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.”
A Pixel Nomad 