The conference room of the Kinetic Regret smelled faintly of burned coffee, ozone, and resignation. A series of blinking regional maps floated midair, updated with worrying precision. Red dots here. Blue clouds there. One pulsating gold beacon labeled simply: “C-J.”
Captain Gobbins entered, mug already in hand, and gestured at the map like it owed him money.
“Alright, listen up. This is either the beginning of a tactical masterpiece or the part of the war novel where everyone starts dying off in alphabetical order.”
No one laughed. He didn’t expect them to.
He continued. “For the last few weeks, we’ve been in a standoff. Us, dug in up here in the Dronelands—our cold, wonderful home of anchored crap and endless bubble traps. Them, posturing down south, slamming into Insmother.”
He jabbed at the region with his mug. “Imperium. Mainline. Hitting hard. Meanwhile, our sigs have been tap-dancing in their soft zones—Delve, Querious, those lovely holiday destinations.”
He turned, tapping the table. The lights dimmed. The map zoomed in dramatically. “Now. Today? Big shift. Imperium’s packing up and moving in. They’re staging in C-J—right on our border. And they’re giving Delve and Querious the ol’ ‘good luck with the fire sale’ treatment. One week’s notice to their locals. One week.”
Gilthune Aideron tilted her head. “So… they’re abandoning two entire regions to come live next door?”
“Exactly,” Gobbins said. “So first off—and mark this moment—I’m going to say something… nice about Goons.” He held up a finger. “They’re sacrificing a lot. Uplifting their core. Relocating their entire war machine just to come brawl at our gates. That takes guts. Or hubris. Possibly both.”
He took a long sip, then sighed. “And frankly, we might get some good fights out of it. Medium scale. Frequent. The kind where you lose a Harpy and don’t spend six hours in structure. The fun kind of suffering.”
“But?” Gilthune prompted.
“Oh, there’s always a ‘but,’” Gobbins said. “The big fights—those’ll be messier. Titan buffs from the last patch are lopsided, and we’re still working with a numbers disadvantage. So in those cases, we rely on regional mechanics and defender’s advantage. You know, terrain. Cynos. Lag.”
A low murmur rippled through the crew. Someone coughed in the background. Someone else sighed audibly and opened a stims packet.
Gobbins’ voice dropped just a hair. “Let’s not kid ourselves—Imperium’s still the biggest bloc on the server. In EU and US timezones, no one else comes close. But we’re probably the closest. And if they’re tied up with us… then we’re doing our job.”
He tapped the holomap again. The glowing system of C-J pulsed brighter.
“Now, I know everyone’s wondering if we’re moving again. HQ’s evaluating some better staging systems. For now, instructions remain unchanged. So don’t start shoving your carriers into a bowhead just yet.”
He paused, glancing toward the back.
There sat Gallente Citizen 4586793463, silently recording on a notepad that looked older than the war. As usual, they offered no questions. Only scribbles.
Gobbins gave a faint shrug and turned back to the map.
“Prep for contact. Keep your clone in region. And maybe… clean your cargohold. I don’t want to die next to 300m in fireworks and a single exotic dancer again.”
He paused.
“Again.”
A Pixel Nomad 