1????????Soul Bound
1.1??????Finding her Feet
1.1.2????An Immersive Experience
1.1.2.5??Rabbits 1 : Adventurers 0
Cesare was a tall, weather-beaten man with whipcord thin arms and a laconic expression on his face as he viewed about 20 white smocked adventurers trying to hunt rabbits by lurking next to holes and swinging heavy billets of firewood at them when they poked their heads out.
Tomsk mirrored his body language, leaning against a fence and watched too. After a bit he commented in Cesare’s direction.
“I reckon they done got them bunnies outnumbered.”
Cesare responded back, after a bit of thought. “Yep” and, after a pause added: “Ain’t doing them a lot of good, though, is it?”
“Nope.” replied Tomsk, and spat accurately, knocking an insect off a nearby fencepost.
*ding* [Your party’s reputation with Cesare has increased by 5.]
Kafana left Tomsk to it, and wandered over to the dispirited adventurers. Entertain people, huh?
<blockquote>
It''s of three jolly huntsmen went out to hunt for fox
But where shall we find him amongst the hills and rocks?
</blockquote>
She picked up a stick herself, and threw herself into the chorus, making bashing motions with the beat, encouraging the adventurers to join in with her.
<blockquote>
With my hip, hip, hip and my holloa
And away went the merry, merry band.
Through the woods we''ll go, brave boys,
And through the woods we''ll go.
The first we met was a fair maid a-combing out her locks,
She swore she saw bold Reynolds amongst the farmer''s ducks.
The next we met was a farmer a-ploughing of his land,
He swore he saw bold Reynolds amongst the ewes and lambs.
</blockquote>
With each verse, the combatants grew happier. They stomped their feet, which also had the effect of driving the bunnies out of the holes. With a great “Haloooo” the horde gave chase, the bunnies dashing madly inside a tightening circle.
<blockquote>
And the next we met was a miller a-working of his mill,
He swore he saw bold Reynolds run over yonder hill.
</blockquote>
Some of the cannier adventurers paired up, swinging at the same rabbit from different directions. One fell, then another and another.
<blockquote>
And the next we met was a blind man, as blind as blind could be,
He swore he saw bold Reynolds run up a hollow tree.
</blockquote>
Emotion and visualisation, huh? She concentrated on her desire for the adventurers to succeed and imagined them swinging faster.
<blockquote>
And the next we met was a parson, and he was dressed in black,
He swore he saw bold Reynolds upon the huntsman''s back.
</blockquote>
Now the rabbits fell thick and fast. By the last chorus, every adventurer had one, and there were a few left over.
[Title “Entertainer” acquired.]
[Skill “Singer” acquired.]
[Skill “Speed Buff” acquired.]
[Experience acquired.]
[Level 2 acquired. You have 1 unspent stat point. You have 1 unspent skill point.]
Alderney’s voice came over the group chat {What happened? I just gained a level.}
Tomsk explained {Our Kafana just performed a wonder, turning a bunch of newbies into a coordinated killing machine, with just a song.}
Wellington said {From what I’ve gathered so far, I think it depends on whether the party member intends the experience to be shared out, though the experience earning activity being part of a shared plan such as the TODO list might also be a factor. Tomsk - can you try killing two creatures, one with the intent of being selfish and keeping the experience to yourself, and one with the intent of sharing out the experience?}
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Kafana was too busy to reply as the grateful adventurers surrounded her, ceremoniously presented the excess bunny corpses to her and escorted her back to Cesare to hand in the evidence of their martial prowess.
Cesare handed them all some arm-length practice swords, made out of a hard, dense wood that had been shaped and polished. He started to lecture them on balance, care of weapons and general weapon safety, before asking Tomsk to act as a co-instructor and demonstrate how to hold the sword. He was starting to pair them up to practise basic strokes and parries when Kafana had an idea and stepped back:
“I’m heading to the kitchen. Would anybody like me to take their rabbit over and cook it for them?”
Cesare provided her a sack with an approving grunt, and she staggered off with a full load, after telling System to remember the names of the players to whom she owed cooked meat. It wasn’t until she’d had to stop to regain her breath, that she realised she’d missed something basic.
“Sha gua! Osyol! Blithering dolt! Abruti chou! Almaeatuh! Cockamamie yutzi dumkopf!”
She cursed herself in the dozen or so languages she had a passing familiarity with, stopped staggering and put the sack in her inventory box. She felt lighter, and no doubt some bar displaying encumbrance had just shot back into the green range. No wonder people in this world volunteered to become corporeal vessels, if they ended up with abilities such as inventory boxes that were unobtainable through normal means.
The lurching of her stride reminded her of something. Oh yes, Wellington’s hint. She remembered that event clearly.
<hr>
It was October, 2031. Word spread that PfizerRoche had been trialing a new anti-anxiety drug on children in the Republic of C?te d''Ivoire where regulations were lax, that had left 5% of the subjects with damage in the motor area of their brain that left them permanently unable to walk steadily. It turned out that not only did someone bribe the government to cover the story up, but also that many of the children had been signed up for the trial without their knowledge or consent by the owners of cocoa farms the children had been indentured to. News only leaked because a local university student visiting relatives in the area had used her phone to record some interviews then post them to her blog. She was now under an injunction to remain silent, pending a court case. PfizerRoche had so far issued no comment, hoping it would all blow over.
The Wombles had been discussing a proposal by Alderney to organising a Zombie Walk, on the grounds that Halloween was coming up and she loved doing horror makeup, when Bulgaria had told them about the breaking story, a controlled fury in his voice. Wellington had looked up some information and mentioned that the company was going to be holding a press conference that Friday about a different drug, at their London offices near Hyde Park, just a few underground train stops away from UCL’s campus. Bungo made a joke about combining the two things by marching the Zombies through the press conference, and things had taken off from there.
Bungo was not Kafana’s favourite Womble. He wasn’t anybody’s favourite person. He was a 3rd year biochemist from America who’d transferred over to UCL after a scandal involving home brewed smart drugs, legal but dodgy. The details were never clear. He’d claimed at various times to be the love child of Ken Kesey, Ray Kurzweil, Rutger Hauer and of Nicholas Negroponte. That was the problem with Bungo. You could never tell when he was lying, because he himself deeply believed whatever he was saying at the time. He didn’t blush, he felt no shame at it, no hesitation. He wanted it to be true. He wanted to be the center of attention, he wanted to be popular. He desperately wanted to be liked, and she pitied the efforts he spent trying to fit in with the other Wombles, always turning up first to meetings, making offers to put things away. By nature he was weak; greedy, lazy, foolish and spiteful.
But to win their approval he’d take risks, and she felt slightly guilty at the thought they were taking advantage of him, tolerating him because his forgettable face and natural acting talents were useful. Slightly guilty, but not so guilty that she ever spoke up to point out they were not really offering him friendship, just the appearance of it; she didn’t like that about herself. The only one who she thought was genuine towards Bungo was Tomsk, who liked practically everybody, easily forgave the failings of others, and accepted Bungo’s fawning without annoyance.
Alderney had designed posters for the Zombie Walk listing the Hyde Park bandstand as the meeting point, with ‘expert makeup artists’ available to help put the finishing touches to your costume (ragged clothing and facepaint on exposed skin) from 10am onwards and an 11am start. Tomsk had stuck physical copies up around campus and spread word of mouth that this was one not to be missed, while Wellington had put electronic copies up in an extraordinary variety of London social media forums, with links to “how to dress as a zombie” tutorials.
Bungo and Bulgaria, meanwhile, had worked the PfizerRoche angle. Bungo had wangled a genuine press pass invitation to the event, under a false name. Bulgaria had contacted sources from the Université de Cocody-Abidjan to verify the story wasn’t a hoax, and had then printed up a press release of his own, using PfizerRoche’s own logos and usual format, announcing the successful trial of the anti-anxiety drug, but giving the full tragic details of the victim’s plight before dismissing that as ‘acceptable casualties in the cause of science’ and ‘not a liability thanks to our investment in Minister Kambile’s retirement fund’.
On the day, Kafana had been the ‘expert makeup artist’, thanks to tuition by Alderney. Thousands had turned up and Alderney had stood up on the bandstand in front of them all with a megaphone and had got them enthused, getting them to practice a lurching walk, various arm poses and gruesome facial expressions and moans. Inconspicuous among them, but very realistically made up, was Bulgaria.
Once they’d set off at 11:10, with an expectation that the walk would last for 1 hour, and under strict admonitions not to overtake Alderney and how to handle road crossings, “for safety reasons”, Kafana dashed ahead to the press conference venue via a more direct route.
She was dressed as a cute young secretary. What wasn’t obvious were the large blood bags hidden under her clothing, and the capsule she kept in her cheek ready to bite down upon. Tomsk was dressed as a security guard, and Bungo was inside the perimeter by the podium, standing among the press, dressed in a suit appropriate for a corporate PR flack. His pass now read “Dr. Erasmus Niven.”
It was a few minutes after the start of the conference, just as the technical director had been introduced and was beginning his presentation on how PfizerRoche was leading the world into a bright new dawn, that the horde of zombies turned a corner and started advancing down the street towards them. At first only a few heads turned, on hearing the moans. But as the horde drew closer, more and more faces turned away from the director and towards the spectacle. The director’s words stumbled to a halt. The 100 meter mark was Kafana’s cue. She walked at an angle across the zombie’s trajectory, talking gaily on her mobile phone, looking away from the zombies and apparently oblivious to them. At 70 meters, Bulgaria lurched ahead at speed, overtaking Alderney and Kafana nailed her timing, turning to see Bulgaria, freezing, dropping her phone which smashed, and letting out an absolutely piercing scream.
Bulgaria tore into her, smashing her to the ground, tearing at her throat with rotting teeth, eviscerating her stomach with sharp nailed claws. Blood spurted everywhere. Tomsk heroically charged forwards holding a tazer, but was apparently sent flying through the air by one blow from the zombie. Alderney used her megaphone to order the zombies to get to safety and take cover in the building. Absolutely glorious pandemonium resulted.
And, while everyone was distracted, Bungo handed out the doctored press release to the distracted journalists who were riveted by the carnage, and Wellington hacked the big presentation screen to show a looped videos of lurching children from the original leaked blog, together with a blood red title “#PfizerRocheZombieVictims”
They’d all escaped and remained anonymous, despite Bungo’s later bragging. The story had made the evening news and gone viral internationally. Several people were sacked and, most importantly, the children received a massive compensation payout, and all the subjects were freed from indenture, including the ones who had not been brain damaged.
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