Corporation: Information

WELCOME TO FUCKTOWN, MINER.

You know what isn’t satisfying? Mashing your F1 key in a TiDi-choked 1000-man nullsec blob where your entire “contribution” is indistinguishable from the amoeba of doctrine drones orbiting some FC's fever dream. It’s not combat — it’s a PowerPoint presentation held hostage by packet loss.
A glorious war story? “I pressed a button and went to make tea.”

Now, contrast that with the symphony of violence that is a highsec gank executed to perfection. A greedy, oblivious newbie—let's call him Chadus Minerus—lazily AFK-mining in an untanked Retriever, cargo hold full of dreams and unresearched fits. He ignored the warnings. The killboards. The doctrine. And then? A Catalyst lands. Seconds later, he’s atomized. CONCORD arrives to avenge him, but the deed is done, the salt is harvested, and the lesson is delivered.
I find that, my dear reader, satisfying. That’s PvP with narrative substance.

Without us — the scammers, the gankers, the griefers — EVE would be reduced to a glorified Excel workbook with a slightly fancier GUI. A beige purgatory where players huddle against asteroids like terrified librarians, praying no one disturbs their sacred yield-per-hour. But that’s not New Eden. That’s bot Eden.
Kicking over castles is our calling. You need us. You need the wolves.

Fear is the crucible in which competence is forged. Trust is the most dangerous mechanic in the game. Danger is the context that makes safety a privilege, not a default.
Oftentimes, it’s only after loss that growth begins — we are the ones who force the herd to evolve.

Someone hauls 10 billion ISK in a T1 hauler. Another joins a recruitment corp staffed by sock puppets, where “mentorship” ends with their hangar dry-cleaned. A clueless explorer jumps into lowsec, only to find himself locked down and love-tapped until he starts reading map colors. It’s comedy gold. It’s not just gameplay — it’s literature, it’s the drama that defines the sandbox.

We don’t grind standing for soulless NPCs. We create legends. One misfit killmail, one salty local tantrum, one “wtf bro?” at a time. So next time you see a newbro getting vaporized in a burst of poorly-fit naiveté, don’t weep. Don’t white-knight in local. Clap. Because they’re learning.

Calm down miner, you're finally playing EVE.