A shallow, unmarked grave.

"Cloak what..?"

Slamming the side of the console again surreptitiously I demand an answer from
the inboard Artificial Intelligence unit. "Dammit, A.U.R.A., repeat that last transmission!"

The communique in question was intercepted from one Sard Caid, an allied capsuleer who we have worked for on occasion in the Molden Heath region when deepspace probing was required. Apparently a routine protocol decryption sequence pulled in a crossed-line which he was maintaining with an assault squad nearby in which our call sign was brought up.

A.U.R.A. responded with that sultry nonchalance that was her trademark. "Cloak fags, commander. Probe whores. Recon bitches. This is how you were described. Shall I replicate the entire transmission verbatim?"

I slowly shook my head in the negative. "No, that won't be necessary. Clip it from the logs. I see how it is..." A.U.R.A. was lucky to have been programmed without a sense of pride, and in some small way we were fortunate to have her voice aboard to offer a counter to our own, all-too-human egos. I suppose that it is typical of the gung-ho front line jockeys to lay into the recon units when the pickings are slim, or they get bored, or their jaded squaddies need something to brighten their own sordid lot... but cloak fags? That is only marginally less scathing than accusing us of being cowards or worse. It was only the calm and matter-of-fact tone of the onboard AI neuroscanner that kept my perspective levelled.

I suppose that amongst the battle hardened veterans of this blasted frontier we really don't deserve any loftier title. We dont participate in fleets very often, as our directives require more subtle approaches. We don't participate in combat as if it was a sporting event, as we are not trophy hunters and care little for the shallow glory associated with it. Our assistance is only made available to those who we hold in high regard, and rarely do we ask for anything in return... to such units I can only surmise that we are considered "expendable" and not worth our weight in tritanium.

"A.U.R.A., dispatch Code Zed at once. MH-629-03R. Our presence, if not necessary, will certainly not be missed right? Oh... lets get that X- out to the south quad as well. Time's on our side, but let's not be sidetracked." The transmission encryption scrambles back and forth through the seperate channels like an overlapping doppler wave...

No, amongst the hard-line gunboat captains we deserve no better title. I don't recall us ever asking for one, either.