Its a lazy Sunday in New Eden, so I took some time to rewrite the lyrics from Money for Nothing by Dire Straits (video not available on Youtube in the UK ) with reference to low sec piracy. Enjoy.

To the tune of Money for Nothing

Now look at them pirates, thats the way you do it
Pop a hauler on a gate in 0.3
That ain’t minin’, thats the way you do it.
Money for nothing and your rigs for free.
Now that ain’t haulin’, thats the way you do it.
Lemme tell you them guys ain’t dumb
Mebbe lose a firgate if you’re unlucky
Mebbe lose a cruiser if you’re dumb

We gotta mine these belts till their empty.
Runnin’ missions interminably
We gotta haul these antibiotics
We gotta move these Holoreels

We gotta mine these belts till their empty.
Runnin’ missions interminably
We gotta haul these antibiotics
We gotta move these Holoreels

I shoulda learned to fly an Ishtar.
I shoulda learned to fire them guns.
Lookit that Omen, he got his lasers on that Mackinaw
Man, we could have some fun
And what’s up there, what’s that? Belt ratting nublings?
Stick him to the grid and let him have some fire.
That ain’t haulin’, that’s the way you do it.
Get your money for nothin and your kicks for free.

We gotta mine these belts till their empty.
Runnin’ missions eternally
We gotta haul these antibiotics
We gotta move these Holoreels

Now that ain’t minin’, that’s the way you do it.
Pop a hauler on a gate in 0.3.
That ain’t haulin’, that’s the way you do it.
Money for nothing and your rigs for free.
Get your, money for nothing and your kicks for free.

Till next time, fly safe and good hunting.

Welcome to the sixth installment of the EVE Blog Banter, the monthly EVE Online blogging extravaganza created by CrazyKinux. The EVE Blog Banter involves an enthusiastic group of gaming bloggers, a common topic within the realm of EVE Online, and a week to post articles pertaining to the said topic. The resulting articles can either be short or quite extensive, either funny or dead serious, but are always a great fun to read! Any questions about the EVE Blog Banter should be directed here . Check out other EVE Blog Banter

This month’s topic comes to us from Quintrala of Speed Fairy . She suggests to ”Write a short fiction story about the dissolution of the BoB alliance. It could be from BoB’s point of view, the Goons’, by neutrals in 0.0, civilians in Empire, NPCs or even rats. Write about before, during or after the coup; give us stories of market, war, people or love. In-character or roleplay. We want to know what happened, from those fictional characters that, in your mind, were part of it.”

And so, without further ado, I present to you my contribution. I hope you like it.

He Gave Up the Stars

His finger traced the sticky rings of some congealed spirit on the wooden bar top in front of him, as he gestured in the direction of the barman for another drink. A glass appeared on the bar as if by magic, and the barman retreated to the other end to see to another customer.

They were few and far between in this place, and he liked it like that. He’d been here so long that the locals treated him like part of the scenery, a piece of furniture in the bar they retreated to at the end of a hard day in the fields. It didn’t matter to them that he wasn’t one of them, though he might as well have been now. There were scant few left who remembered his arrival.

They lived such short, sharp lives these planet dwellers. Working their fingers to the bone in seemingly mindless drudgery. Not ignorant of the huge events that shaped their lives from far above, but not overly concerned with them. Little did they know that the silent man who occupied the threadbare stool had once directed those events, not that they would have cared. Again though, this was just the way he liked it.

That he’d once commanded fleets of thousands was nothing to them. He still remembered the sparkle of  beams criss-crossing great purple and red nebulae. The explosions, the destruction, the victories and defeats. The lives of thousands thrown away with no concern for who they were or what they might have been. He was more aware of their mortality, now that he was mortal himself.

He had been destined to live forever, plugged into huge machines designed to tame the galaxy beyond this paltry little atmosphere. He had seen things that the people around him now wouldn’t have believed. Assault fleets on fire off the shoulder of a star with no name, the hum and flash of stargates, a hundred ships warping in flawless formation into battle. They would never know the visceral thrill of weaving a frigate through a sky filled with city sized carriers and dreadnoughts, or the sense of power engendered as an outpost disintegrates under lances of heat and energy.

A solitary tear fell from his cheek, in mourning for the life he’d lived and left behind. He’d given up the stars. He’d given up the freedom of microgravity for a life lived under a sky, and with good reason. He’d brought them down, his former masters. Torn their power out from under them and scattered them to the solar winds and galactic currents, and he’d done it without firing a shot.

They’d taken his loyalty for granted, piled abuse upon incompetence and expected him to remain the willing soldier, and he had decided not to stand for it any longer. The correct command into a computer console, a few choice words with a contact he’d carefully nurtured, and it was done. The end. No more would they dominate the region known as Delve among the denizens of space.

They had taken their godhood for granted and such hubris should not go unpunished, and so he punished them, in doing so, condemning himself to a life lived out in obscurity. But it was a life. One life, lived until its end, however that may come. A thing of value and rare beauty. Unlike the life of those who roamed the stars, to whom death meant nothing and life meant even less. He had given up his immortality, but would never regret it. He missed the stars however, their beauty and majesty unfiltered by the veil of atmosphere. That was something he did regret.

Glancing up he saw a stranger enter from the windblown night in the mirror behind the bar. The newcomer looked uncomfortable, ungainly, as if carrying a weight he was not used to. Not like these simple farmers with their easy, graceful, strength and gravity bred muscles. He gestured again to the barman, who nodded. “And one for my friend too,” he said as the Pilot came to the bar beside him.

“You’ve come a long way to find me son, take the weight off and have drink with an old man. Then we can see to business.” he said, handing the youth a drink.

“I know why you’re here. It was only a matter of time before you found me, though I thought you’d have been here sooner. 12 years is a long time to keep an old man waiting.”

The Pilot, in his neatly pressed and freshly laundered suit, seemed to hang his head in shame. He raised his glass, as if in salute, and downed the contents. When the coughing has subsided the old man grinned and stood. “Lets go shall we, I don’t think the local brew agrees with you and I’d like to see the stars once more before…”

He left the thing unsaid, but the Pilot nodded and stood, wiping the tears induced by harsh alcohol from his cheeks. The old man held the door open and waved to the barman. “The young man will return to pay my bill Jake. Goodbye old friend.” The Pilot nodded, the barman nodded in return, Then as the door swung shut behind them, he gathered the glasses from the cracked and stained bar top in front of him, and moved to serve someone else.

Fin.

There. I’m not going to go into any kind of dissection of what’s happening here, if my writing is any good you’ll be able to figure it out for yourself. A big thank you goes out to Quintrala for challenging us with something a little different this month. I hope this peice meets the requirements as I don’t really follow alliance politics or the events surrounding them that closely so some distance was required for it to be convincing and to ensure that I didn’t make any glaring errors.

Other participants in this month’s Blog Banter are:

My name is Torven Mishral, I am 43 years old and a subcontractor for The Interbus. I have been posted on Seyllin I for the last 18 months as the overseer of Interbus concerns in Metal City. I was on my way to the office this morning when it happened. An explosion, a crash, I don’t know really.

All I remember is sitting on the mag reading the morning news on my pad and checking my schedule for the day when there was a sudden sensation of heat and noise. I don’t know how long I was out but I came to with my legs crushed between my seat and the one opposite, I don’t even know if they’re there any more.

The people around me are either unconcious, dead, or dying. There was a lot of screaming for a while but it died down quite quickly. Its as if we all realised that we were already dead and no amount of shouting was going to change that. The heat is a comfort, even though I can’t stop shivering. My pad is not working and I can only hope that the flimsy material I’m writing this on survives this ordeal. Little did my wife realise that her birthday gift to me would be put to such a use.

You know me so well my love, your gift was perfect. A ‘book’ of sheets of pulped plant material, and a stylus which made marks on the material with a liquid dye. Such a quaint method of communication. I carried it with me every day in the six months since my birthday and wrote something in it daily. My desire was that I could give it to you upon my return in three weeks and you could read it and know that I thought of you always. I regret that the circumstance under which you might recieve this journal will not be so happy, if you recieve it at all.

Pain. It washes over me in waves, I fear I may have lost more than my legs, something in my chest makes it hard to breath. I did not know the man in the seat next to me apart from to nod and share pleasantries with on our morning commute. I think his name was Gunther, or Gruber or some such. His head lolls at an unatural angle, I envy him his good fortune, at least for him the end was quick. That sounds callous and unworthy of me, especially as my extended death has given me the time to write this last message to you my dear.

The darkness is encroaching further into the edges of my vision, I must say farewell. Remember me my love, and let the children believe there was no pain or horror in my dying minutes. My only solace has been the thought of you, and the feel of the animal hide cover of my journal. I have a final gift for you, my love, and it is this: Do not mourn me too long, nor feel my loss too deeply. Go on with your life, find love, be happy, and remember that I have always loved, and will always love you. I will greet you in the Time After with open arms, but for now, this may be goodbye. Farewell my dearest.

The body of Torven Mishral was found three weeks after the disaster on Seyllin I by a search team. He was clutching this book in his hand and had lost both legs below the knee. A fragment of shrapnel had peirced his chest and in the period between the disaster and his death had worked its way inexorably towards his heart. His wife asked that his last message to her be published in his memory and the memory of all those that were lost on that fateful day. Those wishing to send flowers or other condolences should donate to the Seyllin Disaster Relief Fund instead. Farewell Torven, may you rest forever among the stars.

[For info about the Apocrpha expansion and a 14 day trial of EVE Online please visit EVE-Online.com.]

Collaborative fiction through the medium of Twitter.

I must be nuts.

Imagine, if you will a story told a whole load of different people, in chunks of 135* characters or less (including spaces). It has the potential to produce a collective outpouring of imagination of a kind never seen before. We could end up with a masterpiece, or we could end up with something more like James Joyce’s Ulysses (which is a different kind of masterpeice).

I proudly present The Twitter Collaborative Fiction Experiment.

Whatever comes of it I urge you to have a shot. So go read the rules (don’t worry there are only 3) If you’re on Twitter send an @ reply to TCFE, have a look at the accompanying blog, and subscribe to the story feed to find out whats happening.

* I am aware that Twitter gives you 140 characters for each tweet, but you have to put @TCFE on the front of contributions to the story which is 5

Millions of children have grown up watching Mr. Hart on programs such as Vision On, Take Hart, and Hart Beat, which encoureged creativity and artistry in the young. Im remeberance of a man who made a huge contribution to millions of lives I give you Left Bank Two by the Noveltones, which many of you may recognize as the background music to the gallery section of all of Mr Hart’s TV shows.

Tony Hart, 1925 – 2009

A few years ago I created an assortement of musical peices which I uploaded to IUMA, which is now defunct.

I can only remember the name of one of the tracks and the name I uploaded them under.

The track was called Human Error and it was uploaded under the name FadeOut. If anyone out there downloaded this track (and any of the others, of which there were about 4) could you let me know please.

I know I should have kept a backup, and I honestly thought I had, but having changed computers at least half a dozen times since then and having also moved house multiple times, my music has got lost in the ether somewhere.

I know that there’s hardly any chance of this coming to anything but its worth a try eh?

It’ll probably fizzle out in a couple of weeks but for now I’m all raring to go with it. I’m toying with the idea of producing some photo’s for it. Taken around the town I live in and photoshopped appropriately. I’d do some drawings but I’m not a good enough artist more’s the pity

Let me know what you think and tell your friends if you like it. I’ve got a good feeling ’bout this one (for the moment at least).

http://keithneilson.co.uk/writers-networks-and-the-fallout/ struck late last year affecting the entertainment diets of billions. Favourite TV series were cut short, some dissappeared never to be seen again, all because the studios didn’t want to pony up a little extra from the huge piles of moolah they make from them.

Joss Whedon (he of Buffy, Angel, Firelfly and Serenity fame) has decided to try and show the industry, and those that work in it, that there is another way and will this week be bringing you:

From the FAQ:

The idea was to make it on the fly, on the cheap – but to make it. To turn out a really thrilling, professionalish piece of entertainment specifically for the internet. To show how much could be done with very little. To show the world there is another way. To give the public (and in particular you guys) something for all your support and patience. And to make a lot of silly jokes. Actually, that sentence probably should have come first.

Looks like fun, and who knows it may start something.

You may wonder what I’m blathering about, well its this. I’ve been following CAD for some time now (if you like a good chuckle and a well written webcomic check out the archives) and honestly didn’t see this coming. The subject matter is a difficult one and as a away of breaking out of the pigeonhole of ‘Gaming Comic’ its one of the most effective plot twists I’ve seen. Tim sums up his reasons for it here, and I stand behind him wholeheartedly.

Gamers are people too with all the baggage and emotional turmoil that that entails, its about time someone said so. I salute you Tim and will continue to read CAD as long as you continue to write it.

Flat Out 2 is a racing game. In the single player career mode you drive in race after race, building up your cash reserves till you can afford a better car, unlocking special events and the aforementioned better cars as you go. At first glance there’s not much scope for a story there, and you’d be right. The game makers haven’t even tried to tack on any kind of plotline and have only provided brief bios pf those you are driving against. So why do I find myself reacting as if I was a player in a larger tale?

Flat Out 2 is not a perfect game by any stretch of the imagination, its a full throttle arcade racer with some physics thrown in to make the crashes entertaining. There’s nowhere near the depth of customisation offered by the Need For Speed titles and none of the realism of Project Gotham or Gran Turismo. It is the Spiderman to the more refined racing games’ Dancer in the Dark, if you want to use a movie analogy. Obviously the story of the game has no significance whatsoever. It is however an example of how an entertaining yet shallow game experience prompts the player to build their own stories.

Throughout your career, from your first races in clapped out bangers to the grand finals where you should have reached the stage where you can afford the cream of automotive technology, you are racing against the same 7 drivers. Some of these drivers are destined to be your nemeses, beating you time and again on tracks you know backwards. I hate them with a passion.

For the first few races I didn’t pay that much attention to who the other drivers were as I was beating them fairly easily. The Derby class of races (for the clapped out bangers) was completed with out me breaking a sweat. Then I hit the Race series. Faster cars, new tracks, and slightly harder bots. I still beat them without much fuss but it wasn’t as easy as it had been. I found myself going back to the derby class and re-racing some of the cups available to build up enough cash to get the best upgrades for that little extra edge over my competitors. I was beginning to want to beat two or three specific drivers who were proving to be thorns in my side.

By the time I hit the Street series I knew who my rivals were and could name them. Sofia Martinez in her shining silver pickup and Jack Benton in his waspish black and yellow sports coupe. They are now people to me, rivals worthy of the name. And this is in a game with no literary pretensions, how has this happened?

Game makers can learn a lot from this phenomenon, with little or no influence in the way of plot and/or characterisation from them, a player of their game has been prompted to make an emotional investment. The game is far better for it, not because of anything that they have added to the game, more because of what they have left out. Deliberately or not, Bugbear, the developers of Flat Out 2, have made me want to complete it. Not through the promise of uber unlockables or some other mechanic, but by getting me emotionally involved.

Call of Duty 4 did this as well, though there was more thought put into the plot and such in that game. I actually had a bit of a lump in my throat at the end and a few times in the middle (I’m not going to spoil it for you if you haven’t played it). Here was an all action shooter which pulled at the heartstrings and got an emotional response from the player. So my advice (whatever that’s worth) to game developers is to get the player emotionally involved, give them something to give a damn about and your game will be more enjoyable for it.

So when deciding how to get the player invested in a game you have two options: If you’re going to run the plot on rails then you’d better make it a damn good one (a’ la CoD4)which doesn’t overpower the gameplay, or if you don’t want the burden of a plot tailor the AI so that the player feels they have a worthy opponent. Mindless cannon fodder are not fun to beat, neither are totally predictable driving bots.

Don’t just tell me a story, I can read a book for that.