Unlike some people, I’m actually busy.
Welcome to the future.
Local is a ledger. Every line a record of who understands power and who does not. Names slide past in a constant scroll of half-attention, greetings, old rivalries. Most of it is noise. However, sometimes, greatness acknowledges you in passing.
Someone always recognizes the name: Aiko Danuja. The tone shifts. This is not a stranger. This is a presence.
The conversation drifts, as it always does, into mechanics and superstition. Downtime. Respawns. The nonsense people cling to in a universe where nothing actually belongs to them. It’s idle talk, ritualized banality, but it cannot hide reality: this is her jurisdiction.
Someone suddenly snaps, unable to handle the truth. Authority responds, as hierarchy automatically asserts itself. The miner is left exposed, caught in his own lie.
The oldest question in New Eden resurfaces, raw and unfiltered. No context. No patience. Just grievance amidst tragedy.
Recognition crystallizes. The tone flips from irritation to ceremony. Salutes appear, mandated by law. Respect wrapped in pain.
Allegiance in New Eden is never abstract. It is public. It is conditional. And here, it is given openly.
Now the truth slips out. Not flattery. Not fear. Genuine respect. Someone has been paying attention. They can see what is happening behind the scenes: Coordination. Timing. Competence.
The hidden part that never speaks in local. The violence, the ruthlessness, the burden separated from purity.
I am the dumpster fire she refused to carry.
That is not a confession.
It is an aspiration.