Category: Gaming

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.”

Filed by Gallente Citizen 4586793463

Captain Gobbins announced he was stepping down.

Not gone, exactly — just stepping down, in the same way a capsuleer says they’re taking a break from EVE and then logs in six hours later to check the market.

The announcement dropped into the alliance broadcast system mid-cycle, sandwiched between a doctrine reminder and a mining tax clarification:

[Alliance Broadcast]:
“I’ll be stepping back from leadership for now. Continue business as usual. Train Maelstroms. o7”

And that was it. No fanfare. No farewell fleet. Just an oddly understated endnote from the man who’d led one of New Eden’s biggest coalitions for years.

Within minutes, the ping was buried beneath hundreds of messages arguing about whether the new staging system in R-AG should have a Keepstar emoji in the MOTD.

Business, as ever, continued.

Meanwhile, in the same constellation, something strange was happening.

Captain Broseidon — multiboxing mining specialist, self-proclaimed industrial visionary, and chronic overachiever — had been busy. He claimed to be “strengthening the region’s infrastructure.” What he didn’t mention was that his idea of infrastructure involved anchoring an entirely new Keepstar right beside Horde’s existing one in R-AG.

When questioned, he reportedly told someone in fleet chat:

“Don’t worry, it’s strategic redundancy.”

By the time anyone noticed, the structure was already anchoring — a massive, gleaming citadel parked less than a grid away from Horde’s own Keepstar, the space equivalent of building a rival’s palace directly across the street and spray-painting your name on the front.

A director pinged the leadership channel:

[Director’s Channel]:
“Anyone else seeing this anchoring timer in R-AG?”

[Another]:
“Yeah, it’s… ours?”

[First Director]:
“Not exactly. It’s Broseidon’s.”

The silence that followed could have frozen a sun.

[Director]:
“You’re kidding.”

[Reply]:
“Nope. And rumor says he’s talking to Goons.”

Three minutes remained on the anchoring timer.

Three minutes between “strange personal project” and “diplomatic catastrophe.”

The directors moved fast. Broseidon was expelled from the alliance before the timer hit zero, and the structure’s fate was sealed — it would now take six days to finish anchoring, and Broseidon was now a man without a home, staring at his half-finished citadel from the outside.

But if the story ended there, it wouldn’t be EVE.

Because Goons came.

They didn’t just come — they hell camped R-AG. Carriers, dictors, titans, bubbles stretching across every gate. Horde pilots logged in to find local spiking like a fever, and pings flying faster than cynos.

[Alliance Broadcast]:
“Do not undock capitals in R-AG. Repeat, DO NOT. Broseidon has made… choices.”

As the siege dragged on, someone updated the MOTD:

“Welcome to R-AG: now featuring two Keepstars, one alliance crisis, and an existential question about leadership succession.”

Some whispered that Gobbins’ decision to step back had somehow sparked the chaos. Others said it was just Horde being Horde — that entropy was the natural state of things, and leadership changes were merely punctuation marks in an ongoing farce.

Gallente Citizen 4586793463, sipping their lukewarm coffee from a borrowed station office, summarized the situation succinctly:

“Captain Gobbins is stepping down, but no one’s sure what that means.

Captain Broseidon defected to Goons and built a Keepstar beside ours.

The Goons hell camped the system in solidarity.

Horde is fine. Everything is fine. Nothing is on fire except R-AG, and that’s probably normal.”

They paused, saving the report to their datapad before adding one last note:

“New title suggestion for the alliance newsfeed:
‘The Broseidon Gambit — or How to Lose a Keepstar in Three Minutes.’”