|New look. Bite me.|
It was always late at night, like some kind of frenzied werewolf, that I'd find myself taking out the Rifter for an honest run through the high-sec space lanes. I'd start in Arnon or Hek, thinking to only do a few jumps, but before long I'd be multiple jumps ahead of myself, the noise of the engines gunning in my ears, the next can-flip and the next destination my only thought. I get this addictive feeling in my gut when I go out flipping, one more can, one more aggression timer, just one more wreck to loot. Shoot me, come on!
Sure, the grip is exciting and the chase can be good. On these nights there'd be no limit, take all and face the consequence, the only thing to stop me would be some other werewolf loony who might be out to get his fix. Biting off slightly more than you can perhaps chew, the armor reppers singing a sweet tune, bits of armor streaking off into space, hull damage bringing you closer to the black void, pressure build up on the eyeballs like jumping into water off a high board.
Spiralling out of control, a tight orbit you failed to negotiate as you dodge the incoming fire, there's no sound now, but for a wind like rush biting at your ears, the pressure builds. The needle on the warning lights is blipping ever faster, the rush inside is kicking in, the adrenaline, the fix you crave, you are the junkie and your hedonistic delight is in full flow.
There is only the barest of margins and no room at all for mistakes. It has to be done right .... kill now or be killed, and that is when the strange music starts, you have stretched your luck so far that fear becomes pure unadulterated exhilaration that vibrates through your body, along your arms and down your spine. Howling by an asteroid at an uncomfortably close range, letting off the throttle, easing the turn as you face your enemy again, another few seconds on the edge ... The Edge ... There is no honest way to explain it to the mortals, the only civilians who really know where it is are the ones that have gone over. The others - the living - are those who pushed control as far as they felt they could handle it, and then pulled back, slowed, did whatever they had to decide between Now and Later.
The Edge is out there, the immortals, the capsuleers, the barmy, the brave, the stupid and the wicked all know where it is at and visit it all too often as they seek their next thrill.