The outlook wasn’t brilliant for the low-sec roam that day;
The killboard stood at ten percent, with but a short time yet to play,
And then the bait squad died at once, and the tackle did the same,
A sickly silence fell upon the streamers of the game.
A raging few logged off, and left in deep despair. The rest
Clung to that hope which springs eternal in the human breast;
They thought, if only our FC could get his mojo back –
They’d put up even money, now, a gatecamp they could crack.
But the wing commander stuttered, as did the only scout,
And the former was a pubbie and the latter was a lout;
So within that stricken fleet of newbs grim melancholy grew,
For there seemed but little chance to win no matter how they flew.
But the scout, he got a warp-in, to the wonderment of all,
And the logi squad, though much despised, let not a single pilot fall;
And when the field was looted, and they saw what had occurred,
There was green upon the killboard and the fleet still up for more.
Then from 100 throats and more there rose a lusty cry;
It rumbled through the servers, it rattled the wifi;
It knocked throughout the teamspeak and recoiled upon the chat,
For the FC, patient FC, had asked them to ship up!
There was ease in the scout’s manner as he jumped ahead to look;
There was pride in the fleet’s bearing and on each face a smirk.
And when, responding to the scout, they quickly set the path,
No pilot in the fleet could doubt the FC’s groove was back.
Two hundred ears were listening as he called out warps and jumps;
A hundred gifs appeared in local when they blobbed some solo chump.
Then while the waiting enemy fleet was sized up by the scout,
Defiance filled up each squad chat, all eager for the rout.
And now the final jump and warp call came from the FC,
But the enemy they were chasing did warp off, so quick to flee.
“Just missed the point by seconds” said the valiant tackle squad.
“We’ll scan them down, no worries” said the patient wing command.
From the teamspeak, filled with grumbling, there came a muffled roar,
Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore.
“Kill them! Kill them all!” shouted someone on the mic;
And it’s likely they’d all shouted had not the FC called “Break, break!”
With the depth of long experience the FC’s voice was calm;
He stilled the rising tumult and he bade the scout go on;
He signaled to align again, and once more the fleet it flew;
But the enemy warped off again, and the local taunting grew.
“Cowards!” cried the maddened fleet, and comms became a roar;
But “Break, break!” again in teamspeak and the pilots stilled once more.
They heard his voice grow stern and cold, they heard his patience strain,
And they knew that this FC wouldn’t let the foe escape again.
The sneer is gone from each one’s voice; their teeth are clenched in hate;
They pound with grim frustration on their keyboards as they wait.
And now the scout calls out the point and now they hit their warp,
And now the grid is loading and the guns are all run hot.
Oh, somewhere in this wondrous game someone is having ‘fun’;
A miner melting rocks somewhere, or missions being run,
And somewhere pirates ganking, and causing someone pain
But there is no joy in Arnher – for the node has crashed again.