Into darkness.

Never greet a stranger in the night, for he may be a demon.

Black is the badge of hell. Low-security space. A stage for tragedies and murder. He wouldn't have it any other way, blinded by the suit of eternal night he would swoop like a phantom in the shadows and all they would hear as he landed behind them was the zap of a fading warp drive.

Then came the chill. No warnings, no chance of surrender.

Gunfire, panic, heat, the foulest of fumes and choking smoke and another one is sent falling.

"Low-security space," wrote one Gallente scholar, "is a Dark World full of terror and of terrible shapes where evil angels operate."

As he sat idle he pondered for a moment this playground of the rich and famous, of cutthroats and thieves. It was the face of hell to those looking in but there was always something that would draw them. Perhaps it was the irresistible pull of playing with fear, like an evening stroll through black as pitch woods and the not knowing what was out there.  

A proximity alarm pulled him sharply from his musings.

He banked his ship sharply and disappeared like a bullet into the distance. Once again into the darkness.



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