We Are Legion (We Are Bob)

Book 4: Chapter 23.Dancing with Dragons

Book 4: Chapter 23.Dancing with Dragons

Bill

July 2334

Virt

Two gamers lay dead, their smoking, ruined skeletons providing perfect tripping hazards as players ran frantically back and forth. The dragon, red variety, was doing its best to immolate the rest of the dungeon party. The only thing working in our favor was that the beast seemed to want to get at least two targets with each flame breath. Given the required recharge time, it was a reasonable tactic.

“Get under him! Hit him in the belly!” Tim the warrior yelled.

“You first, asshole!” replied Verne the dwarf warlord. “You’re the one with the magic sword.”

The dragon, an NPC known as Gargh the Destroyer, roared and tried to stomp on Tim. Also a reasonable tactic—Tim was far too close to take out with fire breath, at least not without dealing itself a few hit points of damage.

I had, for the moment, escaped Gargh’s attention, probably because I was A) by myself, and B) flat on my back, having been run over by our NPC troops when they fled in terror. I had only some crap armor and a basic sword to my name—the Gamers had flat-out refused to give me a higher starting level. Something about game integrity. Sure.

The smoking remains of Kevin the Wise (perhaps not as wise as he thought) still had a death grip (heh—death grip) on his former pride and joy—a staff of fireballs. Unfortunately, a staff of fireballs against a red dragon was about as useful as a harshly worded email. Now if he’d had a staff of ice storms or something …

Still, it was a valuable weapon. If I got out of this alive, it might be tradeable for some enchanted armor or something. I stood, grabbed the staff, and wrenched it out of what was left of Kevin’s hand.

“Chrissake, Bill, get in the game,” Verne yelled. “That thing’s useless against a red dragon!”

Gargh screamed in rage and pain as one of the players managed to cut a chunk off the dragon’s leg. In response, Gargh temporarily abandoned his two-targets-per-breath policy and gave the player—Tim, I think—the full treatment. From that range, even bones would be unlikely to survive. Tim yelled, “Aw, SHIT!” as he turned to ash.

Gargh then went after Verne the old-fashioned way, attempting to eat him. Verne skipped back, desperately waving his battle-axe.

Interesting thing about dragon physiology, though. When they leaned down to bite someone, the tail went up as a counterbalance. And I discovered, from my vantage point, that the Gamers had been obsessively thorough about anatomical details. I wondered for a moment if I should be watching for dragon poop.

Come to think of it, though, a red dragon was probably no more flameproof on the inside than any other animal.

With that thought, I ran up behind the dragon—as a first-level grunt, I was barely worth paying attention to—jammed the staff of fireballs right where a rectal thermometer would go, and pulled the trigger.

There was a muffled whump sound, the dragon turned with a surprised look, and smoke puffed out of its ears. Then it screeched, leaped straight up—and the entire scene froze.

A voice said out of thin air, “Okay, we’ll need a ruling here. Is the target entitled to a saving throw?”

“Are you friggin’ kidding me?” Verne screamed. “How in the hell is it supposed to dodge that?” Verne and the disembodied voice began to yell insults at each other, with Verne capering around and waving his fists in the air as counterpoint.

The rest of us gathered around Gargh—still frozen in mid-leap, the staff right where I’d left it. “Fried dragon on a stick,” Pete said, slapping me on the shoulder. “Nice. You’ll get full credit for that kill.”

We’d shut down the dungeon and were relaxing in the locker room, comparing notes. I wasn’t sure why there was a locker room, but I figured if I could have a pub, they could have a locker room.

“They’re still arguing,” Gandalf said, shaking his head. “Man, you really created a shitstorm.” He chuckled. “Sorry. Bad choice of words.”

I grinned at the rest of the dungeon party. Kevin, whose staff of fireballs was now mine, glared sullenly, then averted his eyes. Not a fan, I guess. I was going to get the entire score for the dragon, unless the dissenters managed to overturn the decision, and half the dragon’s hoard. The combined experience points would boost me three levels easily. Plus whatever I could get for the staff.

Pretty good day, overall. If only real life went that way.

I motioned to Gandalf with my chin. “We should really get on with things.” He nodded and popped us both into his private VR, which closely resembled Orthanc from the Peter Jackson movies, but with La-Z-Boy couches.

“So what’s your concern, Bill?”

“Honestly, Gandalf, you guys seem to have bailed on the project before you finished.”

He frowned. “Interesting. Maybe we have different definitions of finished. Certainly the expedition has a long way to go, but I think we’ve done what we set out to do.” ???????

“Ecological and sociological surveys aren’t complete; language translation is mostly there, but still has some holes; we haven’t even made a dent in mapping the topopolis; not to mention surveys of Quin.”

Gandalf gave me a look of exaggerated patience. “A lot of that is Skippy responsibility. We’ve been helping, but only because it was interesting for a while. Come on, Bill, what part of volunteer aren’t you grokking?”

“So as soon as it becomes less interesting, you bail?”

Gandalf thought for a moment. “Yep. Pretty much.” He hesitated for a moment. “Look, we’re still available for specific questions, but as far as further research is concerned, I think we’re tapping out. Bring us another interesting puzzle, though, and we can talk. Okay?”

I sighed. Less and less Bob. “Fine. I got it.” I stood up. “Put my character on reserves, okay? I’ll probably be back.”

He grinned and gave me a thumbs-up as I popped out.