1. Serprent

Aromatic smoke from a half-dozen hookahs and pipes knotted and meshed into a fragile airborne tapestry. It parted to make way as a curtain would for any of the hundreds of traders milling through the crush of men, which burgeoned in the central trade hall of Agil VI station. Lively and vibrant by any stretch of the imagination, the Khanid outpost was a far cry from the dour, nearly orchestral machinations of business on the Amarr side of that ever-changing thin red line. Certainly not welcoming territory for a free Minmatar fighter wearing the marks and emblems of the Republic Navy, and certainly the last place one would go to seek out a monster.

The tattooed young Matari was roughly as out of place here as a Furrier would be among Slavers - traders plied their products intrusively, jamming dishes of produce or electronic trinkets into his face and shrieking their sales-pitches in baroquely accented Amarrish. Staring down the hungry eyes of slave-merchants who peered over his exposed neck-skin in search of a holder’s mark, he had to fight to press through them, coughing and nearly choking on the un-filtered station air. It was dirty; the ornaments of Imperial design obscured by advertising placards and wrapped animal meats strung from power-cable. Witnessing a fat Ni-Kunni slave-herder drive a cruel boot into the back of a young girl in chains, then turn grinning to his oblivious Amarr master in a fashion almost hungry for approval, it was all Hamish Ramatakhlan could do to stop himself from lashing out at these peddlers and traders of misery – feeling the blood swell behind his eyes, he suffocated those most primal of instincts quickly, however. He knew his own hot temper well, and a fistfight here would do nothing to help the cause of emancipation so dear to him; only the knowledge he came to claim from his strange new mentor would.

Finally he arrived at a booth tucked against the wall of a booming machine shop, a booth whose construction cast dark shadow upon whomever occupied it. Brushing his well-worn Minmatar naval uniform, Hamish fought the darkness with his eyes.

A voice not heard for years but still ringing familiar in the young man's ears, greeted him. "I'll thank you not to speak my name, young man. Not so much for my sake as yours, for you see, speaking my name alone serves to draw often unwanted attention. We do want to get you home in one piece, don't we."

A well-manicured hand emerged from the pitch black of the booth, and bid him to sit - Hamish moved toward the seat opposite of his host, but found it occupied by a large form of some sort. With some discomfort, he sat shoulder to shoulder with the shadow-man, unable to contain his smirk; triggered by his own realization at the appropriateness of imagery he had just witnessed.

A hand from the shadows indeed.

There it was again, that familiar chill running up his spine. Hamish first recalled feeling it in the Ibani system, his first of many meetings with the old man. One senses such things when faced with authority, and while the Minmatar had few fables inscribed about foreigners such as the Caldari people, the one Caldari he now shared a dining booth with had enough legend about him to fill bibles – not all of it good. He himself was but a child then, little more than a zealous gunnery chief aboard a Republic frigate, a gnat straddling the frame of the big picture - yet that one meeting in Ibani, and the lesson that it entailed, had catapulted young Hamish Ramatakhlan farther than he had ever imagined. His officer’s career with the Republic Navy seemed to drop into his lap from nowhere. While his former crewmates whispered behind his back and accused him of making a bargain with the devil, Hamish ignored them – he knew that greater things lay ahead for him. The liberation of his people had to come, he reasoned… no matter the cost to individuals like him. Even with the rumours swirling about him, the young warrior had grown to admire this controversial Caldari.

The well-manicured hand slid an elegant data card-drive into the artificial station-sunlight creeping slowly along the corner of the booth table, the drive's metallic edge glinting sharply like old money.

"Here is your next lesson, Mr. Ramatakhlan. I will deduct my fee from the account we agreed upon."

The old man tacitly shifted, a chain in his other hand jangling, indicating he wished to get up.

Hamish mustered some bravery to turn and face his host, daring to venture into the darkness with his eyes to find them mirrored with reflective lenses. He spoke, his voice quivering with excitement - "I can't let you go just yet." The old man cocked an eyebrow.

"Our last lessons concluded with you sharing a quote with me, a piece of wisdom - each has been a treasure to me, and I cannot in good sense allow you to disappear for another year without allowing me the pleasure of hearing another of your teachings."

Hamish hoped his brief speech did not sound too rehearsed. The old man's smile dissolved every last one of the young Matari's apprehensions - he had that peculiar manner about him, that which tended to reduce to rubble any guard one put up around oneself.

"Do you know what an ouroboros is, Mr. Ramatakhlan? It is a creature of legend... a self-destructing serpent, agent of cause and effect, coiled inward upon itself and touching the universe in the course of its own consumption."

Hamish stood from the booth, and the old man emerged from the shadow, stretching out his legs. The tattooed warrior noticed that as soon as his host stood, the bustle of the crowd around him quieted by a magnitude - the shrill screams of peddlers gave way to wary mumblings and whispers. Even the slave drivers did not dare meet his gaze now.

"A serpent can manoeuvre itself into the tightest of crevices, young man", the Caldari continued. "There is little one can not manage in this universe with an aptly hijacked clone and the conviction to press onward - someday, as long as you steer along the course I have charted for you, you may find yourself looking to the ouroboros for inspiration."

The words made little sense to the young warrior; they rarely ever did at the moment he heard them, and often took weeks to sink in. At times he felt that everything the old man ever said was some kind of inside joke, the punch line to which only he himself knew and refused to reveal. There was always something more, something foreshadowed and just out of comprehension. He watched the crowd with interest now, for whether with deference and respect to his host, or simple self-preservational fear of his quadruped companion, the mass of traders parted before him as though they were a sea of some religious significance. The well-dressed old man and his slaver, its straw-like mane showing the slightest hints of silver, disappeared into the throng.