The following is a story interconnected with the current Du'uma Fiisi story-arc. It'd require a bit of backstory to understand, and thus I recommend reading Havohej's blog as it's got all of it that's needed for understanding this little story. Link
here. This is not yet IC available, it's just a recording sitting on a non-networked storage medium awaiting the day that it can be released publicly. When it's publicly released, I'll make sure to make that known.
Audio/Video log 2253-7BLocation: The bridge of -DFS- Stormbringer, currently docked in Simbeloud – Thukker aligned station.
Author: Mizhara Del’thul, Capsuleer, member of Du’uma Fiisi Integrated Astrometrics.
The woman is sitting in a leather chair, a half empty bottle of Bourbon and a glass is nestled on the console next to her. She seems to be deep in thought, and very slightly inebriated. She opens her mouth to speak, then hesitates and takes a sip from the glass before starting to speak, her dead white eyes staring into thin air.There’s… There is a blight on the cluster. There’s an evil in it, so deep and profound that it defies reason. It, like most evil things, is alluring and devious. But what separates this evil from the others, is that it is upfront about it. It admits to all it’s horror, terror and destruction. It boasts of it, and wishes to spread it everywhere. And then it says… “God wills it…”. How can this be? How can something like that exist without being fought with tooth and nail, without reprise or pause? The answer is… they are fought. They are defied. But their opponents try to remain pure. To remain ‘good’ and ‘righteous’. The Republic, the Federation and even the State to an extent try to deal with the terror and evil inherent in the Empire… and they fail, time and time again. Because they try to fight without losing their moral high grounds. They point to the militias and say “We are fighting. We are making a difference.”, while ignoring that the capsuleers who blow eachother up over borders and metaphorical flags planted in space have no real effect on any of the factions. They point at their trade agreements and their own laws and say “We’ve outlawed the horrors, we’re good people, we’re making a difference…” while refusing to consider the billions stuck in Empire space without hope. They point at the Alliances currently setting fire to Providence, saying “The Space Holders are fleeing and their territories are being destroyed. The Alliances are making a difference…”, while forgetting that the Empire sits safe and sound behind CONCORD, not being all too affected at all.
They all fight… without effect. They go to bed at night, feeling good about themselves and their efforts… while the atrocities are committed without even a pause in the Empire. No… to fight this enemy… To end this evil… you have to be as evil as them. You have to make them know fear. That there are monsters in this cluster that have no mercy. No limits. No tolerance for their ways. You have to make them realize that the price of their sins is beyond what they can pay and live… When they wake up screaming and sweating in the middle of the night, from a nightmare about the consequences of their ways… when they fear us more than they fear their false God… Then the fight is won. Then they will know the truth about their own evil.
But who will go to such lengths? Who will have the fortitude and strength to be branded monster, evil, terrorist and enemy of all humanity… all in the name of defeating this Empire? I don’t know of many who could handle that, even if they wanted to. The ones I do know… I already fly beside, proudly, as I reach out with my mind and launch a barrage of phased plasma through the hull of an Empire loyalist. These pilots that I fly beside, I know will do what must be done. How far will we go, in order to end this evil? Well… today I found out how far I am willing to go. My limits. What I am not willing to do. The following recordings from my Neocom should illustrate what kind of enemies the Empire has created and nestled within it’s own bosom. I am, if nothing else, a creation of my enemies.
She taps a button on the console while taking another sip from the glass, leaning her head back as the recordings start playing on the screen.Neocom personal log/security recordings.Subject: Mizhara Del’thul.
Location: Facility Delta-Two. System [Deleted] Planet [Deleted]
Timestamps: Erased.
The adjutant looks attentive and smiles politely as Mizhara wanders out of the Shuttle that brought her down from orbit. She looks around for a moment, studying the prefab prison modules that makes up the greater part of the facility before she walks over to the adjutant who says nothing, but just hands over a small electronic card. As she slots it into the datapad, the swearing starts almost immediately, as they’re walking into the facility proper.
“Two hundred and seventeen in the infirmary? When I spoke to you last, I was assured you had everything under control…”
“Yes, ma’am. The doctors seemed to think so, but apparently one of the mercenary guards had caught the disease and spread it back into the general population.”
“Where is he now?”
“He is at the infirmary as well, separate from the candidates.”
“Have Doctor Neiisan keep him sedated until the facility is clear. He’s going to be fired, and I don’t want him flapping his lips before we’re done here.”
“Very well, ma’am. We need more medical supplies, however. It is all in the file.”
“I will go over the requisitions. Anything that’s not in the file?”
“Yes ma’am. There’s the usual requests from candidates for various items, communication options and so on. I’ve filtered out all the ones that are impossible to accept.”
“For the future, filter out all other requests as well. They get everything they need already, and I’m not bringing a single gram of weight down from orbit beyond what’s necessary. Once my personal shuttle is moved to the hangar, there will be four shuttles landing with the equipment and supplies requested during my last inspection. Well, minus the alcohol, porn, whores and… that animal request. Are you blushing?”
“No ma’am. I’m sorry about those requisitions, but the mercenaries were insisting on trying, and I decided the best way to calm them down was to forward it to you.”
“Tell them that they are extremely well compensated, and that if they fail to fulfill their contracts to the letter I have their boss’s permission to personally kill them.”
“Yes ma’am. Ah, here’s your office. The… other file, is on your desk. Let me know when you wish to do the personal inspection tour. I assume you wish to finish the paperwork first.”
“Mmm… call it what it is, adjutant.”
“… yes ma’am. Termination recommendations, ma’am.”
“Never forget what we do here. While it must be done, each life has to be acknowledged. Respect for life and death is paramount.”
“Yes ma’am. Thank you, ma’am. Eh, for the words, I mean. I… I am not sure if I could have done this, without your leadership.”
“…”
“… I’ll leave you alone now, ma’am. Page me when you wish to take the inspection tour.”
Mizhara eyes the adjutant as he leaves the office, closing the door behind him. Rubbing her neck, she stretches on her toes and flexes some sore muscles, while muttering about never getting used to the natural gravity of this planet. Before sitting down at the plain metal desk, with the metal chair behind it, she eyes the drab gunmetal gray surroundings and sighs slightly. Her eyes lands on the red datacard sitting on her desk, and she sighs again as she moves it to the desk’s edge, instead opting to focus on the datapad and status reports she already has loaded.
*Video log… edited. One hour, forty-two minutes and thirty-two seconds omitted… Log resuming at [timestamp deleted].*The normal gray datacard is now lying on the desk, and Mizhara is staring at the screen of the desk’s data console. The red datacard is embedded in the reader. The screen is showing almost ninety case files, each holding dozens of pages of aptitude tests, psyche reports, behaviour assessments and personal history. Each case file holds one document with the words ‘Candidate deemed too indoctrinated. Not salvageable. Termination recommended, pending Administrator Approval.’. She finishes reading the case in question, and without hesitating she uses the stylus to sign the document before tapping the screen. The document changes to show “Termination Approved, pending batch transfer.” with her signature underneath. For a moment, she turns to look out the window as a group of people are entering a shuttle, most of them smiling happily and looking up at the sky. Each one of them having once appeared on the console monitor in front of her. As the shuttle doors are closing, she turns back to the screen with a cold look on her face, tapping it briefly to bring up the next case file.
She drops the stylus as a woman’s face appears on the screen, her name underneath the picture, the same battery of tests and recommendations hovering in the background. Almost a minute passes before Mizhara even moves, no emotion visible on her face as she grabs the stylus and closes the file before doing a search through the datacard. Within seconds, a second face appears on screen. A man, this time. Her fingers shaking, she pulls up the woman’s file and brings the images next to eachother… underneath both of them the words “Termination recommended, pending…” showing in red. One artificial hand is slowly stretched towards the holographic screen, briefly touching each Sebestior image tenderly before curling into a fist, slamming down onto the desk with enough force to dent the metal. For three long minutes, Mizhara is just sitting there, her face a mixture of disbelief, pain, anger and hate. One finger touches a button on the console, and within seconds the door opens to admit the adjutant, who’s face changes from a polite expression of eagerness to apprehension.
“Yes ma’a…. something wrong ma’am?”
“I’ll be in my shuttle. Bring candidate M-493 and M-494 there, immediately.”
“Yes ma’am! May.. may I ask why, ma’am?”
“No… just do it.”
“… ma’am.”
“We will be lifting off immediately. I will return tomorrow and finish these orders.”
“Very well, ma’am. I will make sure the office is off-limits until then.”
“Oh… Make sure the crew knows the candidates are to be confined to their seats on the shuttle until I give the order to transfer them onto the Stormbringer.”
“Yes ma’am. Erm… I… err…”
“Out with it.”
“I… I must make a report of this break of facility procedure to… him.”
“If you hadn’t, I would have had you terminated myself as you couldn’t be trusted with this project.”
“… yes ma’am. Thank you ma’am.”
*Video log ends at [timestamp deleted].*
Mizhara reappears on the screen, still sitting in the bridge of -DFS- Stormbringer. The bottle has a bit less content now than it did earlier.The past is what makes us who we are. Everything we remember, everything we have endured, everything we have encountered… has shaped us into something. Sometimes I used to wonder if we had any free will at all, or if we are just slaves to our own past. That every conclusion is a foregone one. That every decision has been made already, due to something done to us or happening to us years ago, diverting ourselves to a path that leaves no other option. I actually used to despair over this, as my life unfolded, free from slavery and yet enslaved by the past I carried around with me. The past that molded me, and shaped me into what I was and thus made all my decisions and actions just a product of what others had done to me. And what they had done, was simply done because of how they had been molded and shaped by their own past experiences and lessons. And so on, and so forth the chain went to the beginning of time… everyone was a slave to that first moment of existence.
… what? I never claimed that I was the brightest kid around. Damn, was I stupid. But I learned, as life unfolded and I grew into what I am today. I was shaped, molded… perhaps even created by those I now seek to destroy. But the collar and shackles the past leads me around by are not enough. They are not what led me to this moment. If our experiences, our surroundings and our upbringing was all that decided who and what you are… I could just as well have been one of the candidates with a red line of text under their picture. Our entire people would have been. I am not one of the candidates… and that is because there is something unique about each and every one of us.
Willpower, strength.. a soul… call it what you wish. Whatever it is, it is not decided by our past or our experiences. But it does say… whether you are a Matari… or just another slave to a false God and an evil beyond words.
Your blood and your past is not enough to define you. It helps. It decides your appearance, your perspective, what things you hate and love and who you feel you can trust. It can turn you into a beast. But it is not enough to give that beast a clarity of vision and purpose. For that… you need… yourself. And who you truly are… will define whether or not you can be called a free Matari… or just another slave. … heh, or a true beast.
She hits a button on the console again, emptying the glass as she spins the chair around before the recording starts playing again.Neocom personal log/security recordings.Subject: Mizhara Del’thul.
Location: -DFS- Stormbringer. System [Deleted] Orbit around planet [Deleted]
Timestamps: Erased
Mizhara is shown standing at a viewport, eyeing the planet below in what appears to be a relaxation lounge. The interior bulkheads are the usual brown metal of Matari ships, but the furniture is mostly composed of dark old wood and heavily upholstered leather. A door slides open at the other end of the room and the two Sebestior from her console screen walks in wearing mass produced military jumpsuits, looking frightened as they’re followed by a large Brutor carrying a rifle. He leads them to the center of the room before snapping to attention, not speaking. Without turning, Mizhara’s even and slightly cold voice is heard. “Don’t worry… you are onboard the Stormbringer, a Hurricane class Battlecruiser owned and operated by a Capsuleer who is working for Du’uma Fiisi Integrated Astrometrics. Sergeant, you may leave us.”
The Brutor nods curtly, leaving quietly, as the Sebestior man speaks. “Who.. who are you? Why are we here?” He swallows, his fear far from having lessened at the mention of a Capsuleer. Mizhara’s voice grows colder.
“Who am I? Am I that different than I was back then? Well… you probably would have expected me to be short one arm and one leg, but my voice never changed.” She turns to face them, a look of recrimination and disappointment on her face. “But then, you never was proud of your daughter, were you Father? Mother? I seem to recall such delightful pet names as ‘that sinful daughter of mine’, ‘demon child’ and others.” she tilts her head to the side, her dead white eyes regarding them and their shocked expressions with a sneering grin. “What… no hug?”
She keeps her eyes on her mother as the older woman untangles herself from her husband, and hesitantly moves towards her daughter. Her hand moving up towards Mizhara, but stopping partway there and instead curling up over her own chest. “What… what’s happened to you, ‘zhara mine? Your eyes!” A few seconds pass as Mizhara chuckles darkly before speaking.
“I lost my sight when a friend I trusted turned out to be a traitorous Amarr-serving bastard who almost destroyed a mining colony in the name of their false God.” The slap landed squarely on Mizhara’s cheek, turning her head, but otherwise not seeming to affect her at all.
“Blasphemy! Speak not to your mother that way! I raised you to be a good woman in the service of God!” The older woman almost trembled with anger before noticing the implants on Mizhara’s turned neck, then gasping and almost running back to her husband’s side.
“You! You are the Capsuleer!” The man sounds as if he’s seconds away from a heart attack, holding his wife as if protecting her.
“Yes… father. I am the capsuleer. And you two will sit down and answer my question. Is that clear?” The threat inherent in her voice must have been obvious as the two scrambled to sit down in an old sofa nearby. Mizhara sauntered lazily to a chair on the other side of the table between them, sitting down and pulls her prosthetic leg up to rest on the other knee, chuckling darkly as the two eyes the black synth-skin covering her left leg and right arm. “Noticed my new limbs? They’re almost as expensive as this ship, and that comes to quite a few million ISK all by itself.” She studies her fake hand for a moment.
“Remember the day I lost my arm? When you, father, held me down while the Holder’s guards chopped it off ‘as the punishment for my sins’… The Holder’s son who had fancied a Matari girl’s… eheh… onehanded ‘massage’… was certainly not to blame for having been… pleased… by a terrified slave girl. No, of course, the sin was in that demon child who had tempted him from the path of God… Delightful day, wasn’t it? When you, mother, discovered me on my knees in front of him and ran off to the Holder’s guards to report it? Such wickedness could not go without a penitent confession to the Amarrians who of course knew best how to deal with such a wicked child…”
Her eyes flickers between the two, who are holding eachother in a tight embrace, terror in their eyes. “Of course, I much prefer to remember the day when I lost my leg. When the agents of a Matari capsuleer managed to spirit away those who would rather live free… Those who dreamed of a different life. Oh, that was such an exciting night. When we skulked through the streets, the agent in front with forged papers and a nice little cover story as seventeen slaves were following behind, terrified. And just as we were to leave the town and enter the landing site of the shuttles… the alarm goes off, as I had thought you wouldn’t report my leaving, and had left you a letter explaining where I was going and why. The agent shoots and kills no less than eight guards as we rush to the shuttle, and as the price for my naivete, I get shot in the thigh, the explosive round completely blowing off my leg.
“They dragged me, screaming, on board the shuttle… and I get my last look of that planet… you two running towards the landing area with half the town with you. My arm and my leg was left on that planet… but they were prices I don’t mind paying. That day I was finally free… The capsuleer who freed us took pity on the poor girl with one arm and one leg, screaming in pain as she was moved onto his ship and his medical team barely managed to save her. He got her to her blood tribe… he set up a fund for her capsuleer’s education… and he was there when she graduated. And his single solitary nod of approval, the last I ever saw of him, meant more to me than anything you two have ever done or said.” She keeps her eyes on the two of them, hate and anger virtually radiating off her.
“It’s… it’s not too late, my child. You can repent your sins and return with us! Bring the ship to our home, your home, and the Father can bring you back to the path of God!” Her mother looks terrified to speak up like that, but strong and steadfast at the same time. “The Holder is not cruel, or vicious! He allowed us to bear you forth, and raise you in his service, so you could serve God through him! He will allow you to return to God…” Her voice fades out as Mizhara stands up slowly, her fingers working the air as if they’re claws. Her nanotattoos glaring red as her warpaint shows.
“God? GOD? Your false God, who you so faithfully serve, has brought nothing but misery and suffering to the Matari people. The very false concept of his existence has turned an entire people into slavers and madmen! As far as you two are concerned… I… AM… GOD!” As her thunderous words hit the two shaking slaves, she visibly calms down and turns her back on them. “You will answer my question… I hope your answer is good…”
She walks back to the viewport, her eyes on the planet below as she speaks. “You two have been indoctrinated since birth. Will you return to the planet and listen earnestly to your… interviewers? They say you have refused to even listen to them.”
Her father’s voice is low, his fear plain as he speaks. “We will not. They speak heresy and blaspheme with their every word. Return us to our home, or at least set us free so we can earn our way back.”
Her mother sounds less afraid, but far stronger. “The Words are not indoctrination. They’re truth. And you can not force us to listen to these poor deluded men and women. Let us speak to them instead, maybe they will see what you will not.”
Mizhara sighs and nods to herself, a bit of pain showing on her face as she speaks. “Very well… the Sergeant should be on the other side of the door, he will see to it that you are returned to the planet. From there, you will be transported with the other candidates who won’t listen to reason to a place where you can finally be free.” The two in jumpsuits barely glances at their child, disappointment and pain on their faces as they get up and turn to leave. “You two were dead to me a long time ago… Farewell, mother… father.”
In a split second, she turns, drawing her sidearm. The sound of the shot is deafening as she shoots her father in the back of the head. Her mother barely manage to turn, terror shining in her eyes as she opens her mouth, her scream cut short as the second shot takes her in the throat. The sound of the two crumpling to the deck covers the hiss of the door sliding open as the Brutor rushes in, rifle at the ready, before he quickly grasps the situation and lowers it. “Have the bodies incinerated at the waste management, and send some crew to clean up the deck. Tell the bridge crew to set the autopilot for Simbeloud, I’ll be up there shortly. Once we are there, I want everyone to leave the ship. I want to be alone for a while.”
The Brutor doesn’t speak, but his expression carries sympathy, sadness and understanding. The similarity between mother and daughter had been striking, after all. He refrains from saluting, just nodding solemnly to his diminuitive Mistress as she wanders out the door, holstering her sidearm and a cold emotionless mask seems to slip over her face. He whispers as the door closes. “The Horned Mask… I hope you can one day discard your burden, Mistress. Until then, we will serve and support you…”
*Video log ends at [Timestamp Deleted].*Once more Mizhara shows up on the screen. The bottle is now empty and she’s staring out into thin air as she’s thinking. Slowly, she gets up, and looks to the side as she speaks.Today… I came face to face with my past. With the events and experiences who turned me into what I am. For a brief moment there, I could see the path I’ve walked so clearly. All the different crossroads, where my Masters, my family, my liberator, my fellow students, my friends turned traitor… many hundreds of people have stood and nudged me one way or the other. I have stood on the precipice of death many times… a few times I consciously considered crossing it. I have failed, oh so many times, at critical tasks and endeavours. I have succeeded at so many different things… all decided by my past. My experiences. My upbringing. Almost all… that is.
If I had merely allowed the past to guide me… if that was all… then I would have been the exact same evil I am fighting. Perhaps on the right side of the fight, but still… just the same from the other side of the spectrum. My spirit, my will, my soul… call it what you will… That is what has allowed me to go far beyond my past. It has allowed me to become something much worse than my enemy. They inflict terror and suffering by the words of their God, thinking they do a good and righteous thing. I do it knowing exactly what it is. Evil and horrific. And it is the only tool sharp enough to dig out the blackened heart of the abomination they call an Empire.
I told you earlier… that I learned what my limits are. What I will not do. How far I will go…
She turns to the camera, a vicious grin on her face as she laughs coldly and speaks again.I have no limits. And I am coming for you all.
Her laughter is the last thing that is heard before the video feed cut offs abruptly.
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Topic: I am God! (Read 1836 times)