but we'll take it from here.” Mustn't forget your manners, even in the midst of a crisis. He gestures, moving to the side as his attendees step forwards. They surround the casket, and, as one, lift it. He directs them with a gesture: turn, and bring it into the shuttle. They do so. The payment is transferred, and he turns to leave.

“You must keep it at exactly the right temperature”, one of the scientists calls. “It wouldn't last, otherwise.” The commander nods, externally gracious, but inwardly exhausted. There hadn't been much rest since the event that drove them to do this. To secure the right assets, to prepare. The shuttle door closes, and, as he takes his seat, he examines the musculature of the asset. How, even within the casket, it remains visible. That the flat stomach and chest are carved to a natural likeness. Ah, the demands of the powerful, to gift them what they never earned. The man cracks a tired smile.

The shuttle exits the station, and enters warp. Within the system, it takes less than a minute to arrive at its destination, a far warmer planet than the one they had previously orbited. All through this, the leader is briefed on ship movements in the Caldari Border Zone, a frantic attempt to provide certainty in the inescapably upset world. He takes a call from a director as frazzled as he, and sends off directions to a grand admiral. Unthought of events, once upon a time.

Gradually, the shuttle descends, and, as the pilots begin to guide it into the bay of the crystal dome, he disarms the automated defences. Tracking arrays cease their relentless pinging, and the railguns withdraw into hardened silos. He is, for a moment, as still as the asset itself, then he hauls himself up and into motion. The guards shift outwards, into their assigned spots, and he is for a moment, alone with the asset.

Four attendants sweep forwards, gathering it up between them. He directs them to the climate-controlled medical center, then makes his way to his office here, beneath the canopy of the trees. Along the way, his datapad pings: the preparation for the performance are almost complete, for all the essential assets have arrived. Within his office, he’s briefed again, on pirates residing within the furthest extents of his domain. They’ll remain, he knows, even after all around him has turned to dust. As if to echo that thought, a hawk strikes, carrying an unsuspecting songbird to its final purpose.

Finally, when all is done, he makes his way to the medical center. The dead man’s needle is being assembled in the corner, but he’s here for the asset itself. They remove it from the casket, and lie it upon the operating table. Outside the casket, he can see the preciseness of the scars, the strength of the jaw. Osteoplastic materials moulded firmly and precisely.  Vat-grown muscles glisten in the soupy air. The chest rhythmically rises and falls, and the neck pulses. The doctors bustle, preparing it. It must look real; it must be real.

Finally, they’re finished. The incisions are made, the cannulae are inserted, and the lines are stoppered. He nods, and dismisses them. This, he knows, must be his own work: the work of a monster.

Once the center is empty, he breathes deeply, pulls back a fist, and sinks it deep into the cheek of the clone. His hand stings: the clone doesn’t move. He strikes again, and again, and again, each hit the thunder that announces his passage. Both bodies begin to sweat and redden. His left hand tightens around the throat of the clone, to grip it. He hits it until he can’t hit it any more, until the blood is red-raw on its face, and the stomach is a mosaic of welts; until the legs are pain-bent and the arms are sore-swollen. Still, the clone doesn’t move. He calls the Doctors back in, and steps out into the cold.

His hands are stiff, his body is tired, his mind is blood-red-raw. Tomorrow comes the test; the performance of a lifetime.

The fourth of my many entries for this year's Pod and Planet. The first eight are all very short fictions, entered in the 'Eight Thousand Suns in New Eden' category. This one is 750 words.

Inspired by the starter mission, “Angel of Mercy”. What other game gets you to commit war crimes in the first hour or less!

The Angel of Mercy

Amarr System,

Emperor Family Academy Station.

Aya Puhkastu knelt before the mirror, braiding her fiery hair into a long ponytail. When that was done and it curled over her shoulder, she attached the golden jewelry of her faith. On the right, an earring of the Ametat and Avetat. From her left ear to her nose, the thin golden chain that was also from her Holder, a reminder of the bonds of fealty and faith shared between them. It was not Ni-Kunni  to wear it, she knew, but it was not done to reject a gift.

First part of the ritual complete, she withdrew her mother’s small brush box. Three brushes with bright silver inlays, which must have cost her mother a fortune, lay within. Each was engraved to perfection, and she treasured them deeply. She began with the Brush of the Sun, mightiest but indiscriminate. Two broad strokes, on her right cheek, twisting down to the corners of her mouth. With practiced efficiency, she lifted the chain out the way and repeated the gesture on her left.

Having done that, she withdrew the Brush of the Desert, generous yet forgiving. Drawing out the ink from the stroke of the Brush of the Sun, she copied the whorling dunes. Finally, she drew out the Brush of the Water, smallest yet most fundamental, dotting her cheeks to mimic the sacred oases that had sustained the life of the Ni-Kunni. It was superstitious and shamanistic, she knew, but once she was inked, she did not feel so alone.  The box was inscribed carefully: “To carry us with you, out amongst the stars,” and so she always had.

Stowing the box carefully, she shrouded herself in grey. Making sure that the neck covered the silver sockets of her implants, she let the robes twist loosely around her. Finally, she lifted the veil to her face. Made of spun gold, it was her only personal affectation. She did have to present an image, after all. Assessing the effect in the mirror, she smiled sharply.

Perfect.

---

She was leaning against the concourse wall, out of the crowds, waiting for her Holder to come, when the Deacon had passed. The Deacon’s attendants called out to the faithful, summoning them to prayer. Aya had attempted to leave, but they singled her out, so she knelt with the others. Existing as a Ni-Kunni who wasn’t attending to their every word seemed, bizarrely, to offend some True Amarr. It was worse below, in Dam-Torsad, but even orbiting far above Oris, she couldn’t escape it. Didn’t they understand that they were all servants of God? He led the faithful, and she … chided the recusants. She pondered this as she repeated the prayers. Was she not a paladin? God knew that she was.

Her Holder appeared eventually, guided through the throng by his attendants. It would have been so much easier, she reflected, to not be baselining. The commoners expected Capsuleers to be ill-behaved, scattering all before them. As a ‘commoner’, she didn’t have that same privileges. Still, once ensconced within his protective detail, passage became so much easier.

Eventually, they reached their destination. A Ni-Kunni merchant’s office, deep within the cargo decks. There, they sat and ate and talked of little things. Eventually he got to the meat of the issue.

“A pirate force,” he began hesitantly, “has begun to interfere with our off-world shipments. I didn’t worry, at first.” He hesitated. “The Navy sweeps the Mayonhen constellation regularly…” ”

“ — but it got worse, didn’t it, my Lord? The Navy couldn’t or,” Aya paused significantly, “wouldn’t find them?” He nodded fitfully. ”Do you think it’s a fellow Holder?”

“I just don’t know,” He reflected. Then he grimaced. “They began to abduct people. We think, well, we fear that it might be the Sani Sabik.”

“Oh”. Oh. “Then they rest safe within His presence, my Lord.” She took the cup of water, and chanted the prayer of Safe Travel.  He nodded, whispering the words to himself.

“Aya, I – I would ask you to find them, or commit their bodies to God. Would you do this, for us?” She nodded, and bowed low.

“For you, my Lord, I would do anything.”

---

Her agents went to work immediately, tracking illicit shipments in the space around Mishi. Eventually, it all came back to one Capsuleer’s abandoned tower. The Blood Raiders were consummate scavengers, after all.

Aya went in alone, a Paladin in form and thought, and brought God’s purging light to the unbelievers.

The third of my many entries for this year's Pod and Planet. The first eight are all very short fictions, entered in the 'Eight Thousand Suns in New Eden' category. This one is 749 words.

The Old Wind’s Rising

They met first at the Landfall Shrine, after her father had been cremated. The blizzard which had killed him still gusted fitfully, and the pillars were crowned in snow. He was a senior analyst with a Lai Dai subsid, and she was a steward of the Shrine. He was Jeka, and she was Daala, both Wayists, both Deteis, both Caldari. They married and they worked hard. They kept their heads down. It was a traditional life.

Or it was, until they were summoned. A message from their manager’s manager: mandatory aptitude testing. They attended, as did Jeka’s co-workers. They were led, one by one, into the room, and made to stand still, observing the riotous chaos before them. The walls and ceilings were covered in projected light, a dazzling display of anarchic colour. Birds clawed their way through impossible holes, and Slaver hounds danced upright, partnered together like men. In each corner, a sand waterfall stood, and each fell in its own hypnotic pattern. The doors were closed, and each candidate observed the room of distractions alone.

The room defeated all but three that entered, and each success took an age. Jeka changed that. Her husband was an observant man, far cleverer than her, and he noticed it quickly.  The sand formed glyph after pattern after sigil, from all four empires and elsewhere. “There”, he called, when he was certain. “Imperial Seal, The first man, then the Sabik’s crest. Federation’s Crest, Intaki’s imprimatur, Kaalakiota, Ishukone— ”

“Oh, very, very good!”, came a voice from the ceiling. A fellow Deteis, thin and wiry, stood there. “Only three cycles, the best so far.” The Deteis gestured, silver plugs glinting in his neck, the lights died and the waterfalls returned to their natural curve.  “We have a job for you”, he stated.

---

It was difficult, Daala accepted. Capsuleers put higher demands on their crews than others, but to spend so long in Anoikis, beyond her reach? Each time they left, the absences grew longer, and the shore leave shorter. Still, Jeka only grew more enthusiastic. “The things we’ve discovered”, he would reminisce. “Such things as you wouldn’t believe! A whole system, every planet shattered! Can you imagine the force?”

She could, because it was so much less than the force that kept him from her.

Each time he went away, they knelt at the Shrine, incense curling around them. Strength and courage from their family, they prayed for. Her great-grandfather, a stellar cartographer, they sought wisdom from. Finally, resting one hand each upon the wooden altar, they gave thanks to Cold Wind and Wind-of-the-West, for all that they had taught the Caldari.

When the parting ritual was completed, the capsuleer would undock, carrying her Jeka away. They always came back whole, until they didn’t.

---

She remembered the moment her skin had crawled, enduring an icy gale that no-one else could feel: a warning from the Spirits of loss, of struggle, of danger near and far. She ran straight to the Shrine, harried by invisible hail, almost bowling over the Steward in her haste. Storm Wind silently howled around her. She threw herself to the ground before the altar, begging for mercy, yet still the Storm howled, as she remained prostrate before it.

7 hours, she remained, as it blew itself out. All around her, the Steward had lit votives of appeasement, the smoky fragrance of which curled in the stillness. Eventually, the old man had raised her up, seating her on his chair, and placing calming tea to warm her frozen hands. She shivered, in spite of it.

First, the Capsuleer missed one rendezvous, then a second. At the third, they began to worry. The dangers of Anoikis were not unknown, but the Deteis capsuleer was canny, and had avoided them before. They worried, but Daala knew, and had always known. The unthinkable had happened.

---

After 17 weeks, the Capsuleer returned. The Stratios’s hull was blasted open to space and carbon scoring spotted the remaining armour. His capsule was disengaged and, as the remnants of the shell-shocked crew were escorted to the Med-bay, Daala couldn’t glimpse her husband.She almost dropped the datapad when the message came. “We must speak”, the Capsuleer had sent, “Attend the Med-Bay”.

He was kind, in his way, acknowledging Jeka’s sacrifice. The seven hours he had laboured in the vacuum suit as it slowly ran out of air. It didn’t matter. Daala had known Jeka was dead since the storm had come, because no warmth could reach her.

The second of my many entries for this year's Pod and Planet. The first eight are all very short fictions, entered in the 'Eight Thousand Suns in New Eden' category. This one is 746 words.

Written in scars and skin

You press your hands up to the cool glass. The fingers are splayed, so that each individual knuckle burns white in your dusky skin. There, the bonding mark of your wife’s clan, three rings about each knuckle; a bond of steel, song, and soul, and there, your own, the Yetamo’s fire; wisdom and knowledge and secrets. An auspicious mix, the shaman claimed.

He never did explain why..

Your forearms loom before you, corded muscle and old wounds. You have wrought great good, and great evil, with these hands. Your tattoos tell your story.. Here, a Khumaak, for the sevenfold blows you have struck against the Amarr; here, the Helmet of Pator, for the defence of the Matari. Drupar’s face, upon your hands. A life devoted to destruction.

It was your life. You kneel.

In purest black, shattered shackles upon your ankles, your wrists, your throat: a slave, free. Blood drops: you killed your masters. Another act of destruction.

Was it all you had done?

You sit, before the mirror. Your feet, torn, burned, scarred. Staring at back you, curling languidly around your toes, the Yetamo. Male and Female, a matched pair. Hidden truths, and hidden lies. A matched pair, for a dualist nature.

Except you’d never done anything other than destroy. Why had that tattoo been marked upon you?

You rise again and stretch, to examine your back. Deep scars, from hurried surgeries, bullet wounds and floggings, and once, a Slaver hound’s claws. Around the claw marks, poisonous blossoms, and thorns. Your wife’s choice, oh, what a waste.

You tighten your hands reflexively. Your muscles bulge. All you do is destroy.

Around you, your wardens shift. One of them draws out the knife. You look away, searing your seared chest with a fiery gaze. A line of glistening circular burns criss-cross it, like craters on the moons. You lean back and the light catches them, the burns from candles lit “to bring you closer to God”. You had sent that man to his God, as you burned down his estate.

These were the actions that wars required, and you had done them all, all too well.

Around your burns twist more tattoos. Your wife, your children… Fanged Corovids, wings outstretched. A flock of carrion-bird, for her carrion-maker, her provider. A tool; a threat. You had been both. No longer, yes, now, no longer.

Your wardens twist around you once more, and the knife is passed to the Elder himself.

Gracing your shoulders, the bars of rank you had been so proud of. Each drop of blood and breath of glory immortalised in skin and inlaid ink. A rank that made you famous, in the circles you move: A rank that made you dangerous, to the people you move with.

At last, you meet your own eyes. Embers, once flames, rest within them. Dominating your forehead, the mark of the Wolf. Three triangles: an ancestral fear. Your voluval, your destiny, your ‘soul’. A beast. Is that all you are doomed to be? Blinding hunger and ravening death. Around the wolf’s mark, the war tattoos stir. Thick black lines on your ash-dark face, white sclera and midnight pupils. A demon, to haunt the Amarr. A guardian, to defend Pator.  

Finally, beneath that, your name, now destroyed. Your clan, now dead. Your tribe, now lost. What destruction, what devilry, what devastation you have wrought.

Your wardens leave you, and the Elder steps forwards, the curved knife held out handle-first. You listen to the judgement, and it is all that you deserve. To be destroyed, and to be used. Your fires extinguished, and rekindled. The wardens bring a brazier before you, and you begin to comprehend.

You kneel and you nod. You take the long, cruel flensing knife, and begin to cut. Wrist to elbow, elbow to shoulder. Now peel it back, as you scalped your master. Cast it into the flame. It belonged to some other man. Now, swap hands. The blood will make it slippery, but the blade is sharp, and the handle is bone. Slice in, peel back, slice off. Repeat. Now, your legs. From ankle, up calf, around thigh. Peel, slice. Thigh, pelvis, slice. Repeat with your other leg. The pain is distant, and the flame is bright. This is how you live, this is how you die.

If you live, you will be forgotten. If you die, you will be forgotten. Thus is the fate of a Valklear. Thus is a fate of the kinslayer.

The first of my many entries for this year's Pod and Planet. The first eight are all very short fictions, entered in the 'Eight Thousand Suns in New Eden' category. This one is 451 words.


The Visit

They usher him in through the back door. It's dingy and quiet, but it avoids the spectacle. They enter after dusk, as his bodyguards prefer. A lifetime avoiding the spotlight has taught him the power of discretion.  A place like this doesn't have too many doors, what with the risks, and his staff appreciate that too. The lighting is low on the lower floors; The Crystal Boulevard this isn't. It serves, and that's enough.

A lift takes him to darkened floors above.  Less darkness here, but the shadow of death lies heavy. Pale walls leading to green doors leading to moonlight-tinted wards. A complex weaving of pale shadow and paler life surrounds the beds. He gestures, and his bodyguards retreat. They have served, have gone far enough.

He goes the final distance alone. A single nurse, used to his visits, stands, nods silently, and turns away. The room is dark, but it is not quiet. The inconsistent breathing of the wounded is a chorus of consequences, of battles won and lost. There aren't so many casualties in this modern war; like divine fire, the weapons of such gods purge every trace of their victims. The shattered bodies that rest here are those left un-raptured, luckily or unluckily. They will not wake, but that matters not: They have served, and sacrificed, and that is enough.

He takes a seat amongst them; the victims of divinity, of war. His war: the war of self-defence, of right and wrong, of good and evil. The war he commands them to fight. Around him, the darkness intensifies: the hospital has reached the darkest point of its night cycle, and within the darkness, his eyes glimmer an eldritch green. They take in the mortal frames of the resting casualties, their ranks and names, their smiling faces, the sterile machinery which envelops them, the decorations of the ships they served on, their families' flowers, the windows and, past them, the blood stained stars. He mouths ranks, names and faces, forever committed to memory: Charniz Theron, Lieutenant; Thella en Ishakan, First Mate; Palu Whaluda, Gunner. He recites them all. His brow hardens, his face darkens. One hand comes to rest against a metal cheek, as the eyes study a slowly-shifting, limbless cadaver. A deep sigh, the shoulders square. He promises himself, "I will serve, and that must be enough."

Around him, the mortals do not stir. What do they care? What can an immortal know of mortal sacrifice?

His back straight, his eyes bright, his arms ram-rods at his side, Jacus Roden stands and takes their measure. He has stood before them before, and will again.  A nod, a turn on his heel, He withdraws.

He will be back.

An entry into this year's Pod and Planet, the foremost Eve writing competition.

Find out more about it, here.

This piece is an entry into the "Other Things Just Make You Swear and Curse", though I have perhaps taken the name a little too literally...

Enjoy!  ;)

Legacy and Watchwords

Neath the hellish light, one dying thing judged another. The last gasps of the sun lit the laboratory like dying fire; their yellowed skins and blackened veins cast in sharp relief.

“You cannot stop it, Sheeyt” said the second. “It is untameable, like them. They will spread it, themselves, wherever they tread.”

“Impossible,” muttered the first Jove. “We made it, together, we controlled it, we can stop it!”  He thrust hysterically at a haptic keyboard, limited to unfamiliar analogue commands by fearsome protections, now bypassed.

“I am not so reduced as to give you that chance,” announced the second. “It is out there now, and they shall be forever afflicted with it. It will become their legacy and their watchwords.”

Sheeyt accessed long buried code, wreaking chaos tens of light years distant, as he shut down star gates and fluid routers, micro-networks and soft, wetware repositories. He was outpaced, out-thought, out-pathed at every turn.  It was fruitless.

 The shivering Jove thumbed off the haptic interface and turned. “How could you be so stupid? You know what danger it was, to us and them.”

“Oh, I knew. Why do you think I released it? It will make them exactly what we feared they would become.” It gave a hollow, stilted chuckle. “I was always watching you, brother, stumbling into barriers I stepped over, even as we collaborated. You’re still stumbling.”

“Not so stumbling. You released but the weakest of them. My protections held. Why not the Mon, or Py—?“

“Because they’re so slow, like you always were. This will never be caught or tamed. It will live, eternal, within them and their souls.”

The typist slumped into the chair, muttering the distasteful words, “You’re right. Can it be mitigated? Can they be protected?”

“Hah! Never. You remember what we did; the distributed AI, the micro-gene adaptors? Your finest hour, my tube mate. ” The second’s face stretched and contorted into a smile. “It will remove their soft hearts. It will extract their souls. It will make them masters of numbers and bearers of might. They will become obsessive, inane, insane things. It will be”, he sighed, “perfect.”

“You’re feeling it now, aren’t you, Sheeyt?” he continued. “The rush of inevitability, the pressure behind your heart. Unfamiliar, painful, aren’t they? No wonders the oldest of us cast them away.”

Sheeyt rocked back and forth slowly, rubbing at its chest. He breathed in pained gasps, air jerked in and out by his lungs. Above him, the diagram showed the virus spreading into space, system by system, gate by gate.

“That slow drip realisation of truth, they call acceptance; the too-fast throb of your heart and the thumping in your ears, they call anxiety. Did you know that this…emotion will kill you? Your heart will beat too fast, your blood pressure will spike. You will go into shock, and you will die. In the Shrouded Days, we gained much, but lost more.

“A small price to pay for such glories and such space as was ours, I think.”

With that, the second, older Jove rose slowly from the chair and limped towards the exit. Behind him, the first Jove wept, black tears leaking from dimmed eyes. The retreating Jove turned at the sound and raised one hairless eyebrow.

“Really?” He frowned, “You never even had a chance, oh ignorant brother. The first rule of E.V.E, an Ex-cell virus? It spreads, Sheeyt, in space.”

Blog Banter #74: The Most Important Reveal at Fanfest Was......

So when this Blog Banter goes live Fanfest will be over. Hungover geeks from around the world will be departing Reykjavik after a five-day binge of important internet spaceships and partying. Whether you were there in person, watched the streams or read the dev blogs on your mobile hidden under your work desk there was probably something in there that gave you a "nerd-boner". What for you personally was the most important thing to come out of Fanfest 2016?

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If the last post was the nice response, this is the nasty one. If you don’t want to read angry/whining/rude posts, please don’t.

This is your warning.

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So, I’ve been staring at this blank page for the last 2 days. I couldn’t find a way to describe my problems with the Fanfest. I have, at last, succeeded.

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A Blog Banter of two halves…

I have a question for those of you who watched/attended Fanfest.

What new content/development for Eve was announced?

I’ll give you a moment. It took me some time too.

Got your list ready?

…

Yeah, a bit bloody short, isn’t it?

For those of us who didn’t watch or attend, here’s the answer:

CCP announced only two three new pieces of content for Eve at Fanfest: 

1) Faction Capitals

2) CCP Ghost’s announcement cum TEDtalk cum statement of intent. ¹

(Careful reading of multiple blogs has led me to discover that CCP did announce another thing)

3)A mining barge rework (details vague and undefined)

Sometimes it’s hard to say why you’re uneasy. It might be the attitude of the waiter, the decoration, or the other customers. Maybe it’s the stench of excrement that’s wafting from the kitchen. All you know is, something’s wrong.

And so I found myself after Fanfest. Initial hype (Wow, NASA) and initial pessimism (RIP Moonmining, RIP Titan safety) had passed, and yet I was still troubled. Unlike last year, which brought us the fantastic “Emergent Threats” trailer, the stunning initial concept art for Structures, and so many other things, this year brought 3 Faction Capitals, a guy with an impossible brain, a mining barge overhaul and a boat load of “Like we said, we’ll be doing this”.

Let me get into that, actually. A fitting name for this Fanfest would be “Confirmation Central”. We got all of the following confirmed: AoE links, capital changes, all of the new structures, new taxes and, most importantly the long-awaited Rorqual rework!³

But almost nothing new.

This attitude wasn’t just limited to Eve content. Many of the previously “Must Watch” fanfest sessions were reduced to question-and-answer-only, and what had previously been a exploration of CCP’s war against the black art of RMT-ing²  was completely absent.  I am reliably informed by multiple blog posts and player reports that most of the round tables were 100% similar to this, which is a change from the “looking for feedback” attitude roundtables are meant to espouse.

This absence of substance wasn't a short term thing: CCP’s “the players are everything” approach could be seen in the dearth of substantive CCP presentations and the explosion of player presentations. If, as Nosy pondered, CCP likes player presentations because they learn things from them, I'm not sure whether to be worried or pleased. If it’s just because CCP has given up, I know it’s the former.

All of this leads me to my final issue. I’ll define it with two quotes:

“CCP Seagull trotted out the same graphic, again, and everyone cheered, again”

“I’m pleased to gather that we’re now on a stylised double helix instead of four parallel lines”

The march of progress along an undefined route to an undefined timeframe continues apace. Progress is apparently being made, but we have neither the ability to measure it, nor the ability to disrupt it.  We, the blind, have only the guide, who tells us “just a little further to go, just a little more”.

One wonders what we don’t see.

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I was going to talk about Neville Smit’s “Occupy New Eden”, but it deserves its own post, which will come…soon™.

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¹ CCP’s now caught up to a ~2013 blog banter. Once again, the players beat the developers by many, many months.

2 Whether that’s because CCP doesn’t want to step on their best story for many years (Lucas Kell's CCP = RMT theory), or because Team Security is just not doing much, we don’t know.

3 As this was announced (?) in the CSM minutes, I wasn't sure to include it as a new thing.