The rumble is the thing. The thrummm of power beneath your Captain's Chair. The slow build of the warp engines, spinning up, the whine, the high-pitched scream of particles colliding, space-time bending to your Will. You feel it physically in your bones. Electronically in your implanted connections. And spiritually in the ether. The vibrations raise dust motes in the air, your fingers brush metal, your mind soars.
Anticipation is the thing. Hurtling towards the unknown. The silence of death, dark and cold, surrounds you. You are the execution of your own Will. Your body, mind and spirit are one. United with pure power, intertwined in electronic biological glory. Incomprehensible rage. You are the Angel of Vengeance. Roaring towards destiny.
You are the scourge. Space belongs to you. It is yours. You alone demand control. You choose. You make your own choices. You alone or in concert with others, but always on your own. You choose when, where and how. No one demands from you because you demand more from yourself. Man, machine, spirit. Power. You fly where you fly. You engage when you engage. Your rules. Your life.
You are feared. You are hated. You shudder time when you enter space. The ripples of your passage drive the chaff from their holes. You are a great disturbance. A stone thrown violently into the dark waters. You revel in your power. Without fear. With cold sinew and clear mind you calculate the advantage. You are the hawk. You are the hunter. You are always on the side of destruction. You are feared.
You sleep, eat, and dream of your ship. Together you are one. Entwined in every way possible you stride on the wings of propulsive speed. You speak the tongues of fire, the language of volley, the tears of rockets, the ratt-a-tatt-tat of rapid fire. The silence of flame. You smile when armor bends, you laugh when engines burn, and you revel in the anticipation of violent encounters.
Some call you Pirate. Some call you scum. They laugh, they run, they hide, they burrow their brains behind stabilizers, bait, blob, cajole, beg, plead, taunt, and fear what they do not understand. What they will never understand. Death and glory on the line. A taunt string between courage and insanity. Everything on the table. Risk. Risk is power. Risk is where all the glory resides.
Some call you Brother. Or Sister. Friend of carnage. There are those willing to risk it all beside you. To follow when called. To die in fire if need be, over and over and over and over again if that is what it takes. Your brothers. Your mates. They are behind you to the deepest level of Hell itself. They are you. They are the ones that know. They feel it. The thrumm of power. The call of the dark. They are you.
Label us if you must. We care not for your labels. We are the free.
We are Stay Frosty.