I had planned to write something entirely different—battle reports, opinion pieces—but every time I started, I came back to this.
New Eden is a dangerous place. We’re taught from day one that trust is a commodity that cannot be purchased, and cannot be obtained. I learned this lesson the hard way.
When I first made my way into Empire space, I quickly grew bored of the perceived safety, the care-free lifestyle, and naturally, the people. What was supposed to feel warm and welcoming seemed crowded and shady. Everywhere you looked, it was a scam here, or someone looking to peel back that hull and obtain your biomass there.
So what does one do? One finds safety. I remember my first corporation, and I keep it in a dormant state to this day. It holds no wallets or assets. There’s just something sentimental to it. I remember buying the corporation’s Player-Owned Starbase (POS), now a remnant of a past era, save for trash and the odd drug lord’s hideout. I was barely able to fly the Industrial Ship I used to carry the POS into J-Space, but from day one I knew I wanted my own space, somewhere to call home. So that’s what we did: me and my first ally set up the POS in a roving Wormhole and I sat inside, training my ship skills.
Fast forward a year and a thousand battles and lessons later. We had set up our home for booster production. We spent our time peeking our heads out into different regions daily, or looking for gas to harvest. Our home, while out of the way, attracted its own sort of attention. We needed muscle. So we did what any corporation would do: we started recruiting. I did background checks and interviews, but in the end the universe had something to teach me.
You are cannot trust the man or woman next to you. Awakening one morning, I saw something that would change my perception forever. One of my longest-term members had begun ejecting ships from the array. He’d left them all over our base, reduced to molten slag. Everything we worked for, gone in a moment. We left that dead stick and moved on with our lives.
I’ve flown on all sides of the map. I wandered aimlessly, looking for a sense of belonging. I fought for those who would pay, who would accept a man like me. Finally, bringing myself back in from the emptiness of drone space, I found myself in a recruitment center. Interdictor specialists are always needed, and I quickly found myself with Circle of Two. I spent my first two weeks with the alliance in a combat fleet, or leading ‘ceptors into hostile territory. I cared about “OP Success”. I cared about my Killboard. And I cared for the glory and the recognition I was beginning to gain. But the rigors of battle, and daily fleets began to hurt my bottom line, and soon I fell behind on ISK.
My life had revolved around blood, blood for the alliance, and still exceptions could not be made. My pilot license expired. I was no longer welcome. I took one last look at Impass and left. Once again I found myself in a Recruiting Center in Empire. “Join up with ASCEE!” they said, so I found myself in their pub. Unaware of the last great war, I found myself a bit ignorant of the depth of trust I was asking for. I had just come from “the traitors’ alliance” and here I was at their door asking for a home, but they assessed the man and not just his last corporation.
I was finally home. There was a stigma when I first started playing. “Grr Goons” or “You can never trust a goon” were some of the first things I was told as a new capsuleer but after seven long years I’m here to tell you: No group I have ever flown with is like them. From day one you’re treated like family. The culture is different, and their tongues are rough, but from a veteran’s perspective it’s the perfect place for me. I have never been embraced by a group of people like I have by the swarm. These people aren’t just good to arriving assets, they are great with novice pilots too. Little bees are showered with gifts and skills and knowledge.
Every misconception I had about them was washed away instantly, and though they will scold you for pubbie waving, they really do care about you as a pilot. If you say something stupid and get the scorn of the swarm, fret not, for even if you are tackled two minutes later you will find a angry nest of bees waiting to defend you.
I felt all of you should hear it from someone who didn’t start off with the swarm, who had had no friends here, no allies, no home. If you seek what I sought, if you wish to belong to something greater than yourself, you’re but one dumb pubbie wave away from real blues.
So until next time little bees, remember: D-Scan, watch for cynos, and—and this really has nothing to do with anything—a few hookers in your cargo hold on a killmail never hurt anybody. I’m Johnny Crowe from Goonland saying: pubbie fucking waves for all.
