No-one does thread necromancy like I do thread necromancy.
RISE FROM YOUR GRAVE.
Egghelende V – Moon 13 – University of Caille Orbital
Outer Concourse, Cyrelle Convention Centre, Portside Habitation Wing
09:52 EST, 04-01-115
My name is Verin Haktain, and I'm not really sure how I feel about all of this.
Andreus has a lot of ideas. Some of them end up working out really well. Some of them at least have interesting outcomes. A few of them... well, let's just say that just because you can't technically die, doesn't mean you can't experience tragedy.
Not that I expect this will end in tragedy – it's a five-day outing to a capsuleer convention. It's not exactly like we're going to end up blowing up a star or causing a planetary invasion or slapping someone's fiancé about the face, but Andreus seems to be absolutely convinced that this entire outing is going to be absolutely hilarious for reasons he can't quite articulate clearly. Mind you, I've had ideas that sounded excellent at the time and turned out terrible so I can't really complain, I guess.
The non-sponsor registration line for this damned thing stretches across an area roughly equivalent to a Mind Clash stadium, and in this moment I understand why Andreus insisted we all spring for at least sponsor registration, since it gets us into the fast-track line. He's going super-sponsor, of course, which means he and the four others who joined him get an even faster line. I briefly wonder whether paying for the privilege of not wasting time standing in queues is more indicative of the Gallente mindset or the Caldari one. I conclude it's too close to call and then take a moment to examine my forged ID.
The interesting loophole in the legality of this entire operation is that we all docked and registered with station control under our own names, but we're using falsified identification manifests to get into the convention – the thing is, that's technically legal under some obscure baselining laws local to this constellation. As long as we aren't deceiving any person with legally-recognised judicial or bureaucratic authority or reneging on a payment, it's apparently entirely fine to lie about our names and places of birth if we want to.
The Federation's legal system sure is weird.
My ID claims that I'm Verin Situurnen, 37 years old, employee of the Modern Finances corporation, born in Jita, living in Laurvier. Classic undercover trick – choose an alias with your own first name, so you can't be caught off-guard. MF's a good cover, since it's off the megacorporate radar but still significant, with offices all over the cluster. I chose Jita as my place of birth because in the unlikely off-chance that someone wanted to look me up, they'd have to trawl a registry with tens of billions of names on it – by the time they'd finished, the convention would be over. Laurvier as current domicile makes me a State expatriate, which raises less eyebrows than a corpie visiting from the State itself.
See? I put a lot of thought into this.
Currently, I'm dressed as a capsuleer named Pieter Tuulinen. Pieter Tuulinen, who's standing behind me, looks distinctly uncomfortable with the beard he had to grow to convincingly imitate me. The moment he told me he was going dressed as me, I decided that I absolutely had to go dressed as him. Didn't make a big thing of it – Caldari humour is sort of like that. You make the joke and you never explain it because it should be obvious.
But if I had to explain, I'd say it works so well in this case because we look enough like each other that I suppose, to the untrained eye, if we swapped facial hair and fashion choices we could be mistaken for each other. He's not quite a close enough facsimile to be mistaken for my brother but the resemblance is there. No jokes about Civire inbreeding and square chins, please – I've heard them all, and most of them weren't even funny the first time.
“So,” he says. “Thoughts?”
"Thoughts?" I scratch the stubble of my dearly departed beard and shuffle forward a little. “I'm thinking this is pretty slow for a 'fast-track' line.”
“Well, give the poor bastards some credit,” he replies, “there's got to be close to a thousand people in this line alone? And they have about, what?” He leans out of the line a bit, squinting to try and catch a glimpse of the front. “Twenty people processing us?”
“They could make a drone, perhaps,” I remark. Even I'm not entirely sure how much I'm joking. "This isn't exactly the sort of job I envision needing a keen mind."
“Oh, come on, Verin, be nice,” the woman in front of me chides. “They're putting on five days worth of entertainment for tens of thousands of strange people with a weird obsession - oh, and as a matter of fact, a couple dozen of those strange people happen to be us. Be more appreciative!”
This is Katrina Oniseki, a fleet commander from an Ishukone subsidiary. Given that she works for the same megacorporation I owe my loyalty to, we have a fairly cordial relationship. We're friends, with a healthy respect for one another, and some minor, respectful disagreements on each other's beliefs. She also has a wife who's nearly as nice as my own.
“Alright, yeah, yeah. You're right,” I concede. “And I guess I should feel flattered that they go to so much trouble to convince people how amazing we are.”
“Yeah!” She chirps, brightly. “Yeah, you should! Although I didn't really need any convincing.”
Currently, she's got her makeup applied just a little too heavy, and she's wearing an outfit that apes her normal knife-sharp white parade dress, but there's some very visible stitching, the fabric is obviously of a lower quality and it's ever-so-slightly asymmetrical. She's gone as a poor imitation of herself. Beautiful. Caldari humour at its finest.
“Yeah, well, one thing I have to say for the Gallente,” I remark, nodding gently to myself, “when their ideas actually, you know, work, they work. Say what you will about taste-"
"Don't worry," replies Pieter, "I will."
"... but they haven't half-assed this thing. I mean look at this.” I point to the life-size diorama suspended above our heads – a replica of an Ishkur assault frigate and a Crow interceptor fighting, with attendant drones. Both the Ishkur and the Crow have sustained serious armour and structural damage. I'm looking through a hole in the Crow's hull, and from what I know of the ship, the placement of the exposed structural elements and internal systems is accurate. Damn, someone's really done their research!
“So this place,” Pieter says, phrasing it as the start of a question but not finishing it.
I turn to him. “Do you mean the convention, or the convention centre?”
“The convention itself, yeah. What's their take? Why do they do this?”
“Money,” I reply flatly.
He cocks his head. “Really?”
“Really, Pieter. I mean the concept is Gallente, but the execution's Caldari to the very core. Put tens of thousands of people with a wide variety of artistic talents who share a very specific obsession in one place, make them pay out the nose for the simple privilege of being here and charge a commission on everything anyone who can make something sells. Winds be merciful, the Practicals wish they could be this good!”
“Are you sure?” He retorts. “We're talking a random selection of people from across the cluster who just happen to be interested in capsuleers...”
“... who all have enough disposable income to get a secure shuttle flight to a station in a Gallentean border system and afford the hotel fees. Trust me, they know what they're doing.”
Pieter nods affirmatively, and makes to say something, but at that moment we're interrupted by someone standing in the regular attendee line. “Dude, is that a fuckin' Stitcher cosplay you got there?”
It's some Gallentean teen with hair dyed lurid violet with streaks of scarlet running through it. He's wearing a long-sleeved jacket that's made of leather, with occasional patches of that weird translucent material Gallentean fashion is so obsessed with nowadays, so I can see his biceps and his nipples through it. I'm very much used to Gallenteans looking strange, but I guess Pieter hasn't had quite so much experience, because he's staring just a little.
“Yes,” he says, quietly. “Yes, it is.”
“Dude, that's amazing!” He replies enthusiastically. “You look just like him! Awesome work!”
“Oh,” Pieter mumbles. “Thanks.”
Our line shuffles forward, and his doesn't, so we can't continue talking, but he gives us a friendly wave as we move on. Pieter and I look at each other. We're both trying not to smile, and we're both not quite succeeding.
Alright, Andreus. You might be onto something here.
Author
Topic: Andreus Writes Everyone A Christmas Present - "The Convention" (Read 9671 times)