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.’
A Pixel Nomad 