My designation is Sacramento Serrano, a name etched into the birth ledgers of Planet Crete on July 10th, 835 A.S.
How my path crossed with my ships is a tale for another time, a memory best kept in the void.
My chronicle began with the Executor, Daní Herrera, whose legend casts a long shadow over my own adventures. This is the log of the Corsair's Cache.
It all began on Crete, where I loaded the mighty DTR-CCS>Galindo with artifacts and set my course for the stars.
—

Omega-41 felt like a tomb.
The neutron star rendered my systems useless, a chilling darkness that my scanners couldn't penetrate.
My Corsair blood was my only guide, a primal defiance that burned through the fear.
"If it comes," I swore, "I'll take it with me, or die protecting my Cretan honor."
Leon Base slid by, a fleeting speck of light, but the quiet felt like a prelude to a scream.

—

The jump to Omega-5 was a cold relief.
The dead silence of the void remained, but my scanners once again cut through the dark.
I navigated the short distance to the Omega-11 jumphole without incident, the quiet feeling less like peace and more like a held breath.
—

The silence of the void shattered the moment I entered Omega-11.
Zoner traders hailed me, their chatter a jarring contrast.
I gave them a curt "fine" and a warning:
They were fortunate my cargo demanded speed.
Otherwise, our meeting would've been less cordial.
As I passed the red giant, a distant memory flickered - a child's dream of starlight.
I felt a surge of cold satisfaction.
I wasn't living a dream; I was surviving it.
The Dresden jumphole beckoned, pulling me toward the Red Hessian heartland.
My grievance with them, a simmering fury, will be addressed in due time.
—

The Dresden system was a ghost town.
The absence of Hessian patrols, the complete lack of traders - it was uncanny.
Only a fool would run these lanes, ripe for the picking by them or by me.
For now, the emptiness is a gift, a clear path through a graveyard.
—

Entering the New Berlin system, my blood pressure spiked.
I was in the heart of the Rheinland beast.
A government vessel spotting me here would be a death sentence.
I sent a grim prayer to Santa Raba, asking for a clear path, knowing that if I were found, I would either annihilate them or die in the attempt.
As I burned past Bonn Station, their guns opened up, a pointless show of force against my vessel's speed.
A quiet stretch of void led me to my destination:
Kreuzberg Depot, a Junker hideout lost in the New Berlin system.
My artifact shipments, always in demand for their "R&D," were eagerly received.
In return for the risk, they paid me well and, as always, restocked my cargo holds with a full load of black market munitions.
Their gratitude was a grim currency.
—

The voyage back to Crete was a cold, silent meditation.
It ended when the Hessian appeared - a flicker of arrogance on the comms, demanding my cargo and a king's ransom of half a million creditos for my breath.
The gall of it was almost beautiful.
I offered him a chance to live, a courtesy he answered with fire.
His frigate was just scrap waiting for a purpose.
My Raba consumed him, a silent maw of steel and plasma.
He died trying to crack an iron will, a soul forged in the heart of Crete.
He forgot that a Sair's gaze remains calm, even as the world around him burns to ash.
There is no sorrow in this void, only a dead man's bounty waiting to be claimed.
—

Crete. After the Dresden run, the name itself was a cold comfort.
I shed my cargo and found the fleeting oblivion of a good rum at the bar.
The DTR-CCS>Cucaracha was already waiting.
I loaded her with artifacts and prepared to launch again, another haul into the black.

—

Again, I slipped through Omega-41 and Omega-5, untouched by the void's grasp.
I arrived in the Cambridge system, a phantom hidden from the patrols in the icy fields.
My destination: New London.
The BAF, BMM, and CDI patrols were everywhere, but they never saw me. I don't know if they're blind or if my systems are just that good.
Either way, they missed me.
—

New London. Another system of fools.
Police blips speckled my scanners, but their eyes were sealed.
I carved a path through the red void at the core of Bretonian society, a phantom savoring the burn of cold rum, my passage undisturbed.
—

I arrived in the Leeds system, just a short burn from Halifax Freeport.
My scanners picked up a CDI-Deputy. He was not prepared for what followed.
I intercepted and disabled his ship, a swift act of piracy.
I demanded 25,000 credits for his life, or he would die under the guns of the DTR-CCS>Cucaracha.

But he was low on cash, a fool's mistake.
He countered with a far more enticing offer: a full shipment of Bretonian hull panels and weaponry for the mighty Imperio of Crete.
It was too good to be true, so I ensured he understood the terms.
He seemed like a man of his word, and the potential windfall was far better than a paltry sum of credits.
I let him go and proceeded to Halifax Freeport to unload my cargo.
—

A generous payment and a cargo hold full of military surplus from the Freelancer was my reward.
But the moment I reached the Cambridge system, the Bretonian police were waiting.
They descended on me with full force - multiple fighters, bombers, gunboats, and a battleship.
I was outmatched.

I dumped my cargo.
My blood is Cretan, but my will is not suicidal.
I will return for vengeance, but with an armada of Sairs at my side.
I dropped my shields and emptied the power core in a single surge, forcing a jump to Omicron Gamma.
A torpedo hit me, but I made it to Planet Crete, my ship a broken husk.

They will pay for this.

—

Once I landed on Planet Crete, I gave my beloved Cucaracha in the skillful hands of Cretes finest shipworkers.
I went to the bar drinking a few bottles of rum, praising santa raba that he protected me and to calm the shock of this event.
I also visited the Corsair Elders… but they told me to keep still, the Bretonian time will come but for now they ain’t a real threat and will be dealt with once they are a worthy opponent for the Cretan Imperio.
Somehow struck with sadness not to get my revenge in mean time I prepared the DTR-CCS>Galindo again and typed in a new destination. I launched into the darkest of voids again.

—

My ship, the wounded Cucaracha, was left in the hands of Crete's best.
I found the nearest bar, using rum to quiet the trembling in my hands and a prayer to Santa Raba for my survival.

I went to the Corsair Elders, seeking permission for vengeance, but they denied me.
"Their time will come," they said. "They are not yet a worthy opponent."
A cold sadness settled over me.
Without revenge to guide me, I simply prepared the DTR-CCS>Galindo for the next job and launched back into the void.

—

Kusari. That was the destination.
I slammed the throttle through Omicron Theta, a blur of speed and light.

I arrived in Sigma-17, where the silence was broken by the petty demands of the Gasminers Guild.
They tried to harass me, but I was faster.
I was smarter. I left them in the void, a ghost on their scanners.
I continued through Sigma-17 unhindered, a phantom on my way to Kusari.
—

In Omega-19, those micho da putas from the Gasminers Guild tried to harass me again. They were relentless, but I am better.
I slipped through the cracks of their scanners, a ghost in the void.
I left them behind, unhindered, on my way to the Honshu system.
—

The Honshu system was a ghost.
No Blood Dragons, no Golden Chrysanthemums, no Farmers Alliance scum, and no Kusari police or military.
The silence was unnerving.
Had the chaos just moved elsewhere?
I took a moment to appreciate the beautiful scenery, a cold comfort from the violence of the Omegas and Omegas.

I was greeted with a torrent of fire as I approached the Osaka Storage Facility.
But their guns were toys.
My Raba tore through the void, ignoring their hails, and I slammed through the jumpgate to the New Tokyo System.
What awaited me there was a story for itself.
—

I glanced at my scanners and swore.
A Kusari Naval Officer, right on top of me.
I slammed the throttle to cruise, a desperate burn for the trade lane.
Just as I reached it, the officer shut it down.

I was exposed. At their mercy. Or so it seemed.

I hailed the vessel, demanding to know what the hell was happening.
"I was about to ask you the same thing," the baffled officer responded.
I gave him my coldest, most logical lie: I was a journalist, a civilian travel writer for a magazine on Planet Crete. Baffled, he let himself be played. He gave me permission for my "photo session" while he waited for some smugglers. A fool. He could have had a bounty on my head. Instead, he got a lie.

I hit cruise speed and tore toward the Shikoku Jumpgate. Before I disappeared, I snapped a picture of Planet New Tokyo, a monument under the protection of the KNF. The irony was not lost on me.
—

I reached the Shikoku System, a welcome silence after the chaos.
I made it to the Noshima Freeport without issue, where the Freelancers were eagerly awaiting my artifacts.
They paid me a king's fortune and, as a bonus, filled my cargo hold with black-market pharmaceuticals for the sick on Planet Crete.
A ruthless business, but one with a strange sense of honor.
—

In the grim dark reaches of the void, there is no glory, only the grind.

Two hundred thousand... it's just a number in a ledger.
A mountain of dead rock clawed from the depths of forgotten spaces, moved from one desolate corner of the galaxy to another.
A grim parade of inert trophies for the soulless elite.

The price wasn't paid in credits.
It was paid in blood.
Good friends - their names are now just whispers on the comms, swallowed by the void. Foes were simply noise to be silenced, their screams just another part of the warp's static.

I have no need for a name of honor.
I've earned a title that speaks the cold truth of the work.
I hereby ask the Corsair Elders to mark my ledger with a grim acceptance:
"The Relic Hauler," for the cargo I carry.
And let them call me "The Demandless Reaper," for I have reaped creditos without demanding them.

This is Sacramento Serrano, on his way to defend Deterrence Sanctum and drinking his rum.

Over and out.