0.60
- Kill
- 0
- +0 negli ultimi 90 giorni
- Perdite
- 8
- +2 negli ultimi 90 giorni
- Efficienza
- Efficienza ISK 0%
- ISK distrutti
- 0
- +0 negli ultimi 90 giorni
- Attività
- Inattivo
- 0 kill/giorno · ultimi 90 giorni
Scheda di combattimento
Numeri da eve-kill, di tutta la carriera
Combattimento
- Kill
- 0
- Perdite
- 8
- Indice di pericolo
- 88%
- Colpi finali
- 0
- Punti
- 0
ISK
- Distrutti
- 0
- Persi
- 1.64B
- Bilancio
- -1.64B
- Efficienza ISK
- 0%
Solo
- Kill in solo
- 0
- Percentuale solo
- 0%
- Kill medie/giorno
- —
Altro
- Perdite contro NPC
- 1
- Quota perdite NPC
- 13%
- Attività
- Inattivo
Danni inflitti0
Rapporto danni · 0%
Danni subiti87.4K
Attività
Cosa vola, dove combatte, le ultime kill e perdite
I più preziosi
Le kill più costose del periodo
Chi incontra
Chi uccide, da chi viene ucciso e cosa perde
Ultimi 90g
Uccisi
Ucciso da
Scafi persiPerdite suddivise per classe di scafo.
Bio in gioco
In the cockpit of the Hyzen-Pulsar, Quafe sponsored, Shakira Lang exists as a succession of moments, a consciousness stretched thin across the velvet vacuum of Cloud Ring. To race in the Ishukone 400 is not merely to move; it is to be a silver needle stitching together the frayed edges of Lowsec and the abyssal silence of Nullsec. The ship, a Crow-class Interceptor, is less a machine than a translucent extension of her own nervous system, vibrating with the frantic pulse of the warp drive.
One thinks of Alsavoinon. One remembers the start —the crowded vanity of ships, the corporate banners of Ishukone fluttering in the mind’s eye like brittle autumn leaves. But as the jump-gate flares, the world dissolves. Space is not empty; it is a pressure, a thickness of history and debris.
As she plunges into the “Ring of Fire,” the interior monologue of the pilot shifts. There is the 9-4RP2 straightaway —a shimmering ribbon of terror— and then the Assilot gas clouds, drifting like the pale ghosts of drowned sailors. Time, Shakira reflects, is different here. It is measured in the frantic ticking of a shield alarm, in the 4% hull integrity that once stood between her and the absolute anonymity of the pod.
She is revered as the "Ghost of Alsavoinon," not because she haunts the gate, but because she has learned the art of vanishing. To outpace a gate-camp is to understand the rhythm of the hunter; it is a dance of transversal velocity. She sees the drag-bubbles —those translucent spheres of suspended intent— and she skirts them with the delicacy of a moth circling a flame. She does not fear the "Wall"; she understands its necessity. Without the friction of the threat, the speed would have no meaning.
"The Ring provides the wreckage," she muses, her gloved fingers tracing the haptic controls as the W-4NUU chokepoint looms —a dark mouth waiting to swallow the careless. To the spectators in the high-rises of Caldari Prime, it is a spectacle of ISK and fire. To Shakira, it is the solitary pursuit of a point of light, a frantic, beautiful defiance of the vacuum. One must not respect the bubble, for to respect the obstacle is to admit its power to stop the flow of life. She moves; therefore, the universe is conquered.
One thinks of Alsavoinon. One remembers the start —the crowded vanity of ships, the corporate banners of Ishukone fluttering in the mind’s eye like brittle autumn leaves. But as the jump-gate flares, the world dissolves. Space is not empty; it is a pressure, a thickness of history and debris.
As she plunges into the “Ring of Fire,” the interior monologue of the pilot shifts. There is the 9-4RP2 straightaway —a shimmering ribbon of terror— and then the Assilot gas clouds, drifting like the pale ghosts of drowned sailors. Time, Shakira reflects, is different here. It is measured in the frantic ticking of a shield alarm, in the 4% hull integrity that once stood between her and the absolute anonymity of the pod.
She is revered as the "Ghost of Alsavoinon," not because she haunts the gate, but because she has learned the art of vanishing. To outpace a gate-camp is to understand the rhythm of the hunter; it is a dance of transversal velocity. She sees the drag-bubbles —those translucent spheres of suspended intent— and she skirts them with the delicacy of a moth circling a flame. She does not fear the "Wall"; she understands its necessity. Without the friction of the threat, the speed would have no meaning.
"The Ring provides the wreckage," she muses, her gloved fingers tracing the haptic controls as the W-4NUU chokepoint looms —a dark mouth waiting to swallow the careless. To the spectators in the high-rises of Caldari Prime, it is a spectacle of ISK and fire. To Shakira, it is the solitary pursuit of a point of light, a frantic, beautiful defiance of the vacuum. One must not respect the bubble, for to respect the obstacle is to admit its power to stop the flow of life. She moves; therefore, the universe is conquered.