Aliaksandre

Well, this is a familiar feeling.


I don’t need to open my eyes to know where I am. The cold sensation of titanium alloy pressed against my face provides an unmistakable chill that isn’t easily shaken. The smooth texture of the metal is interrupted only by particles of filth and dust, a feeling that compels my bare hands to scurry back into their pockets.

The primary olfactory cortex forms a direct link with the hippocampus and the amygdala. These three nuclei blast sensory neurons around the brain, providing humans with emotional memory through smell. Perhaps the longest lasting and most cruel form of psychological torture, smells do not linger, yet they do not disappear.

I smell spit.

Of course I smell spit. Long gone is the shame, the guilt, the greed, death. The smell of spit on human skin is appauling. Its stale, sewage-like odor is mixed with the piercing scent of distilled grain on my breath.

Whiskey.

Capsuleers do not die. There is no possibility of true death, no escaping who we are. There is no erasing, no cure, no rest. There is only whiskey. Whiskey keeps me alive. It lets me sleep and not dream, it allows me to forget - just for a moment - who I am. It is the light in my dark, deadly world. It keeps me sane by providing me with time away from myself. The smell of whiskey is a beautiful double edged sword. It is a reminder that I caused death, but at least it kept me from dreaming.

Vomit.

This always comes before the whiskey. Spending all day in a capsule takes a toll on my cloned body. Leaving my capsule after a day of killing requires readjustment, almost as if my body doesn’t approve of what I do. I’m told the vomiting is normal, something that every capsuleer experiences. However, it has been years and the transition sickness only gets worse. Whiskey calms my stomach and settles my nerves. To be honest I don’t know much of the vomiting is from pod sickness versus how much I simply hate myself.

Death.

Everything starts with death. Death is my beginning, the birth of self hate and satisfaction, all in one glorious event.

The thrill of the chase.
The rush of adrenaline as round after round of Republic Fleet issue ammunition tears through a ship’s hull.
The tremendous euphoria experienced when the rounds stop, when the explosions die away. The return of quiet as death sets in.

Death is my only true companion. I need it, I want it, and I strive to obtain it. I used to feel guilty for death, or feel remorse for the mindless killing I have sanctioned. These feelings no longer exist. I don’t regret who I am or what I’ve done. I simply hate myself.


I open my eyes to see a sideways world. I see the legs of my couch and the trash underneath it. I see empty bottles, dirty clothes, and a pile of vomit. I see my world from the view of a rat, and rightly so. The steel, the dust, and the saliva mix into a nice compound that acts like an adhesive, seemingly forcing my face to remain glued to the floor. I always wake up like this. Spit running out of my mouth, a pile of vomit near where I left my pod, empty bottles of whiskey. Death has a smell. It is the combination of vomit, whiskey, and spit.

These four smells are all I have. Every day these smells are a part of who I am. They create context for the killmails cluttering my hard drive, the result of an addiction to death. The smell of death is the trigger, the restart of a bloody cycle that I can never abandon.

Smells create memories, and these memories never die.

- Aliaksandre