REP

Tell them being vored is like putting on a hot, wet, full body pressure vest

It's not quite at the same tier as ASD call-out as the diagram I made, but it is pretty close.

Starship pilot who only smokes mids

Somewhere out past Sector 9, near the weird ass Pulsar that various roving bands of pirates call home whilst nestled in the bones of old military bases, there's a Trade Union pilot who prowls around like a bird of prey.

Callsign Gatekeeper, they're easily the best pilot in the unsectored regions where the Trade Union hasn't managed to set up shop. Pirates know better than to fuck with him on their own, he'll fly right past you so long as you're not attacking unarmed civilians. Every now and then, one of the Pirates will rise up the ranks and start getting damn good compared to his peers. Amongst the Pirates here, they call Ace pilots "Skullheads", owed to the rarely minted medallion that the Pirate Lords will give their favorite pilots.

Increasingly for these pirates, it is a mark of death. It started last year when Gatekeeper came into the unsectored regions, blasting apart the most well fortified bases and killing scores of seasoned pilots who'd fought the Trade Union back during the last big War over the sector. But once all of the best of the best were ruined? He started hovering like a fucking ghost. It's like he's toying with those poor bastards.

There's a lot of ideas as-to why he does this, but few hold any water. The best of the best when it comes to Pirates are at best mid-tier when it comes to the skill arc of pilots in the rest of the Territories... it's like he's waiting for something. It's enough of an anomaly that some hotshot reporter went out and interviewed him, but the guy came back all fucked up in the head.

What the reporter told me over drinks has a weird resonance with me, I don't dare find out why it sounds true but the reporter's reaction adds a certain credibility. "He just sees us all as numbers", rambled the man, "He's doing some kind of long game to accumulate rare components only found on Skullhead ships", which is stupid. Those "rare parts" can be bought cheaply if you know who to ask. But apparently, the guy doesn't talk very much. But, the reporter added this detail...

"His gear score is too low to take on the Trade Union ships, so he's grinding pirates for Exp and set bonuses"

If there's a god in this universe, they've made a shit-tier clone of Diablo.

Starship pilot who takes a paragraph to say a sentence

I feel offended, appalled, and frankly disappointed that one of my favorite starblogs would mention me so deliberately yet lack the gumption to thumb me by name. Clearly, no one else could possibly be so specifically and surgically designated with such a high degree of accuracy and specificity on the stellanet by the text of this prompt. I'm powering on my main drives and diverting all power from shields to weapons, I'm so spiked right now my copilot AI is telling me to evade. If you wanted my attention so badly, all you had to do was fly a Type 9 interplanetary bomber suspiciously close to my Orbit, but since we're going out of our way to do things, I guess I'll jump 3 systems over to come kick your ass for being so smug. This is all in the name of the spirit of the game and the honor I have as a pilot, and if you knew better you'd prepare for trouble and make it double, because when my twin engine starfighter shows up on scan it'll be too late to run. I have over 30 confirmed kills and have served in the Trans-Comm Federal Navy for 10 years as an elite strike pilot, and when I find you I will use every weapon available to me (including multi-lock missile barrages and rail guns) to wipe that smug sarcastic grin off of your face. You're space dust, kiddo.

[TLDR Nav-Comm Assistant Summary]: They're upset because they think your vaguepost about that pilot from Omicron 9 is about them. Shall I prepare the Ion Cannon?

DO YOU REMEMBER?

For a fleeting, blissful moment there, no, I did not.

Dancing upon my floor, the little creature vexes me. Its form familiar yet alien, an ambient knowledge of its other-worldliness gently tingles in the front of my temples. Attempting to dismiss the creature has only brought on a migraine, as-if the discourteous action were a careless boot trudging through a ring of mushrooms.

It is a miserable evening at Cambridge, the traditional English rains have a sharper tempo than is seasonal, a whistling wind and the occasional crack of lightning swirls within the impenetrable haze of unseen storm clouds. It was here in my study I had sought shelter, fool that I am. As-if an unwashed urchin, I am beset by nits of the past. Paralyzed with indecision, the warmth of my armchair contrasts the cold fear trickling into my mind. I struggle to lift the Tumblr of whiskey in my hand, the weight multiplied by my trepidation.

It chittered, bouncing afoot fore to aft, its legs and wings static akin to a vivid sketch on a page of my journal. As if the creature's gyrations were ritual, realization of that fateful night shoots down my spine; my shoulders stiffening, I twist painfully with the thought. The glass shatters upon the floor of my study, I writhe with a pain hidden deep within my psyche. The comfort of the once warm armchair now more distant than the summit of Everest. It is only now I realize I have lost my spectacles, I writhe blind and helpless on the floor as it repeats itself.

DO YOU REMEMBER?

I howl in pain, but only a faint whimper stammers out. The creature inflicts flashes of the past upon me, driving my hard fought mental defenses aside, twisting the knife as it severs so easily the wounds I thought healed. It is merciless, its voice and will penetrating behind my eyes, a faint rhythmic ringing dull and ominous echos a disquieting, cheerful ambiance. Hellish cacophonies follow, my vision sharpening as the creature fills the empty gaps the blindness of age brings.

That fateful day. The hellish night which followed. A dance to remember. The odd town by that twisted shore, the depths of that cursed basement, endless rows of runes merely contained by musty tomes, of course accompanied by hooded and strange men of unknowable intent. My jaw is frozen, I plead with my eyes fixated upon the creature, it is unmoved.

DO YOU REMEMBER?

Further I sink into the prison of time passed.

How hard I tried not to remember.

...It was the 21st night of September...