Entry: five hundred sixty-five.
Back on my home planet, I lived in a desert. I'm not talking the endless sand dunes and stripped-bare landscape, but the other type. The type where every plant and animal causes immense pain or can kill with a touch, where the air is so dry it sucks the water right out of you and leaves the ground so parched it's not simply cracked, but baked and broken. The type where it is so hot and so dry, you will literally die of heatstroke in twenty minutes if you are exposed to direct sunlight and not hydrated constantly.
Back on my home planet, when it rained, it flooded, destroying anything and everything unlucky enough to not be on the high ground. Today reminded me of that. Pilot on pilot bloodthirst seemed to come out of nowhere, spiraling madly about our regions of null-sec. Any pilot not partaking of the bloodletting willingly was getting his blood sucked into space unwillingly.
The first hour of my day was relatively peaceful. Orders had come down from Alliance Command for redeployment to CZK- on successful agreement of a NIP, non-invasion-pact, with our enemies attempting to take and hold space in Delve. Razor, Morsus Mihi, and Brick Squad were reluctant to sign, only now agreeing upon realization that the DRF was on Catch's doorstep. Considering how easily we've steamrolled them, if we get steamrolled by the DRF, they most certainly have no chance at a home away from the rules of CONCORD. With this NIP signed and sealed, redeployment orders given, I moved the vast majority of my frigates to CZK- from 9CG6-H without incident.
Incident occurred during relocation of my Hound, the final ship I was moving. Timestamp: zero-one hours.
NCdot had sent a few bait vessels to sit on the CZK- station. I warped at zero to a Dry Dock bookmark, away from the undock for situations such as these. However, the undock was not bubbled, so I sat at zero on the station. A friendly Harbinger was some one hundred fifty to two hundred kilometers from station. Without warning, the NCdot fleet got a warp-in on that Harbinger, a Hurricane landing the full force of the NanoCane upon it.
The Harbinger dropped a can, being out of fleet, and I warped to it at thirty, realizing too late that local was spiking with hostiles. A hostile Sabre noticed and burned for me, dropping a bubble. My torpedoes had little effect, and my Hound and my life were taken away from me in the space of a minute. While waiting to die in my pod, I got front row seats to watch the Harbinger pilot demonstrate the painful death I was about to experience.
I woke back up in the CZK- station. I didn't waste any time, rushing out of the medical bay ordering my Guardian made ready as calls came out for logistics. The headaches were unbearable, and my recollection of those first few moments is so painful I almost wish I would have just died forever instead. I ran, barefoot, metal grating into my feet as I scurried to make it in time, that other pain easing the pain in my head slowly but surely. I didn't spend time on proper procedure when I got to my pod; I jumped in and boarded the Guardian, cursing the undock procedure, between waking up and actually leaving the station, at taking a full minute.
I immediately locked up any friendlies under fire and gave reps. A minute of this passed before points were called as needed, as the hostiles were starting to withdraw. I docked, wasting another full minute on changing into a Claw and undocking.
Fleet formed quickly between those who had engaged NCdot on the station. Fleet was only at twenty-four of the seventy-three in local, however. Much grumbling commenced at this, from myself included.
The hostiles were sighted in warp to CNC-. Tackle was ordered to warp to it at zero and aggress. Our scout in CNC-, Sweet Bitterness, reported no hostiles in CNC-. Shortly after, the enemy fleet was sighted in warp to 4NBN- and we warped at zero. Some of us, mostly tacklers, landed first, and jumped through to get points as they were running away.
I arrived in 4NBN-, enemy dictor bubble up. FC called the order to hold cloak a second too late, as I already had engaged my mwd away from the gate. The enemy fleet was battlecruiser heavy, a few Scimitars, a few tacklers. I had a hard time dealing with the Dramiel trying to eliminate me, but it was having a hard time with me as well, barely dealing damage to me as it held me with a long point. The battlecruisers did the most damage to me, and I did my best to repair while pointing while microwarping out of lock range of the enemy fleet.
Somehow, I managed to survive with most of my hull intact, armor stripped bare and slagged to shit, sparks as the last remnants of my recharging shields. I had evaded death, but was still a target as evidenced by redboxed drones and the tacklers that drove me off from providing warp-ins on the enemy fleet. It seemed that the friendly fleet had found their opportunity in me and a few other tacklers distracting them, and had managed to destroy some of the enemy fleet's battlecruisers and frigates. In my escape from a second, extremely painful demise, I had missed that part of that play.
The FC hadn't seen where the enemy fleet went. I and two others warped to the X4- gate. It's where everyone goes to get away in 4NBN- when the retreat is sounded. I called hostiles sighted on the X4- gate as I landed, having by then recharged half of my shields and reformed half of my armor into something resembling a buffer between life and death.
We chased them. X4, Q-U, EX6- gate, and then we lost them. We snagged another few kills in the chase, most notably a Hurricane in Q-U on the EX6- gate, caught a stop bubble and then a tackler on his game. I'd have held him on the X4- gate, but I slipped and got inside of neut range of the Hurricane, allowing him to slip through my grasp.
We didn't leave any pods intact. All were destroyed with excessive prejudice. Looting commenced and was finished quickly, I myself gaining seven four twenty-fives, quite a few scooped drones, a corpse, a covert ops cloak, and some BCUs with a Nanofiber hull upgrade.
Fleet returned to CZK- to reship for the planned frigate roam at zero-one hours.
Computer: terminate recording.