I find myself flying around inhabited space, y'know doing this. Doing that. Enjoying the view. Occasionally I get interdicted by some Johnny come lately NPC in his new-fandangle Vulture or Viper Mk IV and I have to turn myself from quiet trader to combat pilot. Laser hardpoints are deployed from my Cobra Mk III, missiles begin their tick-tick to gain a lock. Eventually, more often than not, my foe is reduced to chargrilled rubble and I tumble about gathering the material bounty from the debris. I occasionally grunt with satisfaction.
But...
But... I feel guilty.
My foe was not defeated by the sweat of my brow. By the careful alignment of eye and the reflex twitch of my trigger finger. No...
...the targetting algorithm did it. The figure eight twitch of a dirty computer did it. My gimballed laser did it.
I feel dirty. We didn't do it like this in Jameson's day.
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I don't like gimballed weapons. No, really.
I -adore- missiles.
Am I alone?
P.S. Oh, and don't get me started on docking computers. In my day, when I was a lad, no one used docking computers...
But...
But... I feel guilty.
My foe was not defeated by the sweat of my brow. By the careful alignment of eye and the reflex twitch of my trigger finger. No...
...the targetting algorithm did it. The figure eight twitch of a dirty computer did it. My gimballed laser did it.
I feel dirty. We didn't do it like this in Jameson's day.
-------------
-------------
I don't like gimballed weapons. No, really.
I -adore- missiles.
Am I alone?
P.S. Oh, and don't get me started on docking computers. In my day, when I was a lad, no one used docking computers...
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