EVE – Page 6 – A Pixel Nomad

[EVE Online] A New Signal

My name’s E — short, simple, and probably a lot easier to remember than the number string CONCORD assigned me back in 2009. I’ve been a capsuleer for quite a while now, most of that time spent in the gentle hum of highsec, scanning, mining, running the occasional mission, and generally doing my best not to get blown up.

For a long time, I thought nullsec was just too chaotic for me. Then, a few years ago, I joined Pandemic Horde, and found out I was absolutely right — but I loved every second of it.

I lived through a handful of deployments, an uncountable number of pings, and more fleet doctrines than I can remember (though I’m pretty sure half of them involved Maelstroms). I saw Keepstars rise, fall, and sometimes just… vanish overnight. It was loud, confusing, and completely unforgettable.

But lately, things have been different. Corporations leaving. Friends scattering. Leadership changing hands. The comms are quieter, and the old familiar hum of life in Horde space has faded. It’s been a good run — I learned how to survive, how to adapt — but I think it’s time for me to follow a different signal.

So I’ve gone back to what I’ve always loved most: exploration.

There’s nothing quite like the calm of scanning down signatures, chasing relics through forgotten wormholes, or watching the nebulae swirl as I align to some unknown star. It’s quiet work, but it feels right.

That’s what brought me to Signal Cartel — a home for explorers, rescuers, and the kind of people who see the best in New Eden even when the rest of it’s on fire. I’d rather help another pilot find their way than fight them for it.

If you see me out there scanning in some backwater system, say hi. I’ll probably be the one humming to myself while trying to remember which button launches probes and which one warps me straight into a sun.

Fly your way,
E

[EVE Online] The OOC of it all

If you had of asked me 2 years ago if I thought I’d be living in NullSec, with Pandemic Horde, I probably would have laughed. I always thought NS was forbidden, and I left it at that. Then I learned about Pandemic Horde, and their NBI program.

The NBI program gave ships & lessons to anyone who joined Pandemic Horde Inc, no matter their background. We were allowed to fly in Dronelands in a handful of areas without being required to do heavy security checks. This was good, and bad. It left PH open to a lot of AWOX (where your own alliance mate turns and attacks you, or leads enemies to you), but that also brought some content. A lot of corporations within the alliance really disliked PHI because of their open door policy. There was a lot of paperwork involved.

Moving forward, PH has decided to change how PHI operates, and they won’t be marked blue to INIT (even now, in PHI I am neutral to most of my old alliance mates). Pandemic Horde Inc will be left out of the alliance, and this also means they cannot be wardecked. This is a sharp and drastic change to the PHI that I’ve known for the past two years. I have no idea where PH is headed, but crashing with INIT has a timeframe of 10 weeks.

There is a new branch of Pandemic Horde called Cool Beans, and it ESI is required (and has other basic security checks). Activity is also a requirement to join. We’re meant to be “graduating” from PHI to this new corporation.

I’ve done my fair share of PVP over the past two years with my PHI character. I also floated between gated / non-gated corporations within the alliance as I tried to find a good fit for my playstyle and casualness. I am a creature of habit, and the past two weeks in game have been a LOT of changes. I’m frustrated and angry with so many things, and I don’t like that in my video games.

I don’t feel like Pandemic Horde is the right corporation for me any more. I don’t feel like the changes align with how I want to play, and I especially don’t like the lack of control I have about this whole situation. I understand I am a single nobody in a whole ocean of nobodies, but it is absolutely up to me to make sure I am having the sort of game experience that I want. If I’m not, it’s up to me to change that. I also don’t like how chat has been reduced to “suck it up buttercup” if anyone complains, and how somehow we’re not “true pandemic horde members” if we are uncomfortable with how this shit show went down, or if we want to get off of the sinking ship.

I have not left yet. I’m trying very hard to make educated decisions without letting my frustration about the situation take over. I think it will just take more time.

Fly your way o7

[EVE Online] War Update

Filed by Gallente Citizen 4586793463

It began like most disasters in New Eden do — not with an explosion, but with a series of CONCORD notifications.

At first, Gallente Citizen thought it was a glitch. The Alliance feed kept lighting up, a steady drumbeat of messages from CONCORD that all read the same:

CONCORD War Update: Post Nut Clarity With The Boys has left Pandemic Horde.
CONCORD War Update: Our Sanctum has left Pandemic Horde.
CONCORD War Update: u.k militia forces has left Pandemic Horde.

And on it went.

The sound became background noise in the clone bay — the soft ping of corporate departures rolling in like rain on a tin roof. By the time Fusion Enterprises Ltd and Inner Legacy were gone, most pilots had stopped pretending not to notice.

In the hangars of F7C-H0, pilots floated between ships in that quiet, aimless way people do when they aren’t sure if they still have a home. Crates of ammunition sat unopened. Ship fittings were half-finished. The market buy orders looked like they’d been placed by ghosts.

Captain Johnny Trousersnake’s name was still pinned to the top of every alliance broadcast, but the tone in his pings had started to change — less rallying, more “we’re monitoring the situation.”

[Trousersnake Broadcast]:
“We’ve had some corporations make different choices recently. We wish them well. The Horde remains strong and united.”

In local, someone replied:

“Define strong.”

The list kept growing.

Royalty. has left Pandemic Horde.
Death’sEnd has left Pandemic Horde.
Splash Inc. has left Pandemic Horde.
Sand Storm Town INC. has left Pandemic Horde.

Every line felt like another plank being pried off a sinking ship.

By the time Office of Krabbing Regulation and Auditing left, Gallente Citizen could only laugh. The accountants had fled. That was never a good sign.

The comms chatter grew restless. Some pilots were angry, others mournful, a few just relieved to have an excuse to go somewhere else. Everyone had a theory — that Gobbins’ departure announcement had shaken the leadership, that Johnny wasn’t ready, that the move to Cloud Ring was a mistake.

Gallente Citizen listened quietly, leaning against a shuttle wing, the blue glow of Cloud Ring’s nebula reflecting off their visor.

“Are you going too?” someone asked over fleet chat.

“Nah,” Gallente replied. “I’ve already unpacked my stuff.”

There was a pause. Then someone chuckled.

“So you’re staying?”

“For now.”

It wasn’t loyalty. It was inertia. Horde might be bleeding corporations, but it was still home — at least until something better came along.

When MASS, one of the older names in the ticker, finally left, the alliance feed fell silent. Even CONCORD seemed tired of reporting it.

Golden Fleece has left Pandemic Horde.

The last one.

After that, nothing.

The absence of sound was deafening.

Gallente Citizen opened the Alliance Members window. The list looked thinner now — hollowed out. But there were still names there. Familiar ones. The pilots who stuck around not because of promises or speeches, but because they hadn’t yet decided to quit.

They closed the window and smiled faintly.

“Still plenty of us left to lose.”

Then they climbed into their Zealot, powered up the engines, and began another patrol of F7C’s gates. Not because it mattered, but because routine was comforting.

Somewhere in a distant comms relay, another CONCORD message queued up, waiting to be sent.
Gallente Citizen didn’t bother checking who it was this time.

They’d see soon enough.

[EVE Online] The Exodus to F7C-H0

Filed by Gallente Citizen 4586793463

R-AG was dying, and everyone knew it.

The alarms had been constant for days — not the sharp kind that demanded action, but the slow, low groan of a structure bleeding out. The once-golden lights of the Keepstar had dimmed to a tired amber, and clone bays across the system began to blink red one by one.

[Station Broadcast]:
“Clone service unavailable. Please contact your nearest medical technician.”

There were no medical technicians left. They’d packed up with everyone else.

Gallente Citizen’s final clone in R-AG was gone before they even realized it — the system logs reporting “data corruption” in a tone that sounded almost apologetic. The armor alarms followed soon after. The Keepstar’s outer plating flickered, burned, and went silent.

It wasn’t an explosion. It was a surrender.

And so, they left.

The evacuation to MTO2-2 was quiet — quieter than it had any right to be. The Goons still had their camps, but even their smartbombs seemed halfhearted, the way a guard dog might bark at a fence it knows won’t stand much longer.

Gallente Citizen flew through the wreckage of R-AG’s final stand, the twisted husks of Zealots and Ravens tumbling together in lazy orbit. The once-proud Keepstar loomed behind, a hollow cathedral of smoke and fire.

[Fleet Ping]: “Form up in MTO2-2. Town hall soon™.”

The word “soon” did a lot of heavy lifting.

By the time they docked, hundreds of other pilots were already crowding local comms — half of them still disoriented from deathcloning, the other half demanding to know if Gobbins was really gone this time.

He wasn’t. But the news was still monumental.

[Town Hall Transmission Begins]

“The next leader of Pandemic Horde will be… Johnny Trousersnake.”

Silence.

Then laughter. Then disbelief. Then a rising tide of pings and pantaloon memes flooding alliance chat.

Gallente Citizen listened without comment. They’d seen worse transitions. Once, back in lowsec, a corporation had elected a guy whose sole qualification was owning a microphone. At least Trousersnake had that.

“We’re moving to F7C-H0 in Cloud Ring. We’ll rebuild there. We’ll start over.”

A new home. A fresh start. A region most of the fleet couldn’t even pronounce.

Still — it was something.

Gallente Citizen self destructed to Cistuvaert V — a school system, quiet, untouched by nullsec politics. The aura of new capsuleers training at the Academy filled local with chatter and optimism.

It was peaceful there. Too peaceful.

They lingered for a moment, staring out at the nebula from the docking ring, remembering what it was like before clone bays, before citadels, before alliances with names like “Horde” and “Imperium.”

Then, with a sigh, they set their course: Cistuvaert → F7C-H0.

The journey was uneventful. No gatecamps, no smartbombs, no bubble traps. Just empty space and a few curious CONCORD patrols that didn’t bother scanning them. It was almost unsettling — as though the universe itself was taking a break from trying to kill anyone.

When the shuttle dropped out of warp over F7C, the sight was strange.

A Fortizar, bearing the logo of The Initiative. Not Horde’s.

But it would do.

Gallente Citizen docked, claimed a hangar slot, and installed a new clone. The sterile hum of the medical bay was oddly comforting.

[Clone Technician]: “Welcome to your new home.”

[Gallente Citizen]: “We’ll see.”

They sat on the observation deck, watching the soft blues of Cloud Ring stretch into infinity. Somewhere out there, Trousersnake was making speeches. Somewhere else, Gobbins was still pretending he hadn’t left yet.

But here, in this quiet moment, there was no war. No shouting. No drama. Just the hum of a Fortizar waiting to become something more.

Gallente Citizen opened their logbook, typed the title, and saved it.

‘The Exodus to F7C: Notes from the Quiet Between Wars.’

Then they leaned back in their chair and whispered,

“At least the trip was peaceful.”

[EVE Online] The Breakout at R-AG7W

Filed by Gallente Citizen 4586793463

Three fleets, one plan.

Two of them would muster in MTO2-2 — a solid forward point. The third, smaller fleet, would stage from R-AG, still under the watchful eyes (and smartbombs) of the Goons’ hellcamp.

Gallente Citizen 4586793463 was in that third fleet.

They hadn’t volunteered. They’d just clicked “X up” too quickly in the ping channel, and now they were part of something called “Fleet Three: Maelstrom Shield” under the command of Captain Nina.

It was supposed to be straightforward: break the camp, and slowly head to rendezvous with the others. Easy. Routine. Practically tradition.

Except, of course, it wasn’t.

The staging hangars in R-AG were alive with comms chatter as the fleet assembled.

[Fleet Broadcast]: “Maelstroms only. Shield logi. Bring ammo.”

Gallente Citizen had never owned a Maelstrom.
They were expensive, loud, and looked like flying furniture.

Still, they borrowed one. Temporarily.

Then, minutes before undock, a new ping came through.

[Captain Nina]: “Change of plans. Zealots instead.”

A moment of silence followed, broken only by a confused Maelstrom pilot typing “???” in fleet chat.

[Someone]: “Didn’t we just buy the Maelstroms?”

[Captain Nina]: “Yes. Sell them back. We’re going Zealots. Lasers are prettier.”

[Fleet Member]: “Why?”

[Captain Nina]: “Because gold pen.”

It was an explanation that explained nothing, but it was Horde, and that was enough.

Within twenty minutes, the Maelstrom fleet had become a tangle of mismatched Zealots. Some plated, some not, some accidentally armor-tanked and shield-tanked, all of them eager and slightly terrified.

Gallente Citizen fit one with leftover modules and prayed the lasers would at least fire.

When they undocked, the void was chaos. The R-AG camp still burned with hostile bubbles, but Captain Nina’s voice was steady.

[Captain Nina]: “Keep me at 1,000 range, We’re breaking out.”

They warped as one. Or close enough to one. Explosions bloomed in the dark, a dozen Zealots vanished instantly, vaporized mid-warp, but the fleet punched through.

Against the odds, they reached MTO2-2. The two waiting fleets cheered as the ragged Zealot gang arrived, smoke still trailing from their hulls.

Three fleets now stood united: two proper, one improvised. It was messy, loud, and very much Horde.

Their next jump brought them into HD-JVQ, where the Goons were waiting.

Ravens. Dozens of them. Sleek, expensive, smug.

[Captain Nina]: “Primary the Raven Navies! Burn!”

Beams lanced out. Explosions followed. A few Raven Navies popped gloriously — but then local spiked.

[FC]: “How many more of them?”

[Scout]: “Yes.”

It was not the answer anyone wanted.

The sky filled with missiles and bombs. Horde ships melted under the barrage. Pandemic Horde tried to hold the line, but the enemy numbers were obscene.

[Captain Nina]: “…Stand down. Pull out if you can.”

The silence that followed was almost reverent. A few typed “???” in fleet chat again. One Zealot posted a sad emoji.

But the order stood.

The fleet warped off in tatters, their victory limited to a few smoking Raven wrecks and a lot of existential confusion.

Gallente Citizen’s Zealot didn’t survive the retreat. Their pod awoke in R-AG, the familiar sound of station alarms echoing in the background.

From the observation deck, they watched the system burn, the dual Keepstars glinting against a backdrop of wrecks and bubble fields.

Someone in local typed:

“We killed a few Raven Navies tho.”

Gallente Citizen just leaned back in their chair, coffee in hand, and muttered,

“Gold pen, they said. It’ll be fun, they said.”

Then they opened a fresh notepad entry and typed the title for their next report:

‘The Breakout at R-AG: A Study in Improvised Zealotry.’