The Move

“Are we sure this is the right titan?”

Captain Gobbins stood on the observation deck of the Kinetic Regret, watching as hundreds of ships awkwardly orbited a Leviathan named Lunch Detected, which belonged to a corp called Banished Braindead Zombies.

It looked like a moving day for the galaxy’s most confused parade.

“ALC-JM is lit, MJ-5 is hot, and suFFbruder says we’re good to go,” Gilthune reported, holding her datapad with the weary determination of someone tracking jump fatigue and morale decay at the same time.

“SuFFbruder,” Gobbins repeated. “That’s the FC?”

Gilthune nodded. “The Move is under his command.”

“The Move,” Gobbins echoed. “As in, that’s the op name?”

“Yes.”

“Just… ‘The Move’?”

“Yes.”

Gobbins sighed and took a sip from his emergency thermos. “At least it’s honest.”

Down in the hangar, ships were aligning with the kind of enthusiasm normally reserved for tax audits. The comms were chaos.

“WAIT DID HE SAY BRIDGE UP OR BRIDGE SOON—”
“WHY AM I IN THERA—”
“WHO JUST FLEW THEIR FREIGHTER THROUGH THE BRIDGE?”

And then, calmly, from an unmuted mic:

“Hi, this is Banished Braindead Zombies public service announcement. Please stop bumping the titan. Thank you.”

Meanwhile, Gallente Citizen 4586793463 stood next to their ship—a fully insured, entirely useless NBI-issued Cormorant, which was currently rigged for passive shield tanking and public shame.

They quietly moved it toward the cyno field.

“Are they… actually moving that?” Gilthune Aideron asked, squinting at the Cormorant.

“Yes,” Gobbins replied, not breaking eye contact. “They’ve also brought a Catalyst fit for PvE. And a Vexor. With no drones.”

“I’m impressed.”

“I’m horrified.”

As the bridge lit, the fleet surged forward in a glorious, lag-drenched blaze of movement. Ships vanished into the void, some straight, others spinning, one Gila just sort of imploding mid-jump due to “unusual hull integrity patterns.”

They emerged in ALC-JM, blinking and disoriented, like children just waking up from a space nap.

Gobbins’ comms lit up again. It was suFFbruder himself, voice as calm as a vacuum.

“Bridge is up. Go now. E8-4 next. The Move continues.”

“Right,” Gobbins muttered. “E8-4. Home sweet hell.”

The second bridge flared, more organized now, the fleet flowing better, like a broken faucet finally catching pressure. Gallente Citizen 4586793463 jumped through last, carrying what could only be described as the ghost of poor doctrine fits and NPC-issued trauma.

The entire ship rattled slightly as they landed in E8-4.

“We made it,” Gilthune said, blinking at the local overview.

“Against all odds,” Gobbins muttered. “Tell suFFbruder thank you. And tell Banished Braindead Zombies I never want to see their Leviathan again unless it’s on fire and at least one hull is broadcasting jazz.”

Gilthune snorted. “What about Gallente Citizen 4586793463?”

Gobbins looked at the Cormorant, now floating politely next to the tether.

“Let them have this win,” he said. “They’ll probably write three paragraphs about it.”

At the far end of the hangar, Gallente Citizen 4586793463 opened their notepad and wrote a single line:
“Today, I bridged with history.”