I expected this to be dark, but the shining gleam of the dying pulsar whitens the nascent vacuum. We aren't alone in here, and we like that; that risk, rush esclating as our scan probes move nearer to the signature. We laugh at the danger as the hostile bombers launch their payloads at us only to die swiftly to these strange sleepless drones. We smell the melted nanoribbons, the ancient stores of forgotten knowledge and we smell isk. For a little bravery and a little business acumen lead to a fat wallet.
And shiny things, or more importantly lasers, and cannons, and lots and lots of ammo, because when the shit hits the fan you fire back; we get the loot and fancy smancy ships out but we fire back first, if only to say, "Hey i shot that bastard!" And when the sleepers aren't enough, there's always the market; where we count profits in millions of isk per minute and our rivals lose twice as much.
Mort's Navy recruiting