Commencement

I started playing EVE in 2004 with a character named Kendar Zek. I sent him to the great beyond, believing I wouldn't return to the game. Several months later, I chose to start again, and I wrote this piece of background to provide a bit of continuity, tangential as it may be.

---

I woke up that morning like any other, prepared to go about my business at the Navy Academy as I’ve done for the past several years. I hadn’t much considered the importance of the day until I laced up my shoes. Sitting there staring at my faint reflection, washed pale in the white polish, it dawned on me that it would be the last time I’d wear a midshipman’s uniform.

When I came to the academy four years prior, I’d planned to accept a commission and become a fighter pilot. Coming from a wealthy family, I’d always enjoyed an easy life on Gallente Prime, wanting for nothing. The ideals of duty, honor, and service were abstracts to be borne by other men, and I might have lived all my days under the blanket of freedom they provided without reverence for so many sacrifices weaved into it. I had no particular longing for excitement, and being a pampered child, my parents’ only living son, the very notion that I should dirty my hands with work was abominable to them.

My only interest in anything other than myself had been the religious heritage of the Intaki people. Being a reborn Intaki, I always found it difficult to reconcile that part of me was a remnant of someone else. Was my laziness and apathy toward the world at large my own, or was it handed down to me by that man who lay on his deathbed when I was born? I became wholly resentful of this duality of character, so I decided to pursue a naval career to prove that I am my own man rather than a product of my circumstances.

The family was shocked. Upon realizing my resolve in the matter, they were quite furious. They were reluctant to let me go, but I was old enough to decide for myself. Sometimes I smile when I remember my father shaking his head at me in disappointment.

Life in Duripant hasn’t been easy. Everyone thinks the rich kids are only here because mommy and daddy bought them a seat, and the general misconception is that connected families ensure their children have a privileged stay at the academy. Indeed, some kids do get a golden ticket with the admission board, but I had the luxury of a top-notch private education, and I earned my way in here like everyone else. As for the part about special treatment, I certainly saw my share of it.

My treatment was so special, in fact, that I stopped writing home. It seemed whenever I’d send a letter about my experiences, my folks would try to pull a few strings, call in some favors, or flash some cash to buy me a little comfort. Every letter from my family made my stay a bit worse, as I’d find myself doing all manner of menial chores generally reserved as punishments; my instructors were absolutely giddy whenever they informed me they’d heard from my parents, and my heart would sink.

After three years, my classmates finally realized I was working diligently to be more than they expected, but a warmer social environment wasn’t my concern. I wanted to convince myself that I had ownership of who I am. Every night I’d go to sleep wondering if I was really my own man, and I frequently laughed at the irony of joining the military in an attempt to be unique.

My plans changed at school. I had come in looking toward carrier duty out on the fringe, protecting the borders in a fighter. In the course of admissions, however, I’d qualified for capsule training, so I jumped at my chance to pursue the more difficult track. I didn’t realize at that time that my decision would result in some clarity of purpose a few years later.

The last midshipman cruise found me on a privately owned vessel, a rare occurrence for a Navy Academy cadet, but I shall never forget my time aboard the Victory. A Navy Megathron is an almost unheard of assignment at the academy, and I found it difficult due to the sheer luxury of the vessel, reminiscent of a life I was trying to set aside. Her captain had outfitted her as a sort of parade boat, and my responsibilities as a limited duty officer were minimal, as she rarely put out of station.

I didn’t learn much during my watches, to be honest. The officers’ wardroom, however, proved to be a most valuable source of insight. I had the privilege of dining with them regularly, and it was not uncommon for the captain to share a meal with us. I recognized his name, as I’d studied his papers on drone warfare, and I admired his demeanor in dealing with his staff. They treated him as nearly iconic – not in the way a crew generally respects a captain, but with a heartfelt loyalty that transcended duty; these men were family.

I had learned from my hardships in school that it’s best to keep my mouth shut and do what I’m told, so I was utterly amazed when the captain directed his attention to me one night. He shook my hand and smiled before taking a seat beside me, then proceeded to inquire about my dreams, as though we were good friends. Long after everyone else had departed, we were still there chatting.

He had come from nothing and had everything. I came from having everything and struggled to be regarded as common. We shared a common interest, however, in that we were both driven by a quest for personal identity. Three nights later, Kendar Zek passed away in his sleep, and the Victory was placed under the command of Takashi Kurosawa, his partner in racing.

I went back to Duripant two weeks later. I pondered my future as an officer at length, and I realized my heart wasn’t in it. With a few short months to graduation, I informed the Navy that I would not accept a commission, opting for a private license instead. I finally wrote to my parents again to tell them I’d be home soon.

Finishing with my shoes, I donned my jacket for the last time. Standing in formation, the commencement speeches rang hollow, and foremost on my mind was Captain Zek’s reminder that where we come from is not as important as where we’re going, that today is the day to define Norrin Ellis, and whatever powers lie beyond the heavens will know me by the fruits of my character, not the roots of my existence.

A part of me is borrowed from a man I never knew, and my life is his legacy. What a fortunate turn of fate that I am able, as a pilot, to bring him far closer to immortality than he might have imagined.