I find myself at a bit of a crossroads. Prior to 1.3 I lived the life of a poor but semi-successful, profitable space pirate. The pickins' were slim but I managed to get by, slowly clawing my way higher with each successful tax collection. As I got better at my profession, I was able to get larger amounts of cargo and net bigger profits, faster. It was a wily business full of danger, thrills and fun. There were also long stretches of flying around for hours trying to find systems with traders. But, that comes with the job.
And then something happened. The 1.3 update came out. It promised wonderful new things...
Cargo drones!
A Pirate faction!
It was exciting! Finally, something good for pirates! The drones alone promised to make picking up cargo easier.
So out into the black I went, off to find me some spoils. ARRRRRR! I inspected a few ships, demanded taxation through my representation and they kindly obliged, content on fulfilling their galactic dues where owed to remain compliant with the rule of law. Out spilled the cargo, off went me drones. After a while I noticed something peculiar... Any time I demanded more than 20 tons of cargo, I'd see lots of it explode, and every single time only 20 tons would remain.
I thought this was odd but it wouldn't be the first time a trader stiffed me.
But... it continued. Time and time again traders would drop 30, 40, even 80 tons of cargo and... only 20 would remain. So I ran a test. I went to a station and bought some algae. Poor algae, I'm sorry to all the families of algae I ruthlessly killed but, alas, for science!
And I dropped my own cargo. No matter the lot size, 20, 30, 54, it would all explode leaving only 20 left. I even dropped 25 twice... kaboom went the second load, all of it exploded. 20 of the original lot remained.
"This can't be!" I cried as I looked at my new cargo drones and thought of the pirate faction. Suddenly it dawned on me... my career was in shambles. I had just unwillingly taken a 30 - 50% paycut without even a hint it was going to happen. "It shouldn't happen!" I reasoned. I already lived the life of a pauper. Fat traders everywhere in their shiny Anacondas while I scraped along for scraps, refusing to trade.
But alas, 'tis where we're at right now. My career is dead. And I'm staring into a dark portal. I hear laughter on the other side, see a small flicker of flame somewhere far off in the distance as the light catches a corner and dances a shadow around the edges. I hear cries of torture, screams of agony--chains rattle and gates slam shut.
My ship, it calls to me. It says things to me in my head at night while I sleep. The guns, the weep. "Kill someone, Blastman, please. Find us someone to feed off of," they say.
All this time I've lived an honest life. I've been the pirate that talks first, shoots later (only if needed). Hundreds if not thousands of traders walked away unscathed after taxation. No lives were lost, everyone was better for it. But now... now I can't even earn a living. I have these ships... with guns... and nothing meaningful to do with them.
"What to do?" I ponder.
And then I remember that doorway. A devilish whisper in my ear, "Do it, Blastman, just kill a few."
"No!" I say, "That would be murder!"
"Oh, not really. Not any worse than your career has been... set back. Think of it as... emergent gameplay!"
"Emergent gameplay?"
"Yesssssssssss. Like a phoenix rising from the ashes! Why be a pauper... when you can be the prince of souls?!"
I grab my head, squeeze it hard. "No! Out! Begone!" And then I look at my account balance. I worry where the credits will come from.
"Souls... souls are your credits! Collect them!" The voice says. "Souls are your fortune! Credits are nothing more than a ploy! Don't be a slave to the system!" It echoes...
So now, at a crossroads, I have to make a choice. Take the paycut... or create a soul-cut.
Heh. The life of a murderer was never something I had considered. But now, faced with my career in ruins, unable to collect a reasonable amount of cargo... murder doesn't look so bad now, does it?
"OUT VOICE, OUT OF ME HEAD! AVAST! HOW YE TORTURE ME!"
I look at my hands. They are dripping with blood. I have no cargo to wash them with now. What do I do? Yet... it still speaks to me... It... calls me...
"'Tis a valid career choice. Has to be..." I say.
"Yes Blastman. Feed. You can be the new master of souls..."
Murder never hurts if you do it fast... right? It isn't murder then. It's emergent... gameplay... "No! I can't!"
"FEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEED!"
Ahhhhhhhhhhh!
And then something happened. The 1.3 update came out. It promised wonderful new things...
Cargo drones!
A Pirate faction!
It was exciting! Finally, something good for pirates! The drones alone promised to make picking up cargo easier.
So out into the black I went, off to find me some spoils. ARRRRRR! I inspected a few ships, demanded taxation through my representation and they kindly obliged, content on fulfilling their galactic dues where owed to remain compliant with the rule of law. Out spilled the cargo, off went me drones. After a while I noticed something peculiar... Any time I demanded more than 20 tons of cargo, I'd see lots of it explode, and every single time only 20 tons would remain.
I thought this was odd but it wouldn't be the first time a trader stiffed me.
But... it continued. Time and time again traders would drop 30, 40, even 80 tons of cargo and... only 20 would remain. So I ran a test. I went to a station and bought some algae. Poor algae, I'm sorry to all the families of algae I ruthlessly killed but, alas, for science!
And I dropped my own cargo. No matter the lot size, 20, 30, 54, it would all explode leaving only 20 left. I even dropped 25 twice... kaboom went the second load, all of it exploded. 20 of the original lot remained.
"This can't be!" I cried as I looked at my new cargo drones and thought of the pirate faction. Suddenly it dawned on me... my career was in shambles. I had just unwillingly taken a 30 - 50% paycut without even a hint it was going to happen. "It shouldn't happen!" I reasoned. I already lived the life of a pauper. Fat traders everywhere in their shiny Anacondas while I scraped along for scraps, refusing to trade.
But alas, 'tis where we're at right now. My career is dead. And I'm staring into a dark portal. I hear laughter on the other side, see a small flicker of flame somewhere far off in the distance as the light catches a corner and dances a shadow around the edges. I hear cries of torture, screams of agony--chains rattle and gates slam shut.
My ship, it calls to me. It says things to me in my head at night while I sleep. The guns, the weep. "Kill someone, Blastman, please. Find us someone to feed off of," they say.
All this time I've lived an honest life. I've been the pirate that talks first, shoots later (only if needed). Hundreds if not thousands of traders walked away unscathed after taxation. No lives were lost, everyone was better for it. But now... now I can't even earn a living. I have these ships... with guns... and nothing meaningful to do with them.
"What to do?" I ponder.
And then I remember that doorway. A devilish whisper in my ear, "Do it, Blastman, just kill a few."
"No!" I say, "That would be murder!"
"Oh, not really. Not any worse than your career has been... set back. Think of it as... emergent gameplay!"
"Emergent gameplay?"
"Yesssssssssss. Like a phoenix rising from the ashes! Why be a pauper... when you can be the prince of souls?!"
I grab my head, squeeze it hard. "No! Out! Begone!" And then I look at my account balance. I worry where the credits will come from.
"Souls... souls are your credits! Collect them!" The voice says. "Souls are your fortune! Credits are nothing more than a ploy! Don't be a slave to the system!" It echoes...
So now, at a crossroads, I have to make a choice. Take the paycut... or create a soul-cut.
Heh. The life of a murderer was never something I had considered. But now, faced with my career in ruins, unable to collect a reasonable amount of cargo... murder doesn't look so bad now, does it?
"OUT VOICE, OUT OF ME HEAD! AVAST! HOW YE TORTURE ME!"
I look at my hands. They are dripping with blood. I have no cargo to wash them with now. What do I do? Yet... it still speaks to me... It... calls me...
"'Tis a valid career choice. Has to be..." I say.
"Yes Blastman. Feed. You can be the new master of souls..."
Murder never hurts if you do it fast... right? It isn't murder then. It's emergent... gameplay... "No! I can't!"
"FEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEED!"
Ahhhhhhhhhhh!
Last edited:
'Avast ye dogs!'
