Wounded

He maneuvered the camera drone softly around. The look of the site was spectacular but he was much more concerned about the red crosses Aura marked his adversaries with. The Wolf class advanced frigate, now labeled 'Flameburst' was taking ages to reach the warehouse. Ages, as in ten or so seconds. The capsuleer quickly brought up the cargo trasfer interface, and the robotic arms pulled in the reason for him entering this deathtrap.
-Watch the heat sink! - yelled Kem, as the Wolf, propelled by the extreme power of the oversized afterburner drifted towards the warehouse, nearly scratching one of the weakest parts of the ship. Fortunately the kinetic barriers kicked in, and the frigate bumped off with almost equal velocity. The capsuleer turned the warp drive on, and within seconds the fickle Wolf was leaving the deadspace pocket, the angry Serpentis still trying to achieve a target lock until they realized no one's there anymore.

The station was one of the few permanent homes for the capsuleer. The dock coordinator smiled at the timely return, and then sent the little ship to the capsuleer's favorite hangar. The amarrian design provided a magnificient view of the station interior. The pilot did not leave the ship, but contacted the agent he was working for. High security space was always busy, and a lot of people meant a lot of criminals. There's always a new job for the venturing capsuleer, provided he or she climbs the ropes of official corporate trust. The capsuleer was well known in this station, at least in the official circles. Sometimes people would knock on his room right next to the dock. In the age of nanites and people not dying because of some gadgets and computers within their bodies, who in their sane mind would think to register a knock on a metal door in any system? Those people who did knock usually had something fishy in mind and wanted the capsuleer to take care of them. Kem marveled at the extent of some of these requests. Simple deliveries of small trinkets and leading large scale military operations alike. The capsuleer had well-tried crew for these runs, including the lead engineer, Blake, who was sometimes harsher than a brutor farmer boy, but Kem really didn't mind the attitude. The man always pulled his weight and beyond all the cursing and spitting, he had a heart, and women like Kem had a good eye for that. Her thoughts shifted back to the capsuleer as the elevator carried her down to his hangar.

The man talked not a word more than was necessary. He always seemed to be suspended deep in his thoughts. Kem did not question him about his past - the wrinkles around his eye and the pale reflections in his iris told all she needed to know. Some people become capsuleers to leave their proletarian roots behind. Many dream of profits and challenges unknown to planetside people. Some others try to break free of the traditions their nations are entrenched in. And some, probably the most, have something they'd rather leave behind. No matter the reasons they admit, each and every one of them is trying to escape something. This particular capsuleer seemingly had multiple things to escape from. Who she saw was a man without fears and regrets. He probably lost his family to something horrible, she mused, because he never talks about them, nor does he reveal his family name. The capsuleer always introduced himself by his callsign, and with subordinates preferred the address 'pilot', rather than any fancy ranks or titles. This appealed to the seibestor woman, though she noted that for an amarrian - and a khanid of all kinds - the capsuleer was awfully humble and very kind in his own way. Some of the crew were slaves before the 'mighty Empress' decided to release them to the four winds - without food and jobs. The capsuleer took these stragglers in, and gave them work and hope. He actively encouraged them to seek ties with their families. In case they died when he lost a ship, he sent the remainder of their belongings to their families, along with their remaining pay to help ease their grief. It wasn't much, but it was a nice gesture. The pilot actually took care of his people. The small battleship and cruiser fleet he maintained gave them homes and employment. In return, the rules were strict. He always undocked with a skeleton crew, no errors, no slackers permitted. Rather dead than useless is what he believed a crew member should be. As much as he approached the people casually, he demanded complete attention and precise work. This duality is a marker for a kind of people who Kem could refer to with only one word: wounded.