Minmatar
Brutor
2.71
Slave Cookies
Last Active:
about 15 hours ago
Birthday:
Jan 19, 2010 (15 years old)
Next Birthday:
Jan 19, 2026 (131 days remaining)
Combat Metrics
Kills
305
Losses
43
Efficiency
87.6%
Danger Ratio
87.6%
ISK Metrics
ISK Killed
117.53B ISK
ISK Lost
16.16B ISK
ISK Efficiency
87.9%
ISK Balance
101.37B ISK
Solo Activity
Solo Kills
14
Solo Losses
20
Solo Kill Ratio
4.6%
Solo Efficiency
41.2%
Other Metrics
NPC Losses
1
NPC Loss Ratio
2.3
Avg. Kills/Day
0.1
Activity
Medium
Character Biography
Cantus ad Sanctum Bobum
O Bob, who art in Class Six,
Hallowed be thy anomaly.
Thy collapse come,
Thy will be done,
In high mass and lowsec alike.
Give us this day our daily static,
And forgive us our drift
As we forgive those
Who warp cloaked through our sites.
And lead us not into cyno traps,
But deliver us from the nullbears.
For thine is the wormhole,
And the mass, and the rage log,
Forever and ever,
Unless it’s rolled.
Amen.
O Bob, divine scheduler of timers,
Thou who cloaks the Watch Tower of forgotten bookmarks,
Look not upon our sins of dual-prop fit,
Nor our cowardice in rolling high-mass solo.
Grant us the strength to tackle with ECM,
And the wisdom to not engage in an Astero.
Let thy holy rage consume the pod-warpers,
May your wrath ever burn against
The Prober who doth scan in a Buzzard,
Yet bookmarks nothing.
May your chains be fresh,
Your holes be virgin,
Your loot be plentiful,
And your enemies unscanned.
In Bob’s glorious name,
Let the holy jump commence.
In nomine Bob, collapsi, et sancti Polarisu, Amen.
Once a number, now a name, Slave Cookies is the second-spawn of the Pastry Pentagon—a battered batch baked in bondage and rebellion. Forged in the rusted chains of the Minmatar diaspora, he spent his early years as a disposable skirmisher in someone else’s killboard padding. But after one too many logistics pilots called him “loot with a face,” he broke free, took a name, and took up arms (and several skill injectors).
While Captain Cookies inspires fear through flamboyant firepower, and Lieutenant Biscuits embodies crisp military efficiency, Slave Cookies is the angry center—a gooey core of rage wrapped in a flaky trauma crust. He serves as both moral compass and loose cannon of the Pastry Pentagon, flying rust and rage in equal measure.
A reluctant icon of liberation, Cookies is often found barking tactical doctrine between cyno burns, muttering about "the good old days of autocannons and actual freedom," and manually piloting ships like he’s still chained to them.
Known for:
– Refusing to train Amarr ships out of pure spite
– Wearing slaver hound pelts ironically
– Calling every fleet "a bake sale with extra death"
O Bob, who art in Class Six,
Hallowed be thy anomaly.
Thy collapse come,
Thy will be done,
In high mass and lowsec alike.
Give us this day our daily static,
And forgive us our drift
As we forgive those
Who warp cloaked through our sites.
And lead us not into cyno traps,
But deliver us from the nullbears.
For thine is the wormhole,
And the mass, and the rage log,
Forever and ever,
Unless it’s rolled.
Amen.
O Bob, divine scheduler of timers,
Thou who cloaks the Watch Tower of forgotten bookmarks,
Look not upon our sins of dual-prop fit,
Nor our cowardice in rolling high-mass solo.
Grant us the strength to tackle with ECM,
And the wisdom to not engage in an Astero.
Let thy holy rage consume the pod-warpers,
May your wrath ever burn against
The Prober who doth scan in a Buzzard,
Yet bookmarks nothing.
May your chains be fresh,
Your holes be virgin,
Your loot be plentiful,
And your enemies unscanned.
In Bob’s glorious name,
Let the holy jump commence.
In nomine Bob, collapsi, et sancti Polarisu, Amen.
Once a number, now a name, Slave Cookies is the second-spawn of the Pastry Pentagon—a battered batch baked in bondage and rebellion. Forged in the rusted chains of the Minmatar diaspora, he spent his early years as a disposable skirmisher in someone else’s killboard padding. But after one too many logistics pilots called him “loot with a face,” he broke free, took a name, and took up arms (and several skill injectors).
While Captain Cookies inspires fear through flamboyant firepower, and Lieutenant Biscuits embodies crisp military efficiency, Slave Cookies is the angry center—a gooey core of rage wrapped in a flaky trauma crust. He serves as both moral compass and loose cannon of the Pastry Pentagon, flying rust and rage in equal measure.
A reluctant icon of liberation, Cookies is often found barking tactical doctrine between cyno burns, muttering about "the good old days of autocannons and actual freedom," and manually piloting ships like he’s still chained to them.
Known for:
– Refusing to train Amarr ships out of pure spite
– Wearing slaver hound pelts ironically
– Calling every fleet "a bake sale with extra death"