Fifinella takes another gulp from the by now half-empty whiskey bottle.

"See, I need a moral compass. No, um, that's not right. I have a moral compass, yes, I do. It points to whattyacall 'em, moral direction. For me, that's 'freedom'. Every man, woman, and whathaveyou, heehee, *hic*, has the basic right to freedom. That's why I oppose slavery with every fibre of my body. Yeah, given freedom, half the current slaves might well starve to death in a ditch, but at least they'd have the freedom to do so. Hell, they would even have the freedom to become voluntary slaves, if they wanted to. Or well, there's the Vitoc, which would kill a whole lot of them."

Another large sip from the bottle ensues. Her stare seems fixated on the drops of liquid on the table top.

"Anyway, where was I? Oh right, moral compass. No problem there, got one, safely tucked away somewhere. Know exactly where it's pointing, no worries. What I DON'T have is a, uh, let's continue with that analogy, a whatsit, those guys who come aboard a ship, no not spaceship, a real, boner fido, heehee, water-splashing, cargo-carrying ocean liner, down there on the balls of mud. A pilot! Yeah, that's what I'm talking about. I have a compass, but I need a pilot. I'm a Pilot that needs a pilot. You know, because on the way to where I'm going there's all these shoals and sharks and... shit. Man, this is a great analogy. So I need a pilot to help me navigate, to litshurally choose the best route, to where my compass is taking me. You know? So I don't become a terrorist, like U'K, killing for the killing's sake, while threading still in the water. Although now that they've gotten help from a bigger fish in the bigger pool, they're actually getting somewhere. Why the hell are all my analogies so watery? Anyway..."

Yet another large gulp of whiskey disappears down her throat.

"Where was I? Pilot! Right, right. So don't want to become a terrorist. Don't want to lose it completely and become something worse. And you know what? It happens to a lot of Caldari, I think. We've been pretty much brainwashed since kids to believe the whole world is this way or that way. and then the select few get trained as pod pilots, and suddenly there's no more veil of propaganda between us and the real world. Puts a fucking zap on your head, that's for sure. Nearly blew my mind when it happened. When suddenly 20 years of your life turns out to be a lie perpetuated by a bunch of fuckers who own everything a human being could dream of, and yet yearn for more. Some go mad. No, maybe we all go mad, but different kinds, levels of mad? Like, I went only a little mad, or at least that's what I tell myself, while others go all the way to cuckoo land and just empty their bowels, start wearing their pants on their heads, preferably not in that order, and just start exterminating every living being they can lay their hands on. Or are the ones who go the most mad the ones who stay and support the system that created them and lied to them? Dunno..."

The bottle is now cradled firmly in her arms like a baby or a dear pet and she's taking small sips from it between almost every sentence of her soliloquy.

"So here I am, no compass, only... Nonono, I have compass, pointing to where I want to go, need pilot, and I don't know who or where that is. Ran into some nice people who helped me at least get into grips of myself, helped me find my compass, or define it, or tune it, whatever, got my moral compass pointing in the right direction. But I'm never sure when I meet new people, join new groups, whether they're the pilot I need to navigate through the... shit...storm. Shoals. Shoals and sharks. But I'll keep looking. Maybe I'll scrape on some shoals on the way, maybe I'll get nibbled at by the sharks, but pilot or no, I'm heading in the right direction. Would just be quicker with a pilot. Only some pilots might be sharks in disguise. Now there's an image heehee*snort* *hic*, fucking shark with a mask of an old, friendly sailor with a pipe stuck in the side of it's mouth, going all 'top o' the mornin' to ya, young lass!'..."

There's a long silence, then suddenly Fifinella empties the rest of the bottle in a single gulp, and gets up.

"Anyway, thanks for the whiskey. Not my favourite brand, but it never seems to be."

She heads for the door with a very unsteady gait, muttering "fucking sharks..." on her way, and is gone.